10 – 2

Morrow's house is furnished befitting a man of his size: sofas deep enough to lift my feet from the floor, armchairs broad enough for Clarke and I to sit comfortably side-by-side, and beds of such length and height that lying on would feel like resting in the treetops, were it not for the welcoming softness of the mattresses and pillows. He'd let us into his home with the kind of familiar ease that comes from having done so many times before, waving us down the hall to fill the pair of spare rooms. Adelaide and her family had gone to one, Clarke and I to the other. He'd come to see us settled in, gruffly filling the doorway with his command to, “Don't worry about breakfast, I'll have somethin' on.” and wouldn't hear a word of thanks or offers otherwise.

Then he'd left, closing the door behind him. The sound of his heavy footfalls lightening into silence as he, presumably, seeks his own bed. I'm left alone with an invitingly empty bed and Clarke, whose gaze hasn't left me since we left Morrow's. It's unpleasant and unwelcome, and I have had enough of it. “What?!” I demand, turning on her, “What do you want?!”

I see it rankle her, see her eyes flash and her nose flare. She struggles to push it down, to push it away, but she succeeds. It rankles me. “I was only going to ask,” she says, and it's in that too-calm voice that never, ever solves anything, “if you were alright.”

It's every feeling in my heart that scrapes my throat raw: it's the throbbing pain of walking all day covered in hurts; it's the wallowing misery of feeling sorry for myself; it's the endless, endless guilt of all of this being my fault. A wave of heat rolls over my mind, and I snarl, “Do I fucking look alright?!”

Again, her eyes flash. There's surprise and hurt in them, but a spark of anger. She's control of it for now, but won't if I keep this up. How I need to keep this up. She breathes in deep, trying to shore up her meager control, and answers, “No, you don't.” Her hand flutters near the hollow of her throat. “Is there – can I–”

“Spare me your pity and your magic,” I spit at her. She steps back. The satisfaction of it roars through my blood with toxic heat. It's so much easier like this, so much lighter. “I need neither.”

Her jaw works, and I see it when she gives in. “Pity, is it?” she challenges, taking back that lost step. Her blue eyes shimmer and burn.

“What else shall I call it?” I return. My heart pounds, aches and pains forgotten. “Have you a better word, O mighty magi?”

“Not at all,” Her voice is soft. She shakes her head. “It's been quite pitiful, watching you feel sorry for yourself all day.” She scoffs, “As if you alone have the right to.”

“Show me where you hurt,” I challenge, knowing she cannot. Then, in a tone of false-surprise, “Oh, you can't? Why ever not? Did you hide, while the rest of us fought for our lives?”

An angry tear slides down her cheek. She brushes it away with the back of her hand. Her voice hoarse, she retorts, “I struck the killing blow! I saved us! All of us! What did you do?!”

My eyes start to blur and burn. Something bilious and sour roils in my belly. I have to swallow the razor-knot in my throat to answer, “I – I was the one who made it so Adelaide could –”

“Nearly die,” Clarke finishes. More tears now, left to fall freely down her face. And mine. “Well done, Zira! You almost got a good woman killed, and I had to clean up the mess! I have done – nothing – but save you since the day we met, and what do I have to show for it?!” She spreads her empty hands, rimed with dirt and flecks of blood.

“At least I –”

Again, she interrupts me. “Nothing,” she says. Her hands fall, and take with them all her anger. She sighs. “Just new nightmares. It's very generous of you, really, to make sure I never dream sweetly again. If it's not the fire, it's that...thing.” She looks down at the floor, arms wrapped around herself. She doesn't look at me as she takes one of the pillows and leaves the room.

Her soft footfalls lighten to silence as she goes. I'm left alone with a deafening silence and a coldly empty bed. My breath wavers as I climb into it, laying on my side, with my back to the door. I smother the first sob in the pillow, along with all the others to follow it. Bile and acid burn my throat, my tongue. Bitter tears fall to dampen the cloth.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I was supposed to feel better.

I curl around the pillow and sob, until fitful sleep finally finds me.

- - -

Come morning, little is better. So little, that I should think nothing at all has changed. Searing lines of profane agony still rise from my shoulders and neck, into the base of my skull. My arm, dislocated and put back not three nights past, still curls stiff and aching against my chest. It threatens worse when I think of moving it. Every scrape, bruise, and stinging cut I possess still refuse to be silent.

Then, there are the newcomers, those who saw fit to join me when I woke: my eyes are dry and sore, their lids swollen-hot and heavy; my brow aches, as if an iron band crosses it from temple-to-temple and squeezes; my feet and legs are sore from a long, slow day's walk. All of these things, all of this wretchedness, is nothing compared to what lies in my heart.

I can't even ask myself what I'd been thinking. It's clear enough. After so long of being miserable, I had picked a fight so I could get angry, and feel that for a while instead. I breathe in, and it leaves me in a bitter, amused sigh. A child's thoughts, and a child's plan, carried out childishly.

Heavy footfalls in the hall. Morrow's deep, rumbling hum. Stops at the closed door, which shakes in its frame at his gentle knock. “Yes?” I croak, voice a ruin from a throat scraped raw.

“There's food on,” he answers, “and – Addy, an' the other girls, they got the bath first, so...if you want to join 'em, now's your chance.”

I slept fully clothed. My skin is grimed by smoke, ash, dirt, and my own sweat. Blood too, surely, somewhere I can't reach or see. I don't think I've ever been in more dire need of soap and hot water. Clarke will be there. Shame and guilt tear at me, as they should. I clear my throat and say, “I'll be out in a moment.”

Morrow grunts, and the sound of his heavy tread diminishes. Getting to the edge of the bed is an ordeal of wincing and careful movement. Standing is an unpleasant experience in unfolding a stiff and uncooperative body. The cool, wooden floor is soothing for my sorely aching feet. I follow the smell of food. I can bathe later, when I'm sure to be alone.

Waiting for me at the table is a plate of hot food: thick, marbled rashers of bacon cooked to a perfect crisp; diced potatoes, fried to a golden brown in the sizzling fat; eggs, fluffy and yellow-white, dusted with pepper; a slice of fresh bread, slathered in butter; and two fat links of sausage, split down the middle. A steaming tea kettle perches on a woven pad, with an empty mug set aside.

I fall into a waiting chair with a grunt and bow my head over the plate. I do this not in prayer, but to avoid the weight of Milo's dark, watching eyes. He sits with a half-filled mug trapped in the circle of his hands and looks no more rested than I feel. “Morning,” he says quietly, and there is something about how the word leaves him that gives me pause.

“Good morning,” I answer, and finish bringing the torn hunk of bread to my lips. The butter is thick and fatty, salt-sweet on my tongue, crust crunching pleasantly between my teeth. The ravening hunger in my belly calls for more, and for more I reach. A rasher of bacon this time, licking the grease from my fingertips. If I can appall him with my manners, maybe he won't see what else is wrong.

All he says is, “Sleep well?”, and again it gives me pause. My hair falls from behind my fair, brushing against my mouth.

I push it back, and answer, “Fine.” I don't look up. I can't, or he'll know.

“Lavinia did too,” he offers, “kept wanting to make sure we were okay, but once that happened? She was out.” I hum at that, and use my fork to split a sausage link in two. He stops there, and for a moment I think that's the end of it. Then, “Jeremiah – that's Morrow's name, by the way – said he found Clarke on the couch this morning. Know anything about that?”

“Should I?” I ask, taking care to seem without any. Milo's chair creaks as he shifts in it.

“Should you?” He asks in turn. “Weren't you two gonna share that room?” I shrug. More quiet. He's looking at me. “Jer said she didn't have a blanket. Said she was all curled up and shivering.” I set my fork down before I drop it. Curl my hands on my lap and do not look back. “Look at me, Zira. Please.”

It's gently said. I think that's why I do it. I choke down the food in my mouth and lift my bowed head.

The look on his face. The shadows beneath his eyes, the heavy lines on his brow. There's a pallor to his skin, a sunken exhaustion he doesn't try to hide. It makes his injuries stand out all the more. My eyes burn and blur, but not a single tear falls. I've wept enough. Instead of asking for apology, or reparation for what I've done to him and his family, he asks, “What happened?”

I tell him. Halting, with shame lashing me to the bone, I tell him what I did.