Chapter 13
Iwake up from my shoulder being nudged. Shooting up, I hit my head on the ceiling of the car. The impact doesn’t hurt, but when I open my eyes, I see nothing but blurred shapes and colours.
When I scry ahead, the world presents itself in dawn’s delicate glow. Soft creams, oranges and eosine pinks stretch across the horizon. To my right is Moreau’s silhouette. I try to distinguish his features to no avail.
“Ready?” he asks.
I want to rub my eyes, but my hands feel too heavy for my arms.
“I can’t see well.”
“Don’t fret, I’ll guide you. Just describe the location,” Moreau reassures me.
With great effort, I open my door and try my best to describe the place from which I dug up the artifact. When I finish, I stand up.
The world tilts. My knees buckle. Before I hit the floor, a shadow appears.
Moreau’s hand around my waist steadies me until I recover enough to walk. With my arm around his shoulders, we slowly shuffle across the grass. Even with his support, it doesn’t take long for torpor to seize my legs entirely.
Moreau carries me without hesitation. Though I am taller than he is, this mode seems to be of no issue to him. He must be incredibly strong because by the time we arrive, his breath is as steady as if he were on an afternoon stroll.
“I think this is it,” he says, placing me on the grass. “Can you see me, Orlando?”
“Only but a dark shadow.” I try to force my eyes to work, but it’s utterly futile.
“Let me find the exact spot. Please, hold on.” With those words, the dark shape disappears, and I hear rustling leaves and the digging of soil.
As I lie there, I notice my vision continues to falter. Even though the day should brighten, the world dims with every passing minute.
My senses are clamouring to flee as if I were the most abhorrent vessel.
I cannot smell the damp earth as Moreau digs nearby, nor the dew after a night of summer’s brume.
The chirping birds bring me no more joy. They are nothing but noise now.
I try to move my head to watch Moreau dig, but it, too, refuses to obey me.
My breath slows. My throat constricts.
Bird song distorts into the screaming of flies.
I feel as though I’m being pressed through a mangler.
My chest heaves with the effort to push air into my lungs. Maybe I’m no longer on the surface but rather buried metres beneath the earth?
Every exhale crawls along, as if it has eternity to find its way through my flesh.
“Orlando, you were so close!” I can barely make out Moreau’s words. I want to answer, but my mouth refuses to move.
Another exclamation, but the words are too muffled. They fade into the distance until I hear no more.
Inexorably, the screaming grows until it swallows me whole.
Stop, I want to say, but nothing listens to my plea.
Involuntarily, my hands spasm like being pulled from a string. Might it be death’s fingers coming to claim mine?
Then, a faint flutter.
Could it be hope?
No.
There is only darkness now.
I no longer see, nor hear, nor feel. All that remains are memories of a lonely, miserable, queer life.
My lungs refuse to obey. My heart ceases to pump.
I fall.
And I fall.
And I fall.
Such weight. Too heavy. Too much.
Then—
Nothing.