18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
T hrax
Stultus. How many times in one day do I have to be reminded of what a stupid ass I am? The thought loops endlessly in my mind as I stare down at Skye, her eyes wide with concern. Shame washes over me. This kind woman doesn’t deserve to be caught up in the mess that is my life.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to rasp out, extending my hand to help her up. She takes it, her fingers warm and soft against my calloused palm. Now what? I stand here, uncertain, feeling like an awkward statue in my own doorway.
“Can I come in?” Skye asks softly.
I nod, stepping aside to let her enter. Relief flashes across her face as she moves past me into the room. I settle on the edge of my bed, watching as she takes the chair nearby. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable as I avoid her gaze.
Skye fidgets, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to intrude. Dear God, Thrax, I don’t want to press. Lord knows, you’re entitled to your own thoughts and feelings. ”
Right. I’m a free man, or so everyone tells me. How can I be free when I’m held prisoner by my past? By these thoughts circling my mind like hungry vultures?
“But I have to ask. Not everything. I mean, I don’t need to know everything, but I’m asking… well, begging really, for you to tell me what set you off. I don’t just want to know, Thrax. I need to know. How can I be your friend when I’m terrified of saying something that sets you off? Just tell me that. Use as few words as possible, but please tell me.”
She’s spitting out words again. She tells me it happens when she’s worried. She’s worried about me.
I don’t want to talk right now, and the last thing I want is to talk about what set me off. But for Skye, I’ll do it. I don’t want to cause her another moment’s pain.
“Dr. Diaz wants me dead.” She said I didn’t have to explain things. She asked her question and I answered it. Now, I pray to Goddess Fortuna that we can put this to rest and never speak of it again. We can discuss Dr. Diaz, and I won’t have to divulge the memory that just barreled into my mind.
“ What? I didn’t hear anything. What did she say? She was still halfway across the room?”
I breathe deeply, nostrils flaring as I wish I could go back to my habit of being silent.
“ Pollice verso. She gave the thumbs up sign, the sign of death for a gladiator. It was made all the worse because I thought she was a good woman. Trust isn’t easy for me, but I was beginning to trust her.”
“Show me. Show me the sign.”
It’s unlike Skye to be so forceful, so demanding. I don’t want to even flash the sign toward her, not for a moment. It’s such a bad omen, a bad message. So hostile. I point it to the other side of the room, then allow my gaze to travel to her, hoping I didn’t offend her .
She looks… forlorn as she scoots her chair closer and, keeping her gaze on me, reaches slowly to grip my hand, the one that gave the sign.
“In our culture, we use this sign often.”
Every muscle in my body tightens as I doubt every word I’ve been told since I awoke in this forsaken place. They’ve told me I’m a free man, that I’m no longer a slave, and now Skye says their barbaric culture uses the pollice verso often?
“It’s called a thumbs up and it means a lot of things like ‘good job,’ and ‘way to go,’ and ‘congratulations on the promotion,’ and ‘wow! You’re going to have a baby.’ It means all things good. We thought we took the signal from ancient Rome, but… I guess we got it wrong.”
My mind is reeling at this. Would Skye lie to me?
“Dr. Diaz ran down the hall right after I did, worried about you. She likes you. It was a terrible misunderstanding, but I’ll make sure everyone is told what the thumbs up really means and never uses it again.”
I inspect her face. I may be a stupid man, but I learned how to read people’s faces during my years of training. I figured out that sometimes looking left means a man is going to lunge to his right. Or that a smile that doesn’t wrinkle the eyes can mean bad things are coming next. So I read Skye, because I’ve gotten to know her over the hours we’ve spent together.
She’s telling the truth.
“It sent me to a bad place inside my mind,” I admit, even though it feels like I’ve already revealed too much.
“I have no doubt.” As she squeezes my hand, I see tears glisten in her eyes. I’m unsure of many things about what’s happening between Skye and me, but one thing is certain—those tears are for me.
“How are you doing now?”
I don’t know how I find the stupid courage to do it, but I give her a brave thumbs up. She gets my joke and hoots with laughter—perhaps a bit too loudly.
The room is quiet for a moment, but Skye finds a need to fill the silence.
“So, have you ever heard of a TV show called Firefly ? Of course not. You’ve never watched TV. That’s okay. It’s my favorite series of all time. I’m what they call a ‘browncoat’—that’s what we fans call ourselves.”
And just like that, she’s off, launching into a detailed explanation of this Firefly thing. Her words wash over me, a soothing stream of sound that slowly pulls me back from the edge of my dark memories.
“…and then there’s this character called Jayne. He kind of reminds me of some of the gladiators you’ve described. Oh! And the way they depict life on the outer planets is probably not too different from how some of the poorer areas of ancient Rome might have been…”
She pauses for a breath, her cheeks flushed. “Please, God, just tell me when I can quit talking.”
I almost smile at that. Almost.
As she continues, she shifts her chair to face me directly. I find I don’t mind the change. It gives me a better view of her lively expressions, the way her intelligent brown eyes light up when she talks about something she loves.
Gradually, I feel myself settling back into the present. This wasn’t like that night in Rome. The party in the dining room wasn’t an intentional attempt to hurt me. These people, strange as they are, aren’t those cruel patricians from my past.
Skye’s voice falters for a moment, and I realize she’s running out of steam. Without thinking, I reach out and grip her hand. Our gazes meet, and suddenly, everything shifts .
The remaining spiderweb of memories retreats, pushed away by the warmth in Skye’s gaze. In this moment, I see her clearly for perhaps the first time. She’s not just attractive, she’s a treasure. No one paid her to sit on the dirty floor, talking to a closed door with her fingers stretched underneath as though they were plant tendrils seeking the sun. She did that because she cared.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and rough with emotion. “For staying. For talking.”
Skye’s smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. “Of course, Thrax. That’s what friends do.”
Friends. The word settles in my chest, warm and comforting. I find myself talking about nothing of substance—the birds I’ve seen in the atrium, my thoughts on the strange food in the cafeteria, my curiosity about the computers and phones everyone uses. It doesn’t matter what I say. What matters is that I’m here, fully present, with Skye.
We talk until the tension drains from both of us, replaced by a comfortable ease. Our hands remain linked, a physical anchor to this moment, to each other. For the first time since waking in this strange new world, I feel truly connected to someone.
As night deepens outside my window, I realize I don’t want this moment to end. But there will be other moments, other conversations. Skye isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.