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This town is cold.
Cold. Colder than Lucella, but warmer than the streets of Doveport, drenched in damp snow that caught in the hem of my jeans, and refused to dry out as we trekked further, ice turning to grass. I don’t have those anymore — these are longer and have some weird, dressy stitching on the pockets, but I didn’t have the capacity to be picky. I didn’t have the capacity for anything. I still feel as if I haven’t woken up since passing out.
The memories are choppy. Talking bullshit about sewing, of all things, whilst my wonderful companion enables my bullshit because that’s what he does — but I owe the guy my life, so maybe I should be able to pluck up some gratitude. I’m mildly surprised by the fact that I’m not dead yet. I think he is too.
I roll over and brush the hair from my face, eyeing the shape I presume to be Tigry through the darkness. I’m tempted to ask what he’s writing. No. Wait. That’s right. I’m supposed to be mad at him. (Alright, I gave him a fright, obviously. But it’s not my fault. I saw something— I mean, of course I fired. Anyone would have.)
Tigry doesn’t stir in reaction to my movement, and I come to the obvious conclusion that he’s asleep, open notebook resting in his lap. How ideal, considering he was supposed to be the one to wake me. I can’t fathom how he can fall asleep against a wall like that. It’s not fair.
My head hits the flat pillow and I brood in the irritation, knowing I can’t allow myself to fall asleep again with the knowledge that we’re both unconscious and exposed. I think about waking him up and instantly decide against it for a reason I can’t explain; I can handle staying awake a little longer.
I think. I hope.
I’m so desperate to walk, to pace, to move, the desire hurts far more than the injury itself. I’m bound to the floor like some sort of sick creature in a cage, invisible ropes chaining me to the ground. My arrogance is what got me here and it’ll be my resilience that gets me out of it, even if I die trying.
I won’t accept it. I can’t — but I can’t fix it, either — I’ve made my bed and now I’ll lie in it. That’s all I seem to do now, stew in my wrongdoings and wish that it was guilt eating me alive rather than fury. It’s a small comfort that I must be doing something correct, as Tigry is essentially a different person around me now. He talks, for starters, which is progress if you consider that it used to be near impossible for anybody but Pandy to coax more than a rudimentary sentence out of him. And me? Well. I don’t talk.
(I don’t like talking. I never have. I yell, I make orders, I threaten — but yelling and making orders and threatening isn’t talking. Tigry, unfortunately, learnt of this particular personality trait exceptionally quickly, after the bout of anger following our fight wore off. I don’t have a crew or potential traders to intimidate, and he certainly isn’t scared of me anymore, which, ironically, scares me. Who am I, if I’m the terrified one? I turn back into the powerless teenager who watched people leave with an inability to stop them. I had nothing back then, and I’m inevitably losing everything again.
So, clearly, I am nothing without power.)
Actually, Tigry talks a hell of a lot. I guess he’s trying to take advantage of the situation and voice everything he hasn’t been able to because of my behaviour. It’s suffocating on occasion, but I like the way he smiles when I’m feigning attentiveness to his anecdotes. This is what we were supposed to do, I sometimes think, rather than letting our emotions stuff our sociability into neat shy and arrogant boxes.
I turn a hundred and eighty degrees and curl onto my stomach, forehead pressed against the worn fabric. Memories of the day begin to trickle back, slowly, piece by piece like some sort of sick jigsaw. I can’t recall anything notable a few hours either side of going unconscious, which, well, can’t be good. I imagine memory loss is never good, nor is it a common symptom of injuries or sleep deprivation. So, there’s something else going on with me. What, exactly, am I supposed to do with this newfound information?
I sigh and once again turn onto my back, watching the greyish clouds shift and amble through the night. Something muffled rustles down the street and my hand jumps for the cold metal of my revolver instinctively, breath bated in waiting. After a little while I conclude that there’s almost certainly nothing there— and— oh God, I’m not seriously hearing things, am I? Hearing things is for lunatics. Crazy people. And I’m not crazy.
I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut and resist the urge to leave them that way. I’m so exhausted, I can’t recall ever feeling this tired. It’s gone unerringly quiet, unforgiving except for the sound of Tigry’s steady breathing. I actually find myself wishing he was awake.
(Why? Because I’m lonely? To have a friend to talk to? He isn’t my friend. Allies, maybe, two misfits forced to stick together because nobody else will take us. But it terrifies me that I’ve actually grown quite fond of the guy. With my rotten luck, growing fond of people doesn’t work for me. There’s nobody left that I’ve loved who stuck around, and Tigry will inevitably join the pattern sooner or later — I can’t see him being an anomaly.
Or, maybe I can. He’s had every opportunity to leave, every opportunity to hate my guts and he’s still here, optimistic and chipper as ever. It’s a little concerning. But getting my hopes up has proven to be more dangerous than surviving alone.)
I stifle a yawn behind my hand, wishing that my insomnia would hit now rather than the times I actually have a chance to sleep. I reason with myself that thirty minutes, maybe an hour will be fine. This alleyway is far enough away from any infected having a reason to attack unprovoked.
Sleep comes faster than I can argue.