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TRINE
I’m pretty sure I’m dead.
Death isn’t at all how I imagined it would be. It’s not a long, dreamless sleep. It’s not peace and warmth or fire and brimstone. Death is more like waiting when you’re not quite sure what you’re waiting for, the cutting certainty of the situation enough to take any anxiety out of it.
It’s not unpleasant. It’s not exactly nice, either. I could take it or leave it. There are…things I need to do. I’m vaguely aware of them, but they feel so remote. Everything about it feels less important than staying here and waiting, though I’m not actually sure wherehereis.
I stand in the middle of a large asphalt road, streetlights lining the sidewalk. They’re all on, but it’s not hot here. It could be any temperature and I don’t think I would notice. None of that seems to matter; my location, my comfort, my purpose is irrelevant.
I’m not lost. It just doesn’t matter.
Noneof this matters.
I shield my eyes so I can look at the lights. I’m trying to listen for something; cicadas, vehicles, maybe even people. But there are no sounds. The only thing I can hear is my own breathing.
Then I feel something warm and vaguely familiar wrapped around my right shoulder. It takes me a second to realize that this is a hand. There are long, warm fingers leaving divots on my skin.
“Come back,” a low voice says in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. I don’t know where ‘back’ is, but he sounds scared. I know I don’t want him to hurt and he sounds so worried.
I close my eyes and tell myself that I need to go back.
It…hurts.
The light floods behind my eyelids, my teeth grind as I bite down so hard on my tongue I think I might bleed. When I open my eyes again, I can feeleverything.
The room is hot. My skin is covered in a sheet of sweat, my eyelids stuck together. I’m in bed and the blankets stick to my bare legs. I still don’t know where I am, but there are things about this that feel real.
The taste of copper on my tongue.
The scent of dark, oaky cologne.
The fingers still wrapped around my shoulders, warm and soft, a prayer on Luke’s lips.
And Misha, sitting at the foot of the bed, his fingers interlaced with each other as he watches me from behind long, unkempt black hair.
“Welcome back,” Luke says. I recognize his voice as the one beckoning me back when I was…away. When I was certain I was dead.
I turn to look at him. My head aches, my neck screams. Rei tips a glass of water to my lips, which I barely manage to drink from. It’s light outside so I have no idea how long we’ve been here for.
Could be hours. Could be days. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know. Knowing might be too terrible. “It’s getting worse,” I say.
I don’t know what I want. It’s not a question. They can’t reassure me. They’re aware things aren’t getting better.
“Are you in pain?” Rei asks.
I try to nod but moving my head makes me grimace. “Yes,” I say. “Everything hurts.”
“I’m going to give you some Tylenol,” Rei says. He slaps his knees before he gets up. “Drink that whole glass of water, please.”
I know it’s pointless to protest. I sit up and grab it, wrapping my hands around it and holding it close to my face. I nurse the drink. I’m incredibly thirsty but swallowing hurts.
“Where were you this time?” Misha asks.
“Just a road,” I say, my throat dry. “I didn’t recognize anything. I looked for signage, like you told me to, but there was nothing.”
“Cars? People?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “But it was comfortable. I just…I wanted to stay there.”
