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The thing is. The thing is this isn’t how she imagined it. And she has imagined her death plenty of times. First as a game (‘If you were to jump off a cliff, would you do it face up or face down?’ Down.), as a thought exercise (If she were to die now, would her from 5 years ago feel it as a nose tickle?), as a way to pass the time (A room covered in blood, no body in sight; at the bottom of a river, the black plastic bag containing her right arm bumping into the one containing her left thigh; strapped to a bomb; electrical fire; premeditated fire; forest fire; fire.).
But here she is, bleeding out in the back of a perfectly ordinary ambulance, a pimply boy with wide eyes trying to put her insides back where they belong. And she feels a bit…cheated. How dare the world/god/universe let her go out like this? She deserves exploding trains, self-immolation, goddamn motherfucking sparagmos.
Instead she gets a sliver of bravery, a lucky bullet and her belly, now an exploding nest of red serpents.
The ambulance shakes, one pothole, two, and she keeps spilling. Maybe, if she were to step out of her role for a minute and look back, retrospectively, the ending would be in tone with her own character development. In time, her body has become a vacuum storage bag, tight tight and splitting at the seams. There has always been something too big trying to escape the predetermined confines of herself. Caroline Turing, Robin Farrow, Rose Franklin, little Sam Groves, all facets of the same greedy core, leaking through.
Her rage slips away, drop by drop, a self-aware parody of her blood.
It doesn’t even hurt. That’s the worst thing about it. Actually no, the worst thing about it is how it isn’t fucking fair. The rage is back, burning at the corners of her eyes. And she knows, oh, how she knows that the universe is an impersonal system that doesn’t owe her shit, but.
But she was good, she didn’t look behind her once, not even a peek and now they were finally, finally out in the sunlight, Shaw’s hand in hers a solid thing, the both of them a solid thing. A work in progress, yes, but glorious, blinding.
She should’ve held on tighter, put her teeth to Shaw’s neck and never let go.
But she didn’t and now she’s dying with only Pimply’s birdlike movements to keep her company.
Another pothole and then, a high-pitched noise, like someone trying to find the right radio frequency and a familiar voice in her ear saying, ‘Can you hear me?’
In a thin, papery voice Root asks, ‘Shaw?’ her pale mouth forming a perfect O around the name. There is no incredulity, only wonder.
Pimply looks at her with furrowed brows. She ignores him.
‘Hey, how you holding up?’ Root takes a moment to just appreciate the gravelly quality of Shaw’s voice.
‘Hey sweetie,’ she coughs once, twice, ‘just peachy. How about you?’ She is a facsimile putting on a costume that shrank in the washing machine. It’s a bit too tight at the neck, but she is trying.
‘I’m alright, laying low for a bit. Got word that Finch is in police custody, but I doubt it’ll be for very long.’ Shaw’s voice shows no impatience. She speaks in a smooth tone, like a river stone. Root wishes she could pluck it and put it in her pocket.
Without looking at Pimply she replies, ‘Oh yeah? I’m doing that too, laying as low as possible.’ She’s smiling now.
‘You sound a bit outta breath, you OK?’ Shaw, beautiful, practical Shaw.
‘Careful now, Sameen, or I might actually think you’re worried about little old me. It’s just a scratch, sweets, nothing big.’ Root’s voice is a wisp of cotton candy. She hopes it sticks to Shaw’s skin, that it’ll take her days to wash off. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘What? You saw what I was wearing.’ The joke falls flat. Pimply is shouting something about shock based auditory hallucinations at her, but he’s far away, immaterial. The only real thing in the world is the voice in her ear. Root can’t even feel her body anymore.
‘Never mind. I’m thinking Thai later. Would you like to join me?’ She can picture the small wrinkle between Shaw’s eyebrows, her straight mouth, her ponytail – a bit disheveled, but still in place.
‘Yeah, sure, Thai sounds good.’
They fall silent for a few moments, their breaths in sync. Root wonders is she should pray, put up a show. She decides not to, for no particular reason. Her face is numb, but she still exists, she’s sure of that. She asks herself seriously if it’s worth twisting the knife a little more and the argument is strong, the conclusion fast.
Licking her lips, she asks, ‘Do you know what trepanation is?’
Shaw’s reply is prompt. ‘Yeah, it’s a surgical intervention in which a hole is drilled into the skull to treat health problems related to intracranial diseases. Why?’
‘That’s what’s happening to me. All the light is getting in. It’s not as annoying as I would have thought.’ A hitched breath and then she continues, ‘Out of curiosity, when did you learn how to lie?’
After a brief pause, the voice in Root’s ear replies, ‘Nothing I have said is a lie.’
‘Oh, you’re good.’
‘I’m…learning. Are you proud?’ Shaw’s voice remains unchanged and Root appreciates the gesture so damn much.
‘I am, honey, I am. Thank you.’ Root’s smile stays firmly in place, but a dimmer version, sadder.
Shaw’s voice is hesitant when it speaks next, but there’s a naked urgency to the words. ‘Is there anything else I can do? Please, I…I want to help.’
Root was a living, breathing mechanism of flesh and synapses. Root is a reedy voice talking herself into acceptance. With one last labored breath she says, ‘One last lie for the road. Do you love me?’
Shaw’s voice replies, ‘Absolutely.’