38
THE POISONER
Every part of me was limp. My body sank into the cloud of a mattress, the sheets at least slightly cool against my skin as I was caressed by the pillows and blankets.
The pain had either left, or the medicine had destroyed my nerves, or my body had stopped responding to any stimulus altogether.
Any feeling was touch and go between pain and numbness.
Every movement was labor, especially when avoiding expelling in bed. Even if I did, I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t just lie there in it.
A fetal position with the blankets up to my chin was the only way I could fade into light sleep.
The crack of morning light coming through the curtains somehow was still too bright for my swimming head.
Everything was in such a haze and all I could do was be still and rot directly into the place I slept.
My throat was so dry that I thought I’d choke on my own larynx, yet I was too weak to even ask for water.
There was soft whispering at the entrance.
Finally . . .
I could smell peonies. Gentle enough not to nauseate me, but recognizable enough to know it was my Phoebe without opening my eyes.
The bed dipped beside me, the blankets moving as she tucked herself under the sheets. Her hands cupped mine. They were so much colder than my own. Like ice in my palm.
I managed a deeper inhale despite the uncomfortable crackle in my lungs. The ease that washed over me was so great, I could weep if I had any water left in me.
Even with my eyes closed, I could imagine the scene. The golden light and quiet room, the flash of strawberry-blond hair on my pillow beside me. The green of her eyes like jewels and a smile just as glittering.
It was the comfort of childhood again. The excitement of being so close, not a worry outside of whatever fantastical make-believe game we invented as we went. The restfulness after a day of childish adventure.
I could hear her breathing so softly. When I was forced to inhale, all I could smell were the florals and baked sugar. I forgot that I could no longer taste such things, but my mind still remembered them. I felt her cold forehead against mine.
We were so close, in flesh and in soul. Every breath against our skin, inhale and exhale, every pulse of the heart.
She was still beside me.
I tipped my head, swearing I felt her lips on mine. It only brought a weak smile. Our noses brushed against one another, so brief, so hesitant. With parted lips, I pressed them to hers. She tasted so sweet. A new scent of almonds, her hair perfumed like pollen.
I tasted her lips again, the sweetness overwhelming enough to tickle my nose and make my eyes water. My heart trumpeted like a wild rabbit, quicker and quicker, I didn’t know if it was even my own.
The sickness that plagued me was forgotten as easily as a memory. The bliss melted the fog from my mind, the taste like mist burning away with the dawn.
I wrapped my arms around her, laying my head against her shoulder.
“You are so dear to me,” I whispered, “you know that, don’t you?”
I opened my eyes, the light more bearable as my senses came back to me, but I was distracted by something else.
Wetness on my face felt so good, a broken fever.
I tipped my face into the crook of her neck.
Black smeared the skin as I turned my head.
My mind cleared when I realized the moments leading to this may have entirely been in my delirious half-dream state.
“Phoebe?”