Blaze

18. Night

I wake up to cold. It's an all-encompassing cold, and I shiver because of it. It's such a new feeling, a part of me panics, thinking my heart is no longer pumping blood through my veins, thinking I've been poisoned somehow.

But the bald man was lying! is my strange thought.

He was lying when he said the water was poisoned!

When I exhale, air seems to ricochet on something and hit my face, moments later. When I inhale, emptiness surrounds me, like I'm compacting the universe to fill my lungs. My arms and legs float an inch away from their sockets. My mouth is like a well of sand; if I try to speak, blood is sure to come out. (I almost want to speak, if only for the brief wetness of blood.)

It would taste like metal, a voice says.

It would taste like death.

An involuntary shudder.

But there's fire in my shoulders, and it's leaking onto my neck, and my back, and my torso—like fingers with no hand.

Cold. Fire.

It's strange how well they coexist.

I keep my eyes closed. Picture Jackie and Austin bending over me with concern in their eyes, flowing out their mouths. They're not crying yet. I neglect to include Ismael. In my imagination, seeing me get taken away was enough; he's turned back, satisfied with the sight. He didn't say goodbye.

I take another breath and feel it echo back onto my skin, warm, tasting of copper.

Something hard thrashes my head.

"Wake up." A voice so flat you could walk on it. A deep voice.

And with those two words, two puffs of air swirl onto my cheeks.

Those echoed breaths weren't mine.

There's someone else.

There's someone else here.

---

I'm cold enough to freeze ice. Suddenly it isn't Austin or Jackie watching me, but a face that swirls in-between a human's and a bird's, a dark face with sharp teeth, a face with claws.

Claws. The claws tore through my shoulders! The pain burns bright even in memory.

Afterward, memory becomes darkness.

---

I don't breathe, but feel air on my face nonetheless. My head smarts in pangs.

He's close.

My eyes tear open.

It's not a he. It's a she.

Her eyes are pits of black. Her hair is cropped short and looks rough. Her skin is the colour of sand. She wears a makeshift dress that almost looks like hardened, clumped earth. She could be my age.

Her eyes are pits of black.

As far as I can tell, they have no whites. No discernible iris. Two pools of ink frame her nose, nearly overflowing. She must notice my shock, but her face is like a slammed door.