She told me I don’t have to be who I am. She gave me more than Sixth ever did. All Sixth ever gave me were orders. And mysteries. Questions she wouldn’t answer.
How much time has passed? I’ve been standing in the middle of the bedroom with a damp towel in my hand for what seems like hours. The sun will set soon. I could watch it from the other room. But she hates me so much, it hurts to be in the same room with her. I should be used to it by now. Stupid defective Eighth, I thought that if I saved her life, she might not be so repelled. She might be grateful. If Eighth had saved Sixth . . .
Not Eighth. August. August is even stupider. August has feelings like a human. Stupid feelings that make me pathetic. Disgusting, perverse feelings that make me not want to leave her when I know I should.
I should leave her.
Once I thought of leaving Sixth. I thought of turning away from her while we walked in a heavy rainstorm. I let my hand fall from her shoulder experimentally, and she snapped her head back. Stay together, she signed. That was about as close to affection as she ever got. That was also the moment I realized to get away from her I would have to kill her. And that I couldn’t kill her because I loved her so much.
Love is not really permitted. We are supposed to feel protective toward the girls, and the girls are supposed to lead us, and mentor us, because they are more experienced. I knew this. There are other things that Sixth knew that I didn’t. I’m not sure if she was supposed to explain them to me, if she was waiting for the right time, or if she neglected to, or refused to, because she hated me. I was supposed to feel attached to her, and dependent on her. And I did. That’s how the pairs are supposed to work.
But love? It should not have mattered to me, the names she called me. And the violence is just part of how we are. I should have probably fought back, crushed her fingers as she slept, or thrown hot coals at her. But I couldn’t hurt her, and that made her think I was weak, and stupid. Which made her angry, and more inclined to violence, or plain meanness. Calling me names, letting me eat things that made me sick. Laughing at me when the humans with their guns startled me. She would have laughed if she’d seen me lingering by her lifeless body, pacing, my throat convulsing around the tube. She would have laughed if she’d seen how I trembled when I disconnected, high in the mountain after she didn’t get up. How I lay down beside the fire and cried about her until my head ached like it was split open again. She would have been disgusted with me.
And now, how appalled would she be, that I have captured a little human pet, nursed her back to health, and now can’t let her go like I should. She mocked the humans with their cats and dogs, that they would waste time going back for them as they tried to flee. She tore a dog apart once, in front of the screaming family, before darting them all into silence. She would tear this one apart too, to spite me, then laugh as I grieved. Blood-winged angel Sixth, she was quite something, now that I think of it. If she were still alive I think I would be able to snap her neck to protect the little dandelion in the next room.
I suppose that means I don’t love Sixth anymore.
When I dare to poke my head into the other room, she has fallen asleep on the bench, piled with blankets. The bowl is empty. As quietly as I can, I gather it and carry it out onto the west-facing terrace. I drop it over the rail and wait for the dull thump it makes as it hits the deep snow forty stories below us. I could have washed it, but that’s something a human would do. There are a lot of bowls and plates in the kitchen. I’m not washing them. When I run out of bowls, maybe I’ll leave her. Maybe I’ll tear the tube from my throat and wait for the heaviness of the air to press the life from my lungs. We don’t get up from that, I hear. If she still hates me when the bowls run out, I’ll do it.
The sky turns pink and orange. The colors in this world are heartbreaking. Heartbreak is something I should not understand. Why should I feel the pain of losing a planet that was never mine? I should be happy, proud of what we’ve achieved. I’m supposed to hate these vulgar humans. I have been told how they are. Wasteful. Cruel. Disorganized and petty. Weak and stupid. They don’t deserve such an enchanting world. I’m supposed to look on them as vermin.
But I love the human girl so much it makes my chest hurt.
RAVEN
The next morning greets me with a headache—a ball-shrinking headache, Xander would have called it—in addition to the pains in my body. There’s a bowl of dry cereal on the table next to me, and a glass of water. Lined up neatly next to that are several bottles of prescription pills. Reading the labels, I have some insight into why the only memories I have of my illness feel like hallucinogenic dreams.
Oxycodone. Percocet. A couple of different antibiotics. The Nahx must have been force-feeding this to me the whole time. No wonder I have a headache. I’m coming down from opiates. Perfect. I sweep the collection into a small garbage can I find under the side table. I don’t need a drug problem now on top of everything else.
The penthouse is quiet. “Hello?” I call out. There’s no answer.
My head throbs as I stand and test my weight on my leg. If anything, it feels worse than yesterday, but that’s probably because the sledgehammer drug cocktail has worn off. What I need is some aspirin or ibuprofen, but the search will make the pain worse. In seconds my mind is hurling silent curses at the Nahx again. It’s hard to think of anything else with my head pounding like this, but the significance of being alone is not lost on me. I could leave now, run away. Well, hobble away, limp away. I almost laugh at the thought as I take two tentative steps, pain shooting from my foot to my hip.
An agonizing eternity later, I’m in the hall bathroom, but the medicine cabinet is empty, and my swollen and bruised face scowls back at me from the beveled mirror. Under the bruises, my color looks dreadful—a dull khaki rather than my normal golden brown, my freckles like sad bugs crawling on my cheeks. And my Afro looks pretty much like you’d expect for someone who has been in bed for more than a week—frizzy, squashed, and lopsided—but I don’t have the energy or the tools to fix it.
Focusing on my reflection only worsens my headache. Rather than endure the long journey down to the other bedroom to search for painkillers, I cross into the kitchen. It’s a fascinating mess. All the dishes have been pulled out and strewn across the counter. Another pile of pill bottles litters the draining board. None of them are painkillers. Towels and sheets are piled up, some of them torn into strips. And there are boxes and cans of food everywhere, not just in cupboards but on the breakfast bar, the top of the stove. I’m not game to open the fridge though. Not sure I want to know what pestilence lurks in there after . . . What has it been since a human lived here? Six months?