“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “It’s okay,” he repeats as if to reassure himself as he glances back in my direction. “I’ll be back.”
“And, if you do have to leave,” he drops his voice until it’s barely audible. “Just…leave. Don’t…do anything to her and tell no one.”
“Where are you—“
“—I really have to go,” he says, cutting her off. He scours the room once more in the way one might if they were worried they would forget something. “You remember the key, Vera?”
“Yes, I got it,” she assures him.
And, with that, he’s gone. No look back and no farewell. It doesn’t take me long to slip back under. I wake a half hour later to vomit the potions. This repeats the entire day, sleeping, waking to a convulsing stomach, and vomiting like something is eating me from the inside out. And it is.
Vera’s brows become permanently knitted in a combination of worry, pity, and distress. Despite my own suffering, I feel horrible that she has to be here, dealing with this. By the end of the night, I’m filled with uncertainty.
“Vera, where did Sitri say he was going exactly?”
“I…don’t know,” she says, shaking her head.
What if he left because he didn’t want to watch? Once the thought reaches me, I’m almost sure of it. Who would want to watch someone deteriorate?
She must see the trail of my thoughts because her lips purse. “I’m sure he has a plan.”
I don’t believe her. I beg her to write the letter Sitri refused to write. She obliges me in the end, with reassurances that she’s only doing this just in case. I spill everything to her. My real name and how I’d taken my sister’s place and my life as one of the Shrouded. Everything except the daemon, of course. Sleeping becomes more difficult. I’m not quite awake either—in some in-between state, barely clinging to my sanity.
Pain.
I’m more accustomedto it than the average person. But did you ever really grow accustomed to it? Or did it mold you into something new, something unrecognizable from what you were before? Like hardened, thick, calloused palms that scratch when they touch.
Would I have been someone different without it?
Someone better?
Someone more like Syra?
By the middle of the night, the pain has become unavoidable—not in my body, not in my mind. It sears through every fleeting thought, not allowing me to lose myself in sleep for a moment. I shift back and forth listlessly, some pathetic attempt to shake it off, but it’s within me, a part of me.
I grow angry with Sitri. All of this talk about what a scary murderer he was and he couldn’t even bring himself to put me out of this misery? He ran like a coward.
When the dawn's early morning light seeps through the curtains, and Vera prattles endlessly beside me, trying to distract me, I look over at her, her own eyes heavily bagged with exhaustion. “The healer said there’s a plant called…deadly nightshade.”
She jumps out of the bed in panic. “No,” she says furiously, shaking her head. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”
I turn my head to the wall. After that she spends more time avoiding me in the other room. My vomiting eventually begins to dwindle, and that afternoon, we find out why. A large purplish bruise mars my abdomen, the blood pooling under my skin.
Weakness finally takes precedence over pain, and I slip in and out of consciousness. Every time my eyes slip open, I think—soon.
Something grips my jaw, and I force my eyes to open into thin slits. Sitri? Either he’s back, or I’m dreaming. I stretch a hand out, as if I could gauge its legitimacy if I touch him, but my hand falls limp to the bed as he steps back, pulling the blankets down and my dress up. He places a hand over my bruised abdomen.
I don’t understand—can’t make sense of it until white hot pain is piercing me open, forcing my wounds to close. I writhe.
He has nothing.
He’s still trying to heal me in this same way the healer said wouldn’t work—prolonging my suffering.
I bat at his hand. “No!” I cry. My voice is a mere wisp. He ignores me, brows pressed in concentration. Once he finishes, he stalks out of the room. I start to sob, an almost silent and tear-less cry. He comes back carrying two vials.
“You said you were a…killer,” I sob. His face is indecipherable. “Do it.”
“No.”
