Page 4 of Her Scarred Heart
Why did he talk to me? Why?
Nadiya’s screech still echoes in my thoughts. There is no escaping it because it’s the perfect counterpoint to my life. It is what I’ve become. A horror show. Why anyone wants me around I do not know. Who am I kidding? They don’t. No one talks to me. I don’t want them to because all they have for me is sympathy. The one thing I don’t want.
That’s why he did it. He feels sorry for me. I’ve heard them talking about how kind the Zmaj are. That’s all it was, an act of kindness born out of sympathy.
As the truth clicks into place I push off the bed and grab my thin jumper. The knees are so worn that they won’t hold together much longer. At some point, we’re going to have to figure out how to manufacture clothes. Which means we’ll need cloth, but how do we make cloth? Anyone have a bright idea for turning sand into cloth?
I pull the zipper up to the top, tug at the collar until it feels a little more comfortable, then leave my room. As I enter the hall I keep my head bowed and my hair dangling. The others move around me engaged in their conversations and lives. None of them give me a glance which is a relief. The worst mornings are the ones when I hear them whispering. It always makes me even tenser than I usually am.
It's early enough that the halls are not overly crowded. I join the flow towards the mess hall, staying close to the wall. Picking up a tray I select my rations for the day, avoiding the meat. It smells incredible and I really want to try it, but I know from experience the pain of trying to chew it. Best to stick with soft foods, easier by far.
A meager selection on my tray I stare through my bangs searching the edges of the room for an empty table. In the far corner, where the overhead lights are no longer working I spot one. I edge around the room and settle into the seat with my back to the wall.
I tear off a piece of bread, mush it between my fingers, then slip it into my mouth. I chew on one side only, taking care to only make small motions with my jaw. It keeps the pain minimal. Or as minimal as it ever is.
Eating is a chore. One I dread every meal. Often I will only eat two meals per day if only to avoid the discomfort that it brings. My biggest problem is deciding which meal to skip because sometimes there aren’t many soft options. I work another piece of bread and insert it.
“Good morning.”
I stare at the tray and focus on chewing. I’m always aware of the conversations happening around me but I try to never appear interested. I don’t want to be an eavesdropper, though I know I am. It’s the only way I keep abreast of what’s happening among the survivors since I avoid talking to anyone directly.
Someone sets what looks like a purple-ish leaf that has a very slight luminescent glowing effect on the table in front of my tray. The hand, which I see through the curtain of my bangs, is large with sharp claws and scales that dust across the back of it. My shoulder muscles tense so tight it hurts and it’s all I can do to not retch the pain is so fast and so intense. I stare at the leaf and at the hand that placed the plant there as it slowly retreats from my line of sight.
“Good morning,” Provyd says again.
I know it’s him. I recognize his voice, sure, but I also recognize his hand. The dusky sand color of his scales edged with a soft, almost neon green tint. I blink rapidly trying to clear my eyes and make them focus. The leaf continues to emit a very faint glowing effect as it lies curling on itself in front of my tray.
My throat and mouth are dry. I try to speak because I know that is what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t have any words. I have to wonder if my voice really works most of the time I use it so rarely. My stumbling moronic statements yesterday served only as further proof that I might have lost the ability to converse along with my looks.
I swallow the piece of bread in my mouth and it feels as if it sticks halfway down my esophagus. I cough, trying to force my throat clear. My hair parts and I catch a glimpse of him standing in front of my table, so straight and tall. His bare stomach is a washboard of abs with delightful scales refracting the artificial light into tiny rainbows that make him appear as if he might be a magical being.
One come to torment me.
The bread finally clears my throat and drops into my stomach with all the weight of a rock. I take a sip of the recycled water, all while continuing to stare at the leaf.
“What is this?” I ask.
It hurts to speak, my throat is raw from the recent choking as well as the tugging on the scars of my face.
“Epis,” he says. “For you.”
Epis. The magic plant everyone has been talking about? But there isn’t enough for everyone yet. The Zmaj are harvesting it, but there are a lot of us.
“Me?” I ask, my voice trembles as a new round of unbidden tears builds behind my eyes making my head throb.
“Of course,” he says. He leans over, placing his hands on the edges of the table, coming in closer. I recoil. Not out of fear of him, but for him. No one should have to look at the horror show my face has become. “You eat. Is tasty. Will help.”
He speaks softly, almost a whisper. The intimacy of his words is like the soft caress of a lover's fingers stroking my skin. A feathery touch, distantly remembered.
“For me?”
Idiot. He already answered that.
He did and I know it, but I can’t get past the idea of it. When was the last time someone gave me something? I can’t remember. And why would they?
“Yes,” he says, standing up again and pulling himself out of my space.
A sense of emptiness fills the hole that was only just filled by him. I lean forward, into that gaping space, wishing he hadn’t pulled back. Which is stupid. Of course he did. Did he see me through my hair? Or did he only remember the sight of what I really look like since he had a full view yesterday when he caught me?
