The Artist

Chapter 6

6/16

For nine days we have been walking.

     Our morning walks are early and our evening walks are late. By my predictions, I would think we woke at five and traveled until eleven at night. It exhausts me, and though I am supposed to get enough sleep, I don't. I am usually awake for an hour or two, waiting for someone to find us and kill us. Every shadow in the night promises an assassin. Not only has fear kept me from stopping, but the promise of food, wherever we may get it from, motivates me as well. We haven't eaten in three days. The granola bars Oscar had stashed barely kept us fed for two.

      Drake, of course, has hardly faltered a step. I assume it's because of superhuman endurance, which I envy at the moment. I can't help but regret turning down the offer of letting Drake carry me to wherever it is that we're going. We would have been there by now. We would have been there eight days ago.

     My muscles drag, and my stomach howls at me, demanding to be fed. I wouldn't be surprised if Drake could hear the organ crying. The temperature has only dropped, and my coat does little against the gelid temperatures. My fingers are completely numb, hardly able to bend. My companion had said we should be in Dawson, Canada by now, but it feels like we've only gone farther north. We probably have, judging from the sun falling to the left of us. I openly growl my frustration.

     A bone-chilling gust wrenches me to the side, and I grit my teeth, fumbling to reposition my hood on my head. The jeans I wear are soaked, so I have no protection against the cold.

     "Drake," I croak, throat dry and lips chapped. "Can we stop? Please?" It feels like I'm inhaling dust and desert air. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

     He merely glances at me, the only harm done to him being a pale face, red ears, and a red nose. His cheeks are flushed as well, pink and red against ghostly skin. His hair has collected snow, and a layer of it grows every time he shakes it out.

     But, just like every other time I've asked him, he shakes his head. My chest burns with anger. The dam against it threatens to crack under the pressure, and my fists curl.

     "We have to keep moving if we're going to reach Whitehorse." He looks ahead of him. "And if we're to remain warm."

     "Remain warm?" I sputter. "I lost feeling in my fingers days ago. We've walked so much, my legs are moving on their own."

     "Good," Drake says. "I'd rather you be tired than freeze to death out here."

     As his eyes narrow, I bare my teeth. "You'd rather? I'd rather find another cave, start a fire, and thaw my limbs before we keep going."

     "You know we can't do that." He runs a hand through his hair, looking at me again. He's only a few paces ahead, and I'm tempted to tackle him, if only to let loose some steam.

     My jaw clenches, and the anger simmering inside boils to the surface. "I'm not you, you know. I'm not who you want me to be, I'm not whoever you assume I am." I swallow the saliva sticking to my throat, but my voice is hard as diamond.

     I stand there, immobile as a rock, fists curled, jaw set, eyes blazing, staring at him, waiting for him to react. I'm tired of others trying to assume who I am, what I am. I'm tired of others locking me away, keeping me from information. Most of all, I'm just tired. As if I could sleep for a thousand years and still be exhausted when I woke.

     Drake whirls, face shadowed in the hood of his coat, and stomps up to me, snow crunching under his boots. His face stops an inch short of mine, and he holds a finger to me: A challenge.