The Citrus Syndrome

24 ; sleep

Sleep

Violet

I can't believe Bo left me alone, especially now.

The world bears in on me like the jaws of a tall, hungry creature. The sound of footsteps echoing across the floor reverberates through me, shaking my core. The lights are dim and gray, forcing me to strain my eyes to see the far side of the room. There are dark corners near the stairs.

My headache is so bad that it hurts to move my neck. Every sudden noise makes me squeal in pain, wrapping my arms around my head. The staff try to help me; they offer cold washcloths and Advil and sleeping pills, but I want none of it. I still know that they're up to something.

Some part of my mind blames them for Faith's death. See? it says. I was right all along. They're baby murderers.

The quieter but more logical part of my brain tries to put in that I had in fact smothered the baby of my own accord, but I refuse to listen to that. If I let myself believe that, I would fall apart. Right now, I need to believe someone else is to blame.

The blame is foggy, though. Sometimes it shifts from the staff to Bo, who was lying right beside me when it happened. Why didn't he save her? Why didn't he warn me? I was sick and he knew it. He should have protected Faith, protected me.

But now I'm alone and everything seems cold. I wish more than anything to be back in my warm, quiet apartment with a fluffy blanket wrapped around me and my baby in my arms. I just want to feel safe again.

"Violet?"

I sink further under the covers, wary of the unfamiliar pronunciation of my name. I recognize the voice, but I can't place it. My mind automatically assumes he wants to hurt me.

"Violet," the voice repeats. "Is that you? It's me, Isaiah. You remember me, right?"

Isaiah? I do know an Isaiah whose voice sounded very similar to the one I am hearing now. Could it be? I peek over the edge of my sheet, taking in the startling bleakness of the basement. For a moment, I see no one. Then I start to make out the shapes of people: a woman in an apron scurrying about with a mop; a child clawing at the wall with bleeding fingernails; a black man standing in front of my bed, the crumpled body of a tiny white woman folded in his arms.

I let out a squeak of relief. It feels wonderful to see a familiar face. The insistent buzz of paranoia in my veins dies down for a second. "Isaiah," I say. I motion for him to sit down.

He lowers himself onto my bed. I try to sit up, but my muscles ache so much that I decide it isn't worth it. After attempting to move, I am treated to a short show of dizzy starbursts in front of my eyes.

"I thought we might see you here," Isaiah says. His voice is soft, softer than I remember it being. Usually, he is big and loud with a pocketful of jokes to throw his friends into fits of laughter. Right now, he is someone different. He looks tired, his eyes red and puffy. His mouth is turned down at the corners, like he is perpetually trapped in the state just before tears.

I breathe out, closing my eyes. My heart beats painfully in my chest, its relentless pattern sending shots of sharp pain through my body. "Thought you moved," is all I can manage to choke out.

"Shh," he says. At first I think he's talking to me. Then I realize he's looking at the girl in his arms, covering her ears and holding her head to his chest. I feel a pang of sadness; I miss Bo. He would have comforted me like that, too. Isaiah looks back at me. "I did move," he says. "I only got to Dallas a few hours ago."

"Natalie?" I ask, lifting a weak finger to point at the girl in his arms. She has Nattie's long, platinum hair, her frail limbs and short stature. It has to be her. Who else would he hold with such tenderness, with such love in his eyes?

He nods. "She's really sick."

I want to say, so is everyone else down here, but instead I rasp, "Me too."

His eyes soften. It feels good to have someone look at me with concern, to have someone care. "At least you're alive," he says. He lifts a hand to my forehead, his cool skin passing over my burning forehead like silk. "Maybe they'll find a cure."

"Bo says no," I tell him.

Isaiah's eyes light up. Bo is his best friend, after all, and far more interesting than me, his weak, tired girlfriend. "Is he here?"

I nod. "Upstairs."

"Is he sick?"

Again, I nod.

He looks distraught. "Well, I want to find him. Do you know where he is, exactly?"

"No one told me."

"Okay. Well, I'll go look for him and I'll tell you if I find him, alright? Is it okay if I leave Nattie with you?"

I look at the skeletal body, the birdlike bones that belong to a girl who used to be my very best friend. I was, after all, the one who set the two of them up in the first place. You'll love him, I told Natalie before their first date. Of course, I hadn't expected her to actually love him.

"Okay," I tell him.

"Thank you. I'll be back really soon." He starts to lay Natalie down on the bed beside me, but she resists. I haven't seen her move this whole time, but now she thrashes like prey trying to escape its predator. She throws her arms around Isaiah's neck, her breath shuddering out of her in hiccupping gasps. Isaiah pries her arms away. "Be back soon, Baby," he says. He kisses her forehead and before she can resist anymore, he stands up and disappears into the sea of sick bodies ahead.

I turn my head to the side. The woman beside me is undoubtedly Natalie, but a more gray, deflated version than I remember. She looks worn out. Spent. Dead.

She doesn't look at me. Instead, she closes her eyes and rolls over, curling up against me like a child snuggling against her mother after a nightmare. I look at her for a second. Then I wrap my arms around her and stroke her hair until her breathing evens out and she falls asleep.