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You’re jolted awake, the image of Lisa’s head, cracked open on the supermarket floor still dancing across your eyelids. You can barely manage to remove the covers and slip on your boots your hands are shaking so badly. You don’t know why, can’t know why, you’re like this, because you can’t see Dr. Russo about this. What if you were shipped off to Norfolk? Placed back in the treatment center for good? Or worse? You can’t have that happening. You don’t want to be “dealt” with there.
Nonetheless, something had to be done. For the past two weeks, you’d suffered black-outs, nosebleeds, and your flashbacks had become so severe you wake up almost uncertain that you were ever treated in the first place. You’d managed to keep it a secret from your parents and Jem well enough, although you think Jem might have an inkling that something’s off. She’d caught you with your nose running rotten blood more than once, but she never commented. So long as you don’t go rabid, you don’t think she’ll press.
Is that what’s happening to you? Were you going rabid? You’d heard talk of some PDS--er, undead that had become tolerant to the medication entirely. They’d nearly massacred their whole household. The thought makes you nauseous--you, nauseous! Was that what was happening to you? The nosebleeds certainly seemed a telltale sign of future tolerance.
You’d told Simon about it, and he’d put you on his homemade Neurotryptaline. Nothing had changed. If anything, it had gotten worse. The flashbacks could hit you at any moment, and you’d freeze on the spot, incapable of doing anything but living them out until your brain decided you’d seen enough and let you free. Your nosebleeds went from a trickle to a something like a small gush, and you’d have to wait them out, unsure really what to do but take an extra shot. That didn’t even help, either.
Tonight, however, was particularly bad. The minute you slip your boots on, you notice the spots of blood on them. Black blood. Your blood. You’ve started another nosebleed. In less than ten seconds you’re in the bathroom, frantically grabbing at handfuls of toilet paper to stuff against your nose as you make your way out the door.
The clock chimes two as you shut it behind you, making you glance back momentarily. Simon was probably fast asleep at this hour, but you couldn’t stay in the house. Not now. There was a fog to your vision, similar to when you’d been fighting off the effects of Blue Oblivion, and you’ve got a bit of a headache. There’s a certain desperation in your need to reach Simon now. You’d be safe with him. Or rather, everyone else would be safe if you were with him. Certainly he knew how to deal with rabids better than anyone else in the village did. The only problem with going to Simon was his radical tendencies. Despite having left the ULA, the beliefs in much of the radicalism of the ULA remained, and you don’t think you could trust Simon to do what was necessary for you if the time came. Well, rather, when.
You’d reached the definite conclusion that there is a definite impending moment of the loss of your sanity. Nothing is going to be able to bring you back, and you’ll need to be eliminated. Taking away the fact that Simon was, well, your boyfriend, you don’t think he’d have it in him to kill you even if the two of you weren’t romantically involved. He didn’t before, and he certainly won’t be able to now.
Still, if you were to be anywhere when you went rabid, the best place to be would be with Simon.
You jam the bloody tissues into your pocket, satisfied finally that the bleeding had sufficiently ceased. Jesus Christ, and your hands won’t stop shaking. Your pace quickens, hands balling into shaking fists in your pockets. You were almost to the bungalow. Only a bit further and you could consider everyone around you properly protected.
There’s a light on, in the front room, as you approach, but there’s no sign of Simon in the window. It occurs to you that he might have left it on for you. You’d paid him late night visits before, hadn’t you?
You fumble for the hidden key by the window, hands shaking so bad you almost drop the damn thing, but you manage to steady yourself enough to unlock the door and close it quietly behind you. There’s no sign of Simon, though, the house quiet and at peace.
You hasten towards his bedroom, worry forming a lump in your throat as you open the door. There he is, blankets somewhat askew, only coming up to just above his waistline. He’s on his side, the light from the hallway shining onto his ruined back.
“Simon,” you all but croak, and he’s awake in a flash, sitting upright somewhat slowly and peering at you with tired, pinprick eyes.
“Kieren,” he says, voice soft. Concerned.
It dawns on you’re never going to get to spend much time with him again. Or anyone. You hold back tears as you say, “I don’t think it’s working anymore.”
You’d meant it to come out louder, more clearly, but it comes out as a barely a whisper. You’re not sure he’s heard because he stares at you somewhat expectantly, but then he opens his mouth, brows furrowing in that thoughtful, calm way he always has, and he says, “The Neurotryptaline?”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. You swallow again, the feeling of tears rising in your throat. It’s all you can do to push it down. “It’s not working. I can feel it, Simon. I can bloody feel it. I can’t stop the shaking, and everything just. It feels hazy. Something’s happening, Simon. To me.” You pause, and take a shuddery breath. “And I just. I just needed to be here. Tonight, I mean. It’s different from before. I don’t feel right. I felt okay before. I just had the shakes and a couple’a nosebleeds. But this? I. I don’t know what this is, Simon.”
By now he’s gotten up and circled round the bed to come in front of you, hands firmly holding onto your trembling shoulders. He looks at you so calmly, so determinedly, you almost feel like everything will be alright. Almost.
“I’ll be here, Kieren. I’ll stop you.”
You look down, unable to meet his gaze, and nod slowly. “Thank you.” His hands slide down to hold yours, and he squeezes them in a semblance of comfort. You can’t really feel it, but the gesture seems to take away some of your trembling. The trembling that was from fear, anyway.
His left hand slips from your right, and he gently leads you to the bed, sitting you down, and adjusting himself so he’s got your eye contact. “Kieren,” he says, his voice still steady, far steadier, than yours, “It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anythin’ happen to your or anyone else. I promise.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. There was no use in holding back the tears anymore. They come slowly, and then a bit faster. “How could this happen now?” you say, opening your eyes, but refusing to look back at him. “Why now? It’s not right. Not fair.” You pause, trying to calm yourself from raising your voice, but your tear ducts won’t have it.
“Amy once said,” you begin again, quietly, reverently even, “that life had benched her before she’d been able to play the game.”
He flinches. It’s small, but you notice it. You miss her, too.
“I took myself out the first time before I’d really got to play at all. But I got a second chance. I got a second chance, and I took it, Simon. Slowly at first, but I took it. I started to play. I started to play the damn game. And now?” You laugh. It’s almost bitter, through your tears, but mostly it just sounds pathetic. “Now that’s being swiped out from under me. Three strikes you’re out, yeah? Except I haven’t struck out. I’m just bein’ taken off the field. I don’t get a second chance with my family. With you. Just, ‘Sorry, you got a taste of what you could have, but try-outs are over! You didn’t quite make it. Time to go back!’”
Shakily, you exhale and look back at Simon. He’s looking down, jaw-clenched. With what? Grief? Anger? He doesn’t say anything for a while, and the room fills with silence. Your hands are still shaking, so you stuff them in your pockets again, clenching them into tight fists.
“I won’t let that happen,” he says at last, and you laugh sharply, skeptically. “No, I mean it, Kieren,” he presses. “There’s got to be a way to stop you from going rabid, or bring you back from that state. I’ll find it.”
“Simon,” you say with irritated exasperation, “this is it. If I am, in fact, becoming tolerant, I either die at the hands of the doctors in Norfolk, or I die here, at home. I’d rather be here, honestly.”
His hand, still holding yours, tightens. “You’ve got to have faith,” he says firmly. You’re tempted to protest, to let him know that faith had never gotten you anywhere, but you don’t. You’ve got a failsafe if he can’t bring himself to kill you. You always have. The entire village would be more than happy to bring an end to “a rabid rotter,” whether it was you or anyone else.
“Okay,” you say, your voice a bit choked as you force out the word. He holds your gaze for a moment, making sure you mean it, and when satisfied, then wraps you in a tight embrace. You stay still for a few brief seconds before you move, returning his hug.
You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that, but it’s long enough that your hands stop shaking. You’re a bit relieved that they’ve stopped, but your head still feels a bit fuzzy. Not the sleepy fuzzy, but the fuzzy like you’re about to black out and never wake up again. There’s a marked difference. It’s not something you can really put into words, but the feeling doesn’t belong.
Eventually, Simon manages to convince you to kick off your boots and lie down in bed. “Relax,” he says to you, and after a bit, you actually manage to enough to drift off into a light slumber.
The flashbacks don’t start immediately, but they always come, and when they do, you’re not prepared for how lifelike they are this round. You watch your hands rip open Lisa’s head, and you see Jem with cold eyes. You see it all with such clarity it hurts. Distantly, you’re aware of a thumping, a constant beat like from the beginning of song. It starts out faint, hesitant, and then grows in strength until it’s thundering in your ears.
You’re jolted awake by the feeling of Simon’s arm snaking around your midriff where your shirt had managed to ride up. You can still hear the beating though. It’s pounding in your ears like a thunderstorm. Christ, what was that?
You shudder, Simon’s hand cold against your stomach. “Simon,” you grumble, and you turn to face him before stopping in place. Wait a second. Cold? You jolt upright, throwing the blankets off and stumbling to the bathroom. The carpet beneath your feet feels rough, itchy, like a sweater, brand new and unwashed. The bathroom floor is another shock. It’s freezing, and you shiver again before daring to glance at your reflection.
For a second, you think you’re wearing your cover-up and your contacts, but you know for a fact that you hadn’t touched either of them in months. You’d given your cover-up to Jem, who’d begrudgingly admitted that she did, in fact, use it upon occasion to cover up her spots. Hesitantly, you reach up with a steady--steady!--hand and touch your cheek. Skin on skin.
“Kieren?”
Simon comes up behind you, expression concerned and unsure. He stops dead in his tracks upon making eye contact with you though. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but he doesn’t, just stares at you in the mirror.
“I’m. I’m not wearing contacts, Simon,” you say softly after a few moments of shared silence, and turn to meet his eyes directly. “I’m not wearing anything.”
He continues to remain silent, but his hand comes to rest on your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw so gingerly, as if he thought you were made of glass. You have to laugh at his expression, if a bit tearily, because it’s so different from the one he usually wears. Where normally he looks at you with only a small portion of awe, now it’s like you’re some sort of deity. You wonder, a bit sardonically, if this was what Jesus felt like when he’d been resurrected.
You take his hand from his cheek and place it on your chest, and watch as his face contorts again. This time, you’re surprised to find it’s relief. “Kieren,” he says, and he pauses, choked up, like he can’t quite get all the words to come through. “You--you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
At that, the tears come a bit more freely. The realization hits you like a train crash--figuratively--that you’re not going to die. You’re going to live. Live and breathe and be again. You don’t think you’ve cried this much since Amy’s death, but you’re smiling. You’re smiling because you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re not going to go rabid, you’re not going to lose your head, you’re going to be okay. Your heart feels lighter, freer, even as it pushes blood through your body, as it grows older every second, you feel. You feel.
“Christ, Simon,” you say through the tears, voice quivering and cracking, and you try to say something more, but he pulls you against him, holds you close, and simply nods into your shoulder.
“I know, Kieren,” he says. “I know.”