Chapter 16 #2
He gets my joke immediately and makes a small rumbling sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh. I laugh with him until the wholesome moment starts to make me feel queasy and I take my hand away from his and try to look away.
I hate myself for the reaction, but don’t know how to get back to laughing.
The Bitch doesn’t laugh like that, the ugly voice chides me.
Which mask laughs like that? I shift through them, but none of them match. I gulp, both thrilled by the possibility, and terrified, that it might be my own laugh. Part of my long lost identity.
I try to find something to fiddle with nervously instead of standing there awkwardly but there is nothing.
Is this the real me? A more awkward and shy person than I realized?
There has never been space for that.
Since my whole life involved pretending to be who I’m not, I’m more surprised by the fact that when the cameras are off, I’m a puddle of anxiety. The only other time I’ve come close to a realization like this was the time I purchased a fidget ring after seeing an ad in passing.
It was a silly, rebellious idea I had since my mother believed more in therapists than in fancy gimmicks made to take money from the middle class.
It’s funnier that a parasite like her called herself middle class but I’m in no position to judge her.
I got the ring, and it was the first time I realized that I could deal with stage fright on my own.
My thumb seeks it out, but nothing is there.
Yet another tether is gone. Those things stole it from me, taking one more trophy in a cabinet of tricks designed to break me.
It’s taking an incredible amount of willpower not to scream every second I’m on this planet. Like I’m one of those stupid bitches in a B horror film.
Unfortunately for me, this is real life and rather than find a way to fight back, I have been irreversibly transformed into something that only vaguely looks human but isn’t.
The red hair is especially infuriating but after dipping it into the water and seeing no dye flow out of it, I’ve come to accept it.
Rather than a ring, the hair has provided some sort of tether for me.
I’m either braiding it, twisting it into new and complicated buns and chignons or just wrapping it around my fingers.
I reach my hand to touch it again as I hear Szhe’ka singing to me. “I call you Red, like threads. Ani, I like.”
I’m not sure he knows what it means to smile but there is a pleased look on his face and infused in his song that makes me feel light and fluffy inside.
The Bitch is not fluffy, the voice tells me, but I ignore it.
“I’m glad,” I sing out instead as I try to cling to that feeling, even as it falls away, screeches of alien animals reminding me just how fucked we are right now.
I’m feeling much lighter than I have in forever and more hopeful about the destination of our journey being close. However, good is often accompanied with bad and I can’t shake off this feeling of starvation, gnawing at the pit of my stomach.
If we are going to make this long, endless walk, I will have to eat something, and it can’t be another half dead, blue-blooded lizard. I would say fish because I caught Szhe’ka helping himself to them at the river but they’re also raw and sushi has never been my favorite delicacy.
If I were to get the fish, I’d have to cook it but I’m also sure he has never had to use fire in his life and I’m not a Girl Scout, never have been. If I’d been kidnapped with my purse, there would have been a lighter in it, but—
I make the horses stop galloping with a snap of my teeth.
“Szhe’ka,” I call out to him. “Need food.”
He hums out his uncertainty, so I explain myself, “Tree seeds or some leaves, I eat.”
The language barrier is funny sometimes because how does fruit translate to tree seeds?
Szhe’ka freezes for a minute before his eyes widen and he stirs like he has remembered something.
“Wait here,” he says to me and goes off, much like he did yesterday, and I am left standing there, hoping that he doesn’t just bring back another kind of animal.
I don’t wait for long because Szhe’ka comes back and drops a bunch of small, dark green balls that I assume are fruit.
They look like very small limes and when I pick one up and tear it, it oozes out crimson juice.
“Safe to eat, go on,” he urges me, and I look at the cluster of fruit on the mat of leaves.
I would prefer to wash them before eating but who knows how far the next stream might be? I don’t know what kind of germs are in this place. Honestly, I’ve never been much of a germaphobe, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful when I’m just unsure.
Shut up, stupid brain, I chide.
Bending, I pick a few more of the fruit, wipe them against my jumpsuit, hope I’m not allergic and take a bite.
I don’t know what I expect it to taste like but it’s nothing like limes. It’s sweet but not too sweet, kind of like a watered-down blend of watermelon candy.
I chirp excitedly to Szhe’ka and pick up a few more to wipe down and eat. “I like.”
I really do like them and there are a lot considering how much bigger his hands are than mine and how much more he has than me. I should snack and walk, I decide, so I imagine pockets in my jumpsuit, large enough to contain about five fruits each.
After they appear, I stuff all the rest of the fruit in and by force of will imagine that I am energized and ready for the rest of the journey.
I feel Szhe’ka’s eyes on me the whole time, but I don’t fuss about it anymore as I tell myself to appreciate it and not associate it with danger. He must just like staring or he assumes I’m way too small to be let out of his sight.
“Us move—” he starts to sing but I interrupt it with one of my own, playfully repeating the words he has said to me every time we need to get on our way,“—before hunters find.”
He has the same pleased look on his face and makes the laughing sound again, the trill being a little louder. We begin walking and I decide that it is nice to have a companion in this place. I wonder if Szhe’ka sees me as a friend or just an annoying alien he has to babysit until she is safe.
Whatever it is, I want to let him know that I think of him as a friend. When I wrack my brain for the word for friend, the closest things I get are sister, brother and mate.
The thought of it warms my heart—that there are no friends in his culture, just brothers, sisters or lovers.
It is a nice thought, so I allow it to linger in my head as we make the rest of our walk in comfortable, shared silence and the weight of the delicious fruits in my pockets.