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It’s like one of those dreams where you’re being chased, but suddenly you realize your legs can’t run nearly as well as you thought they could, and it takes all the mental energy in the world to get them to move, but the air around you might as well have turned to water for the speed you’re moving.
That’s probably a dramatic example.
I am moving, much faster than I imagine anyone ever has across this treacherous terrain.
But it’s not going to matter how fast I am.
Because time is fading, and I’m not fast enough.
You’re not going to make it in time, whispers the parasite from inside the adamant box. Accompanying the voice is the sound of sharp fingernails tapping against the metal. You’re not going to make it, and then you’ll die, and no one will even come look for your body. You’ll be food for the buzzards, child. Is that how you want your pitiful existence to end? Food for the buzzards?
Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question? I ask, not bothering to waste my breath by uttering it aloud.
Rhetorical questions are for the intelligent among you. Not those of you idiotic enough to run headfirst to their death, hisses the parasite.
You know what I think? I think you’re just concerned about what will become of you if I drop dead in the middle of the desert. How much sand do you think there is in this place? And what are the chances anyone traveling through the desert would actually come across you, do you think?
The parasite goes quiet, and I get the pleasant image of Cindy, crammed in that little box, sulking.
I find my pace accelerates at the very thought.
You know what, I say, finding torturing the parasite to be more comforting than it probably should be. That’s an excellent idea, really. I could just drop you right now. Be rid of you. Sure, someone might find you, and what a problem that would cause, but then again, a sandstorm could come ripping through here any day now. How deep do you think things get buried during sandstorms?
The parasite doesn’t answer, even after several more minutes of taunting.
Eventually, even the fact that I’ve won this verbal sparring match doesn’t keep the dread from creeping back into my chest. The sand has cooled in the chill of the desert night, but I can’t help but notice the faint line of pink that taints the edge of the horizon, cresting the waves of the dunes to the east.
I strain my eyes—as if that’s an effective tactic for someone with enhanced vision—for signs of Meranthi in the distance, but I see nothing but sand dunes for miles.
You’ll never make it, silly servant girl, says the parasite, grinding on my nerves as it references the note Clarissa left for me after she burned all of Evander’s letters. That was back when I was trapped in the attic, just after I’d lost my baby.
My baby.
My baby who has no grave, just as I won’t.
We’ll both be forgotten.
At least I can share that with my child.
Share something with my child.
If not a laugh or a cry or a memory or a touch, at least it’s something.
I keep running, but in the distance I glimpse a strand of orange limning the horizon, replacing the pink.
No.
I glance back ahead of me, to where Meranthi should appear any moment now, but the horizon is as empty as the grave where Amity and I laid my child to rest.
In the end, I don’t make it.
It’s sort of depressing, really, because I make it just far enough to see Meranthi shimmering in the distance when my legs give out.
As it turns out, the desert air is rather dehydrating, even at night, and the exertion of running through the sand has leeched the blood from my muscles.
I likely should have gorged myself on human blood before I tried this, but I was trying to be good.
Like that’s ever gotten me anywhere.
