The Citrus Syndrome

18 ; mercy

Mercy

Ghania

I have been charged with making a fire in a room without a fireplace. I have a lighter and lots of kindling, but beyond this, have no idea what to do.

It pains me for I hate to disappoint Wilson, who is just about the only friend I have in this place. However, I would rather disappoint him than waste his time so I trudge back to where he and Dr. Catherine are to tell him of my failure.

I find them on the rug next to a shelf of informational texts about micro organisms. Dr. Catherine is still wrapped in her blanket, shivering against Wilson's thin, gray body. I do not wish to sneak up on them, but here seems to be no good way to get their attention without words.

I end up standing behind Wilson, the lighter in my hand. I tap his shoulder and step back. He gives a violent shiver, whipping around with a few startled choice words. "Oh," he says when he sees me. "Ghania. What's the matter?"

I shake my head, pointing to the lighter, and take a step back. I feel more ashamed of myself with every second. Dr. Catherine looks as though her nose may snap off if she does not get a fire soon.

"Goddammit," Wilson says. "Can't you just talk for once? The world is literally ending here."

He says this like it would be easy for me to open my mouth and let sentences flow forth. He says this like I am holding back by keeping my mouth shut, like this silence of mine is a setting I can turn on and off.

He goes on. "I know you aren't mute or anything, okay? Please just tell me what the fuck is going on before Cat freezes to death."

Warm shots of guilt are fired throughout my body. I feel my face turn bright red, my heart burning with shame.

But all I can do is shake my head and point to the lighter.

Wilson glares at me. I look away, startled. I have never known Wilson to be so quick to anger. I have certainly never received such a venomous look from him, even for greater failures than this one.

But then his anger melts into an expression of weariness. He looks from his shivering friend to me, his eyes sad and exhausted. "Fine," he grunts. "I'll do it. Ghania, you take her. And Taya," he adds, his eyes drifting to the right. Between the bookshelves is a woman I hadn't noticed before. She is tragically beautiful with wet puppy dog eyes and tiny pink lips parted in distress. She looks sick, but her outward symptoms do not seem to be synonymous with those of TCS. Realizing I am staring, I look back to the floor. "Come with me," Wilson tells her.

He lifts Dr. Catherine into sitting position, responding to her groans of pain with reassuring words. Wilson motions to me, holding out a hand.

For a moment, I do not know what he wants. "Lighter," he requests. I hand it to him. He makes another hand motion but again I cannot decipher what it means. He sighs at my slowness. "Come down here," he says.

I get on my knees. Up close, Catherine's condition is even more disturbing. Rather than warming with the temperature of the library, she seems to be getting colder. There are tears stuck to her face in solid icicles. Her hair is stiff with frost, her lips blue with cold. Her eyelashes are laced with ice and her cheeks are rashy red. I am afraid to touch her. She seems as fragile as a hollow ice sculpture.

"Take her," Wilson instructs.

I want to tell him that I can't, but how can I communicate this without blatantly refusing? But it feels wrong -- I feel like I am sinning by doing this, by touching this woman who hardly knows my name. I feel a pair of eyes watching me and I know it is Taya. I know not what her relationship to Dr. Catherine is, but I can feel that she is very concerned about how I will handle her.

I take her from Wilson, sitting down so she can lay on the floor in front of me and I do not have to touch her.

Wilson stands up and gives me a look that is something between pity and incredulousness. "Look, she's freezing to death," Wilson reminds me. "Would it kill you to give her a little body heat?" He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "We'll be back in a few minutes, okay? Just keep her alive."

They disappear with the lighter, leaving Dr. Catherine and I alone in this secluded corner of the library. In the distance, we can hear the other sick people thrashing about and vomiting and crying. Dr. Catherine does none of these things. She just lays on the floor, her breath whistling in and out like wind through the trees.

With her eyelids crystallized and her lips pale blue, her appearance is caught between two adverse personas: the ice queen and the vulnerable child. It is fascinating to see her depicted in this light, her true nature on full display. For I suspect that inside of her, these two personalities are at odds day and night.

The more I watch her face, the less freedom I have. I don't think I could look away if I wanted to. Then, as if on its own accord, my hand reaches out and grazes over her cheek.

It is soft and stone cold. I draw my hand away, the warmth slowly returning to my fingertips.

Then I flinch back, startled. Dr. Catherine's eyes have shuddered open.

She blinks, the frost on her eyelashes grazing over her cheek. She looks lazily in my direction, her mouth partway open in an un-Catherine-like display of disorientation. "Where's Wilson?" she creaks. Her voice sounds like it is being squeezed out from a tightly knotted balloon.

I shake my head. Even if I wanted to talk, I couldn't tell her where Wilson has gone. To us, he is nothing more than a dark, elusive shadow, flitting from door to door with his disembodied form.

Catherine's eyes roll upward, looking over at me from a strange angle. She breathes in deeply through her nose. "I suppose you're in charge of me, then?"

I want to tell her to stop speaking. It seems to be hurting her. But if I talk once, she will expect me to do it again and again until there is nothing left of my silence.

"Well if you are," she goes on, pausing to suck in more air. "Then I have a request, please. Nod if you understand."

Relieved, I nod. It is a great comfort to know that Dr. Catherine does not expect me to speak to her.

She burrowed closer to her blanket, falling silent for a second to get the chattering of her teeth under control. "All I am asking for," she wheezed, "Is the most dangerous bottle of pills you can find. We have them in the labs, okay? There's arsenic, cyanide, even euthanasia drugs in there. Just grab what you can find --" she breaks off to fill her lungs "-- and bring it back. Quickly, before Willy gets back."

My heart pounds. Arsenic? Cyanide? What could she possibly want with these drugs?

Then it dawns on me. Obviously, she wants to end her life.

At first, I am ready to shake my head in protest and refuse. But then our eyes meet again. Hers are wet and pleading, full of pain and fear. I have never seen her look vulnerable like this, like just breathing the wrong way could break her.

She is at my mercy.

"Nod if you understand."

I nod. I understand.