51. Dylan
FIFTY-ONE
DYLAN
The change comes on rapidly. The shock wears off, and agonizing pain settles in its place. He tries to hide it from me, but it’s almost immediately impossible.
I have no fucking clue what to do, so I force him to drink water. He tries to eat, and I think it’s for my benefit. He only manages a couple of bites before he shakes his head.
“Can’t,” he says in a strained voice. He’s getting paler by the minute. “I’m gonna lie down for a sec.”
I help him into the raft, and he lies down on his back. His breathing is getting labored, and there are drops of sweat on his temples. He cradles his injured hand gingerly and closes his eyes.
I climb in next to him and carefully slide one arm behind his neck and the other over his chest, getting as close as possible without touching his injured hand.
We lie like that for a long time.
“Dyl?” he whispers when it starts to get dark outside.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
“I don’t feel too good,” he says in a faint voice.
My heart is permanently lodged in my throat. I hug him tighter and kiss his temple.
“I know. I’m sorry, baby.”
He develops a raging fever over the course of the next few hours.
I give him more painkillers, but they’re the over-the-counter type, so they do absolutely nothing to alleviate the pain. I have a sinking feeling it’d be just as effective to chew on sand.
He keeps his teeth gritted for hours, shaking with the unnecessary effort of keeping it together.
I give him water, and he throws it up.
Terror like nothing I’ve ever felt before takes over every cell of my body.
He keeps his eyes closed, but he doesn’t sleep, and his skin keeps getting hotter and hotter.
By the time the first rays of the morning sun reach the raft, he can’t swallow any more painkillers. He tries. They won’t go down.
“I need to check your hand,” I tell him.
He opens his eyes, huge and feverish, and I try to be as gentle as I can while I take his hand and lift it into my lap. He bites down on his lower lip and every cord and muscle in his body strains from the effort it takes him not to scream.
I already feel sick before I unwrap the bandages.
The sight that greets me makes me hyperventilate for a few seconds before I can catch myself.
“That bad?” Adrian’s voice is barely a whisper.
“We’ll be okay,” I say with as much determination as I can.
The tips of his fingers are black. I could try and make myself feel better by lying to myself that it’s dark blue and probably a really intense bruise, but I can’t risk comforting lies right now.
The skin below where his knuckles used to be is red and inflamed.
The rest of his fingers are a swollen mess that leaks pus.
“Some antiseptic ointment will do the trick.” I try to pretend I’m at least slightly competent. I don’t think I succeed, but Adrian doesn’t say anything.
I try to be as gentle as I can.
He passes out.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
I stagger outside for a moment and look around dazedly.
It’s another day in paradise, with the sun high in the sky and the jungle alive with noise and as green as ever. The fire has gone out, and what’s left of the crab is abandoned next to it. We didn’t get to eat any of it, but something’s definitely had a feast.
I know I’m supposed to be hungry, but I don’t feel it.
Adrian groans from inside the raft, and I hurry back inside.
All through the day, his skin burns with fever, and I can’t do anything but wet my shirt and wipe his face and chest with it. The water is warm, and it gets unbearably hot inside the raft during the day, but when I try to move him outside, even the slightest touch makes him writhe with pain.
In the evening, I brave another look at the wound.
I can’t tell if it’s gotten any worse because of how horrible it already looked this morning.
“Dyl?”
I snap my head toward Adrian.
He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness the whole day, and when he’s awake, he seems woozy and out of it. His eyes are still hazy with fever, and his skin is flushed, but there’s also a spark of recognition in them, and now I have to really work not to cry.
“Yeah, baby?” I whisper.
He swallows and tries to speak, but nothing else comes out. I lift his head as gently as I can and give him some water.
“I need…” he says.
Please tell me there’s a way to make you better. I’ll do anything.
“Anything,” I say.
He stares at the ceiling for a bit before his feverish gaze finds mine again.
“Show me,” he says.
At first I don’t get it, but then he lifts his hands.
I hesitate, but then I unwrap the bandages. He stares at his fingers for a long while, then he looks at me.
“Those have got to go,” he says.
I blink in confusion.
“The… splints?” I take a guess, because I don’t really know what else he might be saying. The bandages? Is he saying the wound needs air? But then dirt?—
“The fingers, Dyl,” he rasps. “You have to take them off.”
At first, I laugh.
I laugh because he can’t be serious.
He can’t.
He’s still looking at me.
Oh God.
I feel sick.
I look down at his hand, then back at his face. For a long time no words come out through the tight lump in my throat.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Those won’t heal. The bones are smashed to bits, so there’s nothing there that could heal,” he says with surprising conviction. “Sterilize the knife. Bre—” He takes a deep breath. “Break the bones. And cut them off.”
Bile rushes up my throat.
I open and close my mouth.
“Dyl,” he says again.
“I can’t!”
“You have to. These fucking things… Infection.” He tries to swallow. “Can’t keep the fingers. Sepsis.”
He tries to say something else, but the words don’t seem to want to come out.
There’s so much pure panic rushing through me that I’m honestly surprised I don’t just pass out.
Somehow, I don’t, though.
I lift his head up and tilt the bottle to his lips so he can drink. He manages a sip.
The fingers of his good hand grip my wrist.
“You can do it,” he says. “You can do anything. We both know you can.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up. He’s hyping me up to amputate two of his fingers. This is not real. It’s not happening.
His grip tightens.
“Please don’t let me die, Dyl,” he chokes out.
I nod.
The back of my throat burns, and he closes his eyes. I’m not sure if he’s still conscious or not.
I lean my forehead against his and just breathe.
I feel so nauseous I can barely walk.
Adrian staggers outside with my help and we lie him down by the fire I lit earlier. He flits in and out of consciousness. I sharpen the knife against a rock as best as I can. We’ve done it lots of times during our stay on this island.
I’ve never hated a place more in my life.
I tried to wait. His hand is only getting worse.
The fever is so high it feels like his skin is on fire, except for the two fingers that feel ice cold to the touch.
The skin is shredded, missing in some parts, and there are bone fragments sticking out from the mangled mess.
By now, spreading redness is streaking up his arm.
I sterilize the knife, first by holding the blade in the fire, then by scrubbing it with the antiseptic ointment.
I’m shaking like a leaf when I approach Adrian.
He blinks at me slowly.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Shut up,” I whisper through tears that I then dash away. I take a huge breath and kneel down next to him.
My hands are shaking so badly I think I’m rattling his bones.
“Hey, Dyl?” he says.
I look at him.
“Did—” He swallows hard. “Did you hear about the guy giving away dead batteries?”
I stare at him, not understanding anything.
“Dyl,” he says, “they were free of charge.”
I wipe the snot and tears off my face and force a watery smile.
“Your sense of humor is getting worse.”
“Take off my fingers or I’ll tell you more jokes.”
I draw in a big breath. “That’s all the motivation I need.”
I close my eyes and breathe out.
I take the two fingers in my hand, and I bend them back. I apply my whole body weight until I hear a pair of sickening cracks.
And then I pick up the knife.
For the rest of my days, I will never stop wondering how the fuck it takes him so long to start screaming.