l a p s e

the starlight

Later, it started to rain again. By this time we were all sick of it, sick of the damp and the cold and the stuttering of the windows as they rattled in their panes. We only wished for the storm to stop, for the festering water below to drain. It was seeping up through the walls and coating the floor.

But at least we were warm. There were blankets, plenty, and enough mattresses for us all. The professor fixed up the fireplace in the largest upstairs bedroom so that it could keep a fire going for a while, and the botanist unearthed a storage of candles, wicks and oil in a storage closet. Old cardboard boxes made perfect tinder, and we used them to keep the flames going.

And it was a miracle to be able to eat proper food again, even though I seemed to become less hungry as the days passed. My stomach begged for more, but my mouth would not let me swallow another bite. That night dinner was another two cans of soup; this one thick with vegetables and like fire in my belly. I finished quickly and then curled up at your side, and you put your arm over me in a small comfort, your fingers playing a lullaby on my arm. I fell asleep pressed to your side and you, pressed to mine.

The dark night was only punctuated by thunder and the lawyer's grating cough, something that grew heavy and painful and almost as loud as the sky itself. You examined her breathing and told us she had pneumonia, something that would only be made worse by the dripping ceilings and the cold air. So we gave her the blankets and set her by the fire, and yet all night she shivered and the coughs tore her lungs apart.

I did not fare too well either. The wound, long dormant, began to rise and throb with a deep pain, aggravated by any movement and my very breathing itself. The day before, it had seemed fine – healing, almost. The edges had started to pull back together and the center was a honey-tinted scab. Overnight – or maybe while I had been dancing – it had slid open again, the scab broken, the edges crusted with blood.

When I pulled up my shirt to check on it in the morning light, it was red and swollen, and thin, twisting strips of red spiraled out across my stomach and sides. Thinking them only welts from sleeping in an uncomfortable manner, I did not worry, except about the pain that lanced through my muscles when I so much as brushed the wound.

There was, really, nothing to do. The men played cards. The lawyer did not wake. You and I curled in a corner and talked. We ate. We slept.

It was no adventure at all.

In the early evening of the third day, you and I went up to the roof again, when it had stopped raining. The sky was washed clear by the storm, bright and empty, and a belt of stars spread out above out heads. I pointed out all the constellations I could find – which was not more than three, because there were too many stars for me to find any in particular. The moon was also out, vibrant and blinding, almost as fiery as the sun.

We made wishes on the largest stars.

"I want to go home," I told the star, and you grasped my hand tightly.

"I never want to leave," you replied quietly, either to me or the star, I'll never know, and then we fell into silence again.

A guilty silence for me. A peaceful one for you. I watched the moonlight walk on your cheekbones, your closed eyes, and decided that yes, I never wanted to leave either.