Page 717 of Coal Hearts

Christ, stop it.

Get yourself together.

You’re alive.

Focus on that and only that.

Lifting my chin, I didn’t say a word as Ily carefully tucked her calendar-marking pebble under her thin pillow and lay down. Huddling into her blanket, she looked across at me. Her lips tipped into a lovely smile. Her golden eyes a little brighter as if we’d all decided to be a little better and pretend to be a little stronger.

Peter stood and stretched. Working out the kinks in his thin body, he padded toward the toilet and vanished behind the wall.

We might not be able to see each other, but we could hear. While he emptied his bladder, I did my best to speak over the splash by repeating the phrase Ily had told me yesterday. “Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Rainer Maria Rilke.”

She reached for me. Her hand so far away.

I reached for her. My fingers tingling with the need to touch.

She’d started forcing me to remember poetry and affirmations, making me promise to play along so she could be sure my concussion wasn’t killing me.

“And the day before yesterday?” she whispered, tucking her untouched hand beneath her cheek and sighing.

I struggled. Without the sun, it was so fucking hard to follow time. The lingering concussion didn’t help. Fighting back the last dregs of confusion, I whispered, “Love consists of this: two lonely people who meet, protect, and adore each other. Rainer Maria Rilke.”

She shook her head softly. “Love consists of this: two solitudes who meet, protect, and greet each other.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “Well, I prefer my version.”

“Me too.” She nodded with a soft smile. “I’m so glad your mind seems to be healing as well as your body.”

“I’m sorry for making you so worried.”

She winced. Tears glimmered. “I’m just glad I haven’t lost you.”

Glancing around the dungeon, I couldn’t hide my fury. “I wish I could get you out of this place.”

“Same.” She gave a sad little shrug.

“Why do you know so many of Rilke’s poems?” Peter asked as he returned from behind the wall. Gathering his and Ily’s meal, he placed a tray by her feet and the other on his pillow.

“My father.” Ily flinched as if the memory caused her pain. “He’s a massive poetry buff. He says Buddha lives in sonnets and songs, not just scripture. That the truth of love and life are often found in the proverbs of pretty words.”

“Your father would get along with my mother and aunt.” Peter bent over Ily and kissed her cheek before climbing back onto his bed. The chain stopped jingling as he settled. “My mum even writes poetry herself.”

None of us reached for our food. Enjoying the anticipation of filling our empty bellies rather than the agonising wait for more once it was gone.

“Does she live in Leeds too?” Ily flipped onto her stomach, cupping her chin so she could study Peter. “Can you remember any of her work?”

“Nah.” Grabbing his blanket, Peter whipped it around his shoulders like a cape and sat cross-legged. “I’m not much of a reader myself.”

Fuck.

I wasn’t prepared for such a simple sentence to gut me.

What I wouldn’t give for a book.

A single page from a manuscript.

A paragraph of words that could allow me to escape this place, if only for a moment.