Page 57 of So Thirsty

It’s hard to see, my vision distorted as if I’m looking through a lava lamp. It’s dizzying, and I lose my footing, slip and fall into the snow.

Then I see. The footprints veer into the woods.

There are two of them now. Two sets of footprints.

Is she disciplined? Can she practice self-restraint?

No. No.

No no no no no no no.

I get back up, spitting snow from my mouth that tastes like sour milk, and I run, following the footprints into the woods. The trees are naked, but there are so many of them that it doesn’t make it any easier to navigate through them, and the steep incline of the hill doesn’t help either.

I’m out of breath, but it’s not because of physical exertion, or because I’ve been calling for Naomi. It’s because of what’s lingering in my throat. The strange sensation. The thirst. It’s dry but it’s gluey. It’s steady but it’s growing. I force myself to cough again.

I can fight through it. I can ignore it until it goes away.

No, you can’t, says a voice in my head that sounds like me but also like Henry.

I remember blood in the snow.

There’s blood in the snow, coloring the footprints.

No no no no no no no.

What did you think was going to happen next? says the voice. Don’t you understand? This is your life now.

The ground flattens and I come to a small clearing, where I find Naomi, crouched in red snow. Her back is to me. She doesn’t turn around when I call her. She’s in the middle of something. I hear it. A slurping, a sucking. The ugliest sound.

I’m afraid to approach her. I didn’t think I was in denial; I thought I’d accepted the circumstances, but how could I possibly? How could I digest the death of my humanness? The death of Naomi’s. How could I grieve what I didn’t fully understand?

The pang in my throat goes nuclear.

I want to fall to the ground and lap up the blood from the snow.

But I won’t. I won’t. I bury the want, and I take a step toward Naomi.

I pause. If I don’t move, if I just keep myself in a sort of stasis, if I don’t look, maybe I won’t have to confront it. Maybe I’m past pretending, but I’m not ready to submit to what’s next. It’s too big and too scary.

A violent gurgling echoes through the trees. It’s Naomi. Her shoulders jut up past her ears, and she starts to shake, to twitch.

I run to her.

Her long, dark hair curtains her face. Blood drips down, through her fingers. She’s holding something. Something I’m relieved isn’t a person, or from a person.

The relief is fleeting.

It’s a rabbit.

She’s got a dead rabbit in her mouth. She’s not looking at me. She might not even be able to see me. Her eyes are glazed over, staring raptly at nothing.

She gurgles again, and then spits, spraying the ground with little grayish bits floating in viscous red globs.

Bones. Inedible parts.

All of a sudden, she lets the rabbit drop and she keels over, landing hard on her side. She starts groaning, and it reminds me of the skeleton man, of what he sounded like. She doesn’t sound good. She sounds sick.

I fall in front of her. “Naomi?”