Page 10 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I move up to his eye, my fingers throbbing as I feel the pulse of pain radiating from his skin. I sit still, all my focus on him, waiting as the swelling subsides. I rub a soft brush packed with yarrow around his bruised eye, and he inhales sharply.
I feel it in the air between us. Feelhimin the air.
He believes in me. Not just that, he’s in awe of my power. His gratitude makes me believe I can do this.
It reminds me I have to.
The boy comes to life, stirring in the depth of my mind.“You don’thaveto do anything.”
I try to ignore him, gently nudging him back into the corners of my thoughts—the only place he’s ever lived.
“Not now.”I turn back to the real world, away from him.
When I move to Azaire’s ribs, I lose confidence. This is no easy task. I feel around them, avoiding the tender areas, and I rip my hands away when I nearly touch skin, feeling the pain peak.
It hurts to breathe.
I hold my breath.
His chest constricts. He, too, is trying not to breathe.
The room seems to stop as he reaches for my hand. Something he’s done before—something I want. I pull my hand away with a gasp. My breath is ragged, dizzying.
“It’s okay,” Azaire says. He’s taking deep breaths now. It’s hurting him, but he’s trying to be calm. Forme. “I believe in you.”
I must look very scared for him to stop me and say that.
“You do,”the boy responds to my thought.
I’ve always known I was easy to read. It’s the first thing I remember hearing as a child—that I was so expressive, despite me never purposefully expressing myself. Always worried about being a problem, fearing someone’s reaction to me. Fearing doing the wrong thing, angering, annoying, pestering someone else.
You’re so expressive, Little Thorn,my family would say. I hated that nickname, and perhaps if I were a little more expressive, I could’ve said as much. But what people call me isn’t mine to change, only mine to take, much like their feelings—and the ones they have towardmeare the most debilitating.
Yet Azaire has only ever thought the best.
“Okay.” I look away from him, then look right back. “Okay.”
I rub my hands together, cracking my joints, suddenly hyper aware of the fresh air on my clammy, gloveless skin.
Another painful breath. I place my hands just above Azaire’s ribs. Close my eyes. Do not make contact at any cost. Sometimes that helps me escape the world. I ask the wound to heal. And ask again. And beg.Willit to heal. Force the life within me to mend the life within him. My energy dwindles, escaping faster than when I mend someone’s emotions.
This, in the grand scheme of things, is far more dire.
I repeat Azaire’s words.I believe in you. I believe in you. I believe in you.
“I believe in you, too,”the boy says, voice gentle.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tighter.
“Wendy?”
I don’t open my eyes. “Yes?”
“You can open your eyes.”
At his request, I do. Azaire’s complexion has returned to his usual olive. He looks better. Still bruised, but better.
The moment I feel the smallest iota of success, the rest of the room fills me. Stab wounds, bruises, Eunoia who fear they won’t heal their “volunteer.”
