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“Harls,” Ivy whispered, stroking her hair. “Wake up. Open your eyes.”
She moaned, eyelids fluttering weakly.
“You can do it. Just long enough to drink something.”
Harley’s lips parted, and her eyes opened. They were watery and confused, but they fixed on Ivy.
“Hi,” she breathed. “You’re pretty.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” Ivy said. Harley was burning up, Ivy could feel it when she pressed a hand to her forehead.
“I don’t feel so good,” she said, then mumbled something about hammers and stars.
She was dying. Ivy could feel that, too. Infection had set into the wound on her torso, despite Ivy’s best attempts to keep it clean. Sepsis had set in not long after, and still Harley refused to let Ivy take her to the hospital. “Don’t want to be separated,” she’d said. “Don’t want to go back to the asylum.”
Tiny mushrooms grew out of the festering wound marring Harley’s pale skin. Ivy’s doing. She’d thought maybe she could heal her that way, and she thought maybe it had worked. Not to heal her, but to slow down the infection and give them more time together. Ivy wanted to stay in their shack in the swamp together forever.
Ivy helped Harley sit up, her body so weak that it was mostly Ivy doing the lifting. She held a glass to Harley’s mouth and helped her drink, then lowered her back down to rest her head on the pillow again.
Harley’s blue eyes were weary. Just that small movement was enough to wear her out, exhaust her enough that she would sleep for hours. Maybe this time she wouldn’t wake up. It was likely, Ivy thought.
“Love ya, red,” Harley said, hand reaching for Ivy. Ivy took it and held it, kissing the tips of each of her fingers.
“I love you, too,” Ivy said, heart breaking as she watched Harley fall back to sleep.