The Dark Saviour [14]

Chapter 15

"Hola, dos Entradas, por favor," I spoke loudly but clearly, almost shouting to be heard over the noise of the train stations. "A Santander."

"Santander?" the lady repeated.

"Sí, Santander. Dos Entradas," I repeated, and she slid the two slips of paper toward me.

"Cuarenta euros," she said. I dug the money out of my wallet, pressing it almost urgently into her hand and snatching the tickets.

"Come on," I grabbed Tom by the sleeve, almost dragging him through the crowd onto the train. I felt my chest being weighed down, the weight only getting worse with each step. We finally squeezed into an empty two-person compartment, and I took several deep breaths, ignoring my thoughts.

I shoved my bag onto the rack, flopping down into one of the seats and resting my head in my hands. "Are you quite alright?"

"I'll be alright when we're safe and sound in Portsmouth, and not a moment sooner," I muttered, running a hand down my face.

"You've changed, Tanya," he observed, sitting down across from me. I smiled humorlessly.

"Well, that happens when life decides to screw you over. This journey is five hours to Santander, then we have to get on a boat and that'll probably be another two days. So, Thursday evening, we should be in England," I said, mapping the journey out in my head.

"And then?"

"I haven't got that far. Turn my euros into pounds, and go to a refugee camp, I 'spose. We can get food and shelter there, and wait until we're allowed to settle," I explained.

"For the second time today, you've got this extremely well-thought-out. Almost like you were waiting for it to happen," he pointed out.

"Because I was. As I said, war was inevitable. This is gearing up to be World War III, and if it is, we're in for a rough ride. The first two were catastrophic," I shrugged.

"How catastrophic?" he asked.

"Millions upon millions died. I think the total is around a hundred million. Entire families were wiped out, stories ended before they could start. That doesn't even go into what the survivors had to go through," I leaned my head on my hand, staring out the window. "Soldiers crippled by PTSD, haunted by what they went through."

"Just like you," he muttered.

"Huh?" I asked, glancing over.

"I didn't say anything," he said, confused. "Did you hear something?"

"Yeah--you, talking. Something about me," I mumbled, shifting again.

"Have you ever heard of Schizophrenia?" he asked suddenly.

"Isn't that, like, a condition that makes people go crazy?" I asked, the word sounding so familiar for some reason.

"If you consider yourself a crazy person," he responded. "I found your old medical records, locked up in a box. You've got, according to the papers, Depression and anorexia and PTSD and Schizophrenia. It's a miracle you've made it this long."

"I don't feel crazy or depressed. Just numb. Nothing can get to me," I shrugged.

"Just because you don't feel a certain way doesn't mean you don't have it," he countered.

"I'm fine, Tom. There's nothing wrong with me--the Elves made sure of that."

"Nothing wrong with you according to proper medical professionals, or according to your training as a weapon?" My shoulders slumped, but I couldn't give a reason why.

"I don't know. And I don't care enough to find out. I'm alive--that's what matters."