Alone

Chapter: 12 // arsonists lullaby •

I rouse, all of a sudden, my eyes dry and irritated, hesitant to open as if they'd been forced shut for days. The first thing I see upon waking up is Jesus' lobster bib hanging on the wall, and then him when he takes my shoulder. I'm surprised by his hand, at first, then I heave a deep sigh of relief; relief that he's sitting next to me, that he's okay, that I'm not hallucinating, that I'm truly alive. "Relax, you were shot two times in your thigh, fortunately no vital organs were hurt when you were shot, and it was not infected. You lost consciousness from the hemorrhage, but judging by your regaining consciousness and ability to recall up to now, I'd say you'd be back on your feet in no time. We were able to patch you up adequately while you were out, and we sewed the skin together over the shells, plenty to slow down the seepage for a while." A smirk plays at his lips; he rubs his thumb over my knuckles, I don't realize we're holding hands up until now. I try to remember how this feels before, before I blacked out- did it feel as cold as this? Could it have felt better?

"We were blessed to have found you in one of the homes in Alexandria after the confrontation. Somebody, tried to save your life, or at least it looked as if so. The blankets were bound around the wound like a do-it-yourself bandage; I suppose it did help constrict the hemorrhage a great deal, in view of the fact that you're still alive. Whoever had taken you in was a brave man." I observe the bandage looped around my thigh just shy of my knee, bloodied. I don't get queasy easily at the sight of blood, but my stomach turns at the glimpse of my own blood depleting from my body. "I breathed my last breath. I literally watched myself die," I rasp, my throat dry from what feels like weeks of not drinking, eating, my lips feel like sandpaper as I lick them over. I gradually lean up on my unsteady elbows to sit up and Jesus goes to assist me but I nod insistently. I have to see how strong or how weak I am; how soon I can get out of this bed and start fighting again. "I asked myself if I wanted to, a-and I...I couldn't, I kept thinking about you and everyone else I'd upset and I couldn't give up. I wasn't done fighting; I wasn't done with this- I'm not." I slide my fingers through his closed ones and muster up all the strength in me to squeeze them. He looks up at me, his ocean eyes becoming wider bit-by-bit, his jaw agape; but nothing comes out straightaway.

"What are you getting at?" He says finally, his eyebrow raised.

"I guess I've learned something." 

"Oh," he chuckles softly, climbs on the bed that is not big enough for the both of us together, and sits by my side, one leg pleated under him and the other slack as it hang from the mattress. "Me too. I'm never letting you out of my sights, again." I smile, too weak to put up a fight with him, as I normally would have, which is harder for me not to do than it is for me to do. I shouldn't fight with him so much. "Better me than you, Rovia." I say. I pick at the blood under my bare fingernails, my cuticles encrusted with dirt and fingernails tattered, chipping. "Please don't say things like that," he shakes his head, his look turns serious and vulnerable like last night- last night, it's coming back to me in small fuddling segments, he held me and I cried. I smile sadly and caress his cheek, his beard prickly and coarse; I remember how this felt before. "Don't be in a state, I'm just talking. I'm here now. And I'll say it again," he chews on his lip and gently brushes my hand off his cheek. "Better me than you, Rovia. You know I'm right. People are reliant on you. I'm not the showrunner- I'm strings." The room is still for a while, and he stares at the floor in a vacant, fixed way that worries me.

"I'm sorry-"

"Priscilla, you're more than strings- will always be. You're arms, legs, you're a number, and you're a conqueror. You are me, you embody all of us." He cuts in, in conclusion, breaking his stare with the floor and our eyes magnetize. "I'm still learning some things, too. The moment I learned how much you and I were the same, I never wanted that to change, I wanted to harness and guard that side of you, but I didn't recognize I was holding you back doing so." He rubs his hands together and shrinks into himself, building a metaphorical wall between us. I try to scoot closer, my feet behind him, I grab his shoulder. It was differences of opinions- minor mix-ups. Regardless, I don't regret who we are now or who we were yesterday." Tears brim my eyes, I draw in a deep breath to suppress them from spilling over, but my attempt is ineffective, as luck would have it. Jesus wipes them away with his thumbs, he takes his fingers through my thick hair, unruly and dirty probably from not practicing good hygiene for a minute, and I push my face in the crook of his neck. "Did we win?" I ask quietly, and I have the answer, but I screen it with naivety. He leans his head away from mine so he's looking down at me; his penitent expression confirms my thoughts.