Page 19 of Awry
“Take the car,” I say, closing my eyes, because even clouded over, the sky is too bright.The rain has picked up.I’m soaked in it, which is a bit of a blessing, I suppose, because it’s got to be washing some of the blood off.
I’m going to be pissed about my broken sunglasses.
After I get the dying part over with.
I lose a bit more time, becoming aware of Presh chanting, “No, no, no!”over and over again.She sobs between the words as she presses something against my guts.
Her sweater.
Without it, she’s wearing only a thin tank top and underwear.I turn my head just enough that I can see she’s still got the wad of twenties tucked into her panties.
Good.
“You need to go,” I say, forcing the words out of my mouth.“Two possibilities and one certainty are about to happen.”I can’t move my legs or arms, but I can still feel that I’m stirring the essences of fate with my words.I don’t want to be doing that.But what was the point of dragging Presh out of the cafe if I don’t get her to safety?
“I … I don’t think I should move you,” Presh says.
It’s not totally clear to me, but I guess I stop talking for a bit, because suddenly Presh is sobbing again and asking, “What possibilities, Zaya?What possibilities?”over and over.
“It’s never taken me so long to die before.”I choke on blood, then spit up a mouthful.
“What?!”Presh cries.
“Never mind, take the car.”
“It crashed.”
“It will work.”
“I can’t drive stick!”
“You’ll sort it out.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I say so.”
“That’s not an actual reason!”Presh is either screaming or my hearing has become overly sensitive.
Why is this death unlike any others I’ve experienced?Is it my inheritance?
Or … is this death … final?
Is something bigger and greater than me screwing with my own fate?
I’ve only been the Conduit for three weeks, and I slept for most of the first week just to absorb the onslaught.Maybe my connection, that connection, is still too weak, too tenuous yet, to pull me back from this level of trauma?
Presh bends over me.I think she’s trying to shield my face from the rain with her body, but she presses too hard on my torn-asunder guts, and I can’t hold back a strangled scream.
“Sorry, sorry,” she whispers.
“Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“You really aren’t.”
“Please, Zaya.You … you promised.”
