The Sylph

chapter FOUR

   Inmate 67

Her soft breathing fills up the painful silence. I lay completely still, arm tucked around my middle, listening to her.

She'd fallen asleep long ago, thinking I was finally at ease in my own world of dreams. Really, though, I'd lain motionless enough to mislead her, then listened as she fell asleep in exhaustion.

Arin is sitting on the ground with one arm under her head resting against my cot. She never left my side—wouldn't, more like it. I tried to convince her to leave me alone, to get some rest after such a long day, but she'd insisted on staying awake to watch over me. I didn't mind it—not really. She saved my life, most likely, and if I'm being rather honest, I don't loathe her company the same that I did my last cellmate's.

Arin sighs heavily in her sleep. I've debated multiple times picking her up and setting her softly onto her own cot, but I don't want her awake and fretting over my strain. I've known her all but eight hours yet somehow figure she'd have a fit knowing I did something with my injured arm.

I shudder at the thought of this injury. I abhor my memories—wish desperately to forget them. Each month a new one gets to fall into its place inside the neverending file of darkness inside my mind, and I don't know how to get rid of them. Don't know how to silence the pain . . .

. . . Other than to end it all.

And I'd been seriously considering it, if not for Arin's uncanny timing. Of all the days for her to arrive, it was the day I was supposed to be admitted into the chambers. The day I wanted to experience it all for the last time. The day I decided I would neglect my wounds and finally amass the bittersweet release of death. And I've thought long and hard about death, believe me. My own life matters nothing to me. If there was someone out in the world that might have cared for me—someone somewhere—then I might have considered keeping myself alive as long as I could, only to kindle this hope that I'd get to see that person again, or that they'd come find me. But there is no one. Nobody knows me. Nobody cares. Living seemed so pointless to me.

And then Arin arrived. I didn't understand it, not until all the pieces fell into place and she'd been so ready to help—nurse—me back to health. I didn't understand it, not until I suddenly wasn't dead and Arin was laying on the ground next to my cot. She never touches me—doesn't dare speak a word. But she lays there, and listens, I think, and occasionally goes for the rag in the blood-infested basin to bring back to me with luke-warm water.

It's not like me to hope much, heaven-forbid, but wishing doesn't really count as hoping, does it? I can't hope that Arin is here for good—that she'll stay in this Vault with me forever. I know that one day she'll eventually die, like they all do. Hopes are all eventually squashed out, flames vanquished in a cold darkness. But I can wish it, and wishing is all that I have. So I cling to that.

Arin stirs momentarily. My heartbeat gains speed and hammers in my ears as I wait for her to move or make another sound, but she never does. So I shift back over to my other side—to face her, even without so much as a sliver of light to see her in the darkness. For a few seconds I lay there, thinking about reaching out to see where exactly her arm has found its resting place, but just as I make the move to do so, Arin sighs in her sleep rather forcefully, breath hitting my face. I jerk up in surprise, slamming my head harshly against the tiled wall. Arin squeaks, too, and I can feel the mattress shift weight under my legs as she stumbles to a standing position.

There is a beat of silence.

Then I clear my throat as a dull throb begins to numb the back of my head. "Sorry."

Arin swallows harshly, then whispers, "what was that?"

I don't immediately reply, but that's apparently too long a moment for her. She pulls in a swift breath. "Are they coming back for you?"