The Citrus Syndrome

28 ; pit

Pit

Natalie

It starts off bad and gets worse.

I am lying down face-up, treated to a view of the starless night sky. I realize that this isn't the sky at all; it is the cover of thick, dark leaved trees. Claustrophobia sneaks up on me, pulling the air out of my lungs. That's when I realize where I am laying down.

I am at the bottom of a long, rectangular pit in the ground. There seems to be infinite space between here and the ground. I can't breathe at all.

"Help," I wheeze. "Help me!" But no is there.

Or that's what I think. Suddenly, a rain of dirt comes down over me. I sit up, pressing myself against the cold, wet dirt wall and scream. More dirt rockets down, shovelfuls. I squeeze myself into the corner, sobbing as dirt infiltrates my eyes, mouth, and ears. I spit, but more dirt replaces whatever I spit out. My eyes are producing a continuous stream of tears, trying to wash the ubiquitous dirt from behind my eyelids. I cover my face with my hands, but it doesn't help.

An idea occurs to me. I spring out of my crouch, trying to throw myself onto the growing mountain of dirt. Maybe I can climb it and get out.

It doesn't work. A giant volley of dirt falls on top of me, more joining it until I am trapped. I cry out, finally realize what is happening. I am being buried alive.

"Natalie!"

I dare to open my eyes. Right before they fill with dirt again, I catch sight of a familiar face: Isaiah. He looks horrified. I scream for help, but the moment I open my mouth, dirt fills it. I can't spit it out; it squirms down my throat and into my stomach.

"Nattie! Oh, lord. What's going on--?"

I manage to open my eyes one more time. There's Zay, reaching for me with one hand, but the other one is . . . gone? I don't see it. A moment later, the other one begins to disappear. He is evaporating before my eyes.

He makes a noise between a growl and a sob. "Baby," he shouts. "Wake up! This is a dream. You can make it end. Just wake up."

But I can't. Dirt covers my eyes, then my nose and mouth. Breathing is a distant memory and my eyes have become as dry and useless as rocks. My mouth, my throat, my stomach, my lungs are full of dirt. I feel it in my veins, pumping through my heart. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't breathe, I can't blink. I can only lay here and hope that he is right: this is a dream.

This is a dream I repeat to myself. The pain is all-encompassing. I hardly have the strength left to think at all. The one thought that worms its way into my addled brain is, die, die, die. I want to die.

And I do. This is awful, the most awful thing I have ever experienced. All I want is the sweet release of death, the nothingness of eternity. Is it too much to ask for?

It is. I feel something on my stomach, something warm and soft. A hand. Then more. They are uncovering me. They are trying to conquer the dirt. A finger lifts my eyelid, scratching dirt out of my eye. Another is in my mouth, shoveling it out of my throat. I suck in a deep breath of air. It feels wonderful.

I feel another set of hands pressing on my chest. Without realizing it, I have begun coughing up great clouds of dirt like a child who has swallowed a great quantity of pool water. I sputter and hack, trying to rid myself of the awful, horrid stuff.

"Natalie?" The voice is familiar. "Open your eyes. It's okay now, I promise." I don't. It can't possibly be okay.

I feel a new hand on my skin, this time laying flat against my forehead. The voice that speaks next is unfamiliar yet reassuring. "Was it terrifying?" she asks.

I nod my head as hard as I can. Could there be a more terrifying thing? I think of Isaiah falling apart piece by piece, of how I did that to him. It's an even worse thought than being buried alive.

"It's hard to hurt people you love," she says. Again, I nod adamantly. "I understand." I notice that the others have fallen quiet. The woman lets her hand trace the slope of my jaw, cupping my cheek. Her touch is safe, maternal. "Would it make you feel better if I told you about my last hallucination?"

Again, I nod. I would like nothing better than to lose myself in someone else's suffering for a moment.

She sighs. "I was in the hospital," she begins. "And I was . . . I was so happy, Natalie, you don't understand." It feels good to hear her say my name. It reminds me of the tone my mother would use when she wanted to show me something in the garden. Oh, look at this, Natalie. They're Morning Glories. We were lucky to catch them blooming! She goes on, "I was happier than I've ever been. Do you know why?" I shake my head. "I had a baby."

I shiver. This is going to be awful, I can tell. She puts her hand on my arm, sighing again.

"I had a baby and he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen." I feel her tear land on my shoulder before I hear her sobs. I want to comfort her, but I can't move.

"What happened then?" asks another voice, this one male and vaguely familiar.

She takes a deep breath. "I tried to feed it," she goes on. "But my milk was poison."

The other person gives a sorrowful sigh. "It died?"

She lets out another sob. "I killed it. I couldn't stand to see him suffering and I . . . I took my sheets and wadded them up. I suffocated him and--" she breaks off, crying too hard to speak anymore.

I open my eyes. She is crying so hard that she is doubled over. It's a woman I've never seen before, a sick but pretty woman with delicate hands and thick mahogany hair.

The man is someone I know. Bo looks so different now. His skin is an ashen gray and his eyes are so pale they're almost clear. He is sitting on the other side of my bed, his arms wound around Violet's thin body. When she sees that my eyes are open, she grabs my hand and pulls it to her chest, her tears falling on my knuckles.

There are other people here, too. There is a woman in a hijab who stands to the side like she doesn't want to be noticed. There is a man I have seen running all over the place down here, looking just as sick as the rest of us. There is another woman who has puppy dog eyes and caramel colored skin. She looks the least sick out of everyone and has her arms draped over the shoulders of the crying woman. Then there is Isaiah.

I take his hand and all I can think to say is, "I'm so sorry."