Sort of Deadly

31 - Stop Groaning, Bones!

Sometimes I honestly think my life is a movie or a TV series or something with me as the protagonist, and secretly everyone around the world watches it. If so, y'all must be having a heck of a time.

It would also mean you’re reading this for no reason since you can just go watch that movie, but . . . suspension of disbelief, hurray?

I’d always thought the movie would end with me growing up to become a super scholar or something, on a happy, inspiring note. Now I think it’ll black out in just a few moments, with a ponytailed man strangling me to death.

If that happens, my sincere apology to all the audience who watched my life all this time – only for such a disappointing end.

Urgh, you can just skip the last few paragraphs. That’s just my panic talking.

Before I’ve even crossed over to the next pigsty, I hear footsteps behind me. I duck and hide below the cracked window. Take a peek in.

The man with the ponytail is leaning over the Jeel woman inside. He storms out, looking outraged and fret at the same time. Like he will roast and eat me alive now.

I don’t wait to find out.

I flicker past several such huts on my tippy-toes. Far to my left I can see a wide expanse of corn and wheat crop. Some smoke clouds rising in the distance.

To my right, these huts. They’re all huddled close together, so I crawl and slip between the occasional gap I find.

‘Girl!’ I hear the man call out.

His voice is coming right from the adjacent hut, so I move over to the back of this nick and lie down, breathing.

Calm down, Bee. He's not going to be able to catch you. You’re small  –

And your hair looks like it’s on fire.

You look filthy –

And way too smart to be in this place.

Footfalls.

I hold my breath.

Then I hear a whistle.

Then I hear another whistle.

This second one comes from . . . the one in my back pocket.

They must be tethered! You blow one, the other automatically makes noise!

My heartbeat ratchets up as I ditch the purple whistle and coast away to this choke of huts. Eventually I run out of breath and decide to lie down in one of the maze of gaps between the houses.

These structures seem to be abandoned for the most part. Fear of Ravenna, I’m guessing –

Holy mayonnaise and cheese dip! A window above me opens and this dude who looks like a blob with eyes starts burping like he’s made of gas and not . . . whatever it is blobs are made of. I have to somersault and blunder away discreetly.

My bones complain almost as much as I do when Mrs. L. T. doesn’t let me borrow more than five books at a time. Tut-tut, so unfair.

(By the by, I am not in favor of calling her that, she’s a lovely librarian. But I suppose Lizard Thinny is the name Marra cooked up for her, so we’re sticking to it.)

Stop groaning, bones. You know I’ve never been athletic. Ugh, fine! I promise I’ll take a chunk out of my leisure reading time to make you stronger. Just keep me alive for now.

'GIRL!’

Minus the steadily approaching footsteps of the ponytailed man, this is a pretty chill environment. I feel so relaxed. Dying? Pfft, what’s that? The thing that really, really old people with slow metabolisms do?

Lesson in sarcasm #153.

Fun fact: metabolism is –

A hand wraps around my wrist. I startle and squeal till I see who it is.

'Make no noise,' he growls.

‘Oh my atoms, you’re alive! You’re alive! Last time, you looked so – so – I’m so glad – '

'Do you want to get us both killed, gurrrl?’ he explodes, yanking me to my feet.

Yep. Somehow Rasthrum is here.