Blaze

23. Sleepless

My night is feverish.

I think the Captain left part of his mind inside mine, but maybe not. Maybe it's just me. (I feel small whirls and echoes of You are mine you are mine you are mine and I know now that I am his.)

The darkness inside the tent bleeds over me like ink. I swallow and hate myself for having drunk again (I couldn't help it; the pillowed feeling left my throat so suddenly and abruptly I thought the lining would contract and crack, and Alaina read my pain in my thoughts), for wanting to drink again, for going to drink again.

This is my world now, I think. I don't know if the thought is mine, the Captain's, or even Alaina's. The voice that thinks it is confident and toneless.

I agree with it. This is my world now.

All the moments I liked about my old Region are gone. All the people I shouldn't have cared about think I'm gone. Even if I do manage to escape, the Captain's tentacle-like thoughts will still be latched onto mine, and the chant will follow me wherever I go: You are mine you are mine you are mine! And there's the mystery of Dad; I can't leave without getting to the bottom of it.

And the bread.

The tent walls seem hard and mean. When they flutter from the wind, they're hissing at me. Just outside my realm of vision, someone watches over me, making sure I don't think of escape. Every shadow, every trick of light, is a sentinel or a spy or a thirsty Raider. When there's nothing, I see the Captain. And I shiver.

How will I ever get away?

There's a name for what I've become.

Blood Raider.

---

Somewhere in my disconnected mind, I have a thought.

If I don't sleep, tomorrow will come later. The raid will come later. The dying will be done later.

I won't sleep.

I lie awake staring at the evil walls of my cloth cage. I think I hear Ismael's mouth carving thoughts, but it's so distant and far away.

As if he were dying!

You don't want to be happy, he thinks. You don't want to be happy. You don't want to be happy...

I squeeze him out. Unlike the Captain's or Alaina's, these thoughts are weak enough to be kept at bay. I know he warned me to stay away. I know he tried. I know he didn't give me up. And I know it's not all his fault I'm where I am now.

But I just can't help blaming him for it all. I need to blame him. Because if I admit it's my fault, then it means I could have done things differently, and I'll never be able to stop running through the possibilities in my mind. The what-ifs. Guilt is pesky. If it's Alaina's or the Captain's, I can never dream of hurting them. Of making them pay. I'll have to swallow down the bitter poison as it comes up and forget it. I would despair. If it was Tim's, all I would be able to think about is Austin. I won't be there to watch over him. Who knows what kind of trouble my little brother will get into? Just look at Tim.

Maybe Ismael is right, as much as I hate to consider it. Maybe I don't want to be happy. Maybe happiness works like money used to, before the Bandits rewrote the system: some people hoard it to the detriment of others. Maybe I can't be happy because there just isn't enough happiness to go around now, because all the people who died in the Blaze died with it buried somewhere in preparation for their return home. They buried it somewhere it can't be found.

I won't sleep.

I will never sleep.

I will never sleep.

---

Morning comes like a hammer.

My red- and puff-rimmed eyes are stuck to the tent top, my body a rigid unmoving line, when Alaina zips the flap open. She gives me a black once-over. Behind her: the sound of waking-ups and black-eyed Raiders conversing.

Come.

So I follow, legs stretching like the air is rubber, thoughts a cloud of aimless white noise. People turn to look at me; I stare back blankly, and they turn away. My sleepless night is turning into a tired morning; I feel bloodless and emptied of everything.

I don't want to be happy.

I don't want to feel.

I don't want to feel anything.

It's how I got through the long stretch of night: I decided not to feel, not to be guilty, not to hate, not to be afraid. I decided to be nothing. If I feel nothing, I can't be hurt.

I am going to die.

Maybe, after all, she's going to be right. 

I am going to die.

Maybe this raid will kill Cameron Lore.

(Or maybe I'm already dead.)

---

We stop by a tent with feathers drifting through the air. Alaina talks or thinks to the black-eyed mechanic inside, about me, about how and if I'll fly with them today. I wait for them to finish without a word.

I'll be going with you, she thinks at me. I feel no jolt at this.

There's a pause, then, and something that almost sounds like the backside of a thought:

I've always wanted to see a raid.

I don't understand how she could want anything but servitude (if the duties she performs are any indicator), but don't have the curiosity to spare to question her. (Or rather, I do have it, but I press it down deep inside me and threaten it so it shies away from resurfacing. I can't be unfeeling. I can simply put stained glass on the windows instead of clear glass and keep my eyes averted from outside.)

"We're going to fly," she says. Almost excitedly. She speaks out loud for once, and the words jump deep and heavy over each other. "We're going to fly."

I say nothing.

"Are you thirsty?" she asks me, easily slipping her impassive mask back on.

"No," I say. My voice rings false and unlike me. It's a voice I've never heard before.

You should drink anyway.

She hands over the pouch I threw away earlier. It's all polished clean and everything. I look at it, then at her.  Away from the stained glass window.

You don't feel anything, I remind myself.

I empty the pouch in a few gulps.

I don't feel anything.