My eyes flutter open.
The room is dark and warm, and my thoughts swim and mush together as I try to pick up on something familiar. Dark shapes surround me—taunting me, almost—and making my heart pound in my chest. The moon shining on the opposite wall is my only light source, from what I can tell. I try to move, but every muscle burns in pain. Well maybe not
every
muscle; I’ve always been a drama queen.
I close my eyes an
d take deep breaths as I ground myself in the room. A soft beeping to my left, a soft beeping to my right, a tick of a clock. My breath, in and out, in and out, in and out.
A pretty woman
with light green eyes, which in the darkness remind me of cat eyes, the dim lighting reflecting from them and making them almost glow. She has brown hair tied back into a low ponytail, which falls onto her shoulder as she leans over me and smiles. Even in the dark, her face is soothing and I know I have nothing to fear from her. She pulls out a needle and injects it into an IV line, and within a few moments I feel the world growing hazy and I go numb and slip back to sleep.
*
I open my eyes and look across at the man called James. He’s still sleeping. He sleeps a lot; his wound was much worse than mine. The bitch called Rachel comes to see him often. She doesn’t talk and she doesn’t look my way. It’s almost like she blames me for her being so trigger-happy. Go figure that shit out.
Lucky me, guess I
made a new friend, as usual. Thank God she’s not here today, but Becky—my sort-of nurse—is. She smiles at me and heads back out of the room carrying various things.
“Nina.”
I look up as Emily comes in, Alek following closely behind her. She rushes to my bedside, smiling, and leans over and kisses my forehead. I roll my eyes at her with a smile. She knows I can’t fight her off right now, and she’s taking full advantage of that fact.
“Get off me and h
elp me with my pillows,” I say through dry lips.
I sit up slowly and she
comes around and plumps them. I shuffle backwards as she passes me some water, and I take huge, greedy gulps of it. I can reach it for myself, but I keep forgetting to. Time seems to have stopped for the last couple of days, and I’ve finally had the time I wanted to sit and think and process everything that’s happened without worrying that someone is going to come in and torture me, or deaders are going to burst in. It feels like I’m in some sort of limbo. Though my gunshot was a straight through and through, and it was only my shoulder so nothing vital was hit, I lost a lot of blood on the way here.
We made it to the army base
, but this isn’t quite how I expected to make it. I mean, I at least expected to make it here on my own two feet and not flung over Mikey’s shoulder like an animal carcass. I shiver and pull the covers tighter around me.
“How are you feeling?” Emily asks, perching herself on the edge of my bed
and looking at me with concern.
“Better,
” I croak out. I touch my shoulder tentatively. “It’s definitely getting better.”
“Couldn
’t have gotten much worse.” She shrugs. “Could it, Alek?”
He nods, looking
uncomfortable. He always does whenever he visits me—I’m guessing he was one of those types that hates hospitals and doctors—but he seems to follow Emily wherever she goes.
“Maybe
.” I look across at James. “How’s he doing?”
“They think he
’ll be fine. The bullet hit some important stuff, but he’s pulled through the worst of it,” Alek says seriously, frowning at the prone body of James.
I sigh. “He seemed really nice. I feel like a real bitch, like this was all my fault.”
“It was that blonde chick’s fault, not yours. She shouldn’t be so eager to shoot innocent people,” Emily grumbles.
“Whatever, it
’s done now, and that Becky woman says it was just a graze. Nothing too serious.” I bite down on my lip. My shoulder hurts like a bitch, and sure as hell doesn’t feel like nothing serious, but I don’t want Emily knowing that. “What’s this place like?”
“T
his place is great.” She waves a hand around, but she’s still pouting. “Isn’t it?” she looks up to Alek who nods and takes a steadying breath, looking like he wants to run far from this room. “You can go,” she laughs. “I’ll be fine. I know you have other things to do and I’ll be here for a while.”
“You sure?” h
e asks, already kissing her on the forehead. She nods and he waves goodbye and practically jogs out of the room.
I can’t help but smirk and turn my attention back to Emily. “
Mikey definitely had the right idea by coming here, smartass.”
“Definitely,” s
he agrees.
It looks like this place was set
up as a safe spot at one point and equipped with all sorts of luxuries that we haven’t been used to in a long time: showers with hot water, food—and not just MRE packs but real luxuries like chocolate cookies, and more importantly, safety. I haven’t had the chance to experience most things yet, thanks to the stupid gunshot in the shoulder, but I’m definitely attempting a shower today, and perhaps a chocolate cookie or two. Okay, definitely two.
Of course the medical equipment is what saved both
me and James—well, and Becky, of course. Emily told me how she helped Becky stitch me up, not even thinking about all the blood. She seems happy, and eager to learn, and Becky seems happy to have someone to help her—someone who wants to be here. They make a great little team.
“Well, I
’m hoping that you’re here to help me get out of bed. I want a shower and some food, and then I want to see this place for myself. I might need some help, though.”
Emily smiles
happily. “Sure.”
She
helps me up and out of bed, and carefully we make our way to some shower cubicles in another room, while she holds the back of my hospital gown together to hide my modesty. She helps me undress right down to my shabby, graying underwear, and I hear her gasp as she steps back, examining my body with a pained expression.
I look down
and see the scars and bruises across my body, marks from the fall, from fighting deaders, from fighting the Forgotten. Scars from surviving, I guess. I reach out, take her chin gently in my hand, and tilt her face up to mine.
“It
’s okay,” I whisper.
She looks at me with tears in her
eyes. “But, Nina…” Her hand reaches out and touches one of the deeper scars across my stomach, her finger tracing the jagged red line.
I smile at her. “I remember reading a quot
e once. It was something like
‘your body is not ruined, you’re a goddamn tiger who earned her stripes.’
These marks,” I take her hand in mine, “these are my stripes, Emily, and these are my proof that I survived.” I turn around, tears in my eyes. “They’re the proof that no matter what or who tried to kill me, tried to take away who I am, I survived it.” I turn back to her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiles back, her eyes warily gazing over the
burn marks on my thighs and the rings around my wrists. She looks back at me somewhat more satisfied, nods her head firmly, and steps back.
“The water doesn
’t stay hot for long. Do you need me to help wash your hair?” she asks.
“Help me untie it.
I should be able to do the rest.”
She does
as I ask and then she helps me to wrap Saran Wrap tightly over the top of the bandage on my shoulder. I wince—it stings like a bitch—but she does a good job of it.
“I
’ll be outside.” She turns to leave. “There’s some things for you near the sink.”
I take a minute to examine t
he array of bottles—shampoos and body washes of all different scents—before picking the ones I want. I strip out of my dirty underwear and turn on the shower. I stare mesmerized for a second or two. It all seems so surreal: showers, shampoos. I stand underneath the water as it pounds my body, the heat barely noticeable, yet it’s the most delicious and delectable feeling I’ve had for as far back as I can remember. I even sigh loudly.
The dirt pours
away from me in rivers of black and brown; lumps of things that I don’t even want to think about drain away. I try to keep my shoulder out of the water as much as possible, even though it’s wrapped in the Saran Wrap. I grab a bottle of shampoo with my good hand, squeeze a good amount on my head, and begin to scrub it into my scalp. I rub until my fingers feel sore, and then I tip my head back and rinse the dirty suds away, taking a second to delight in the feel of warm…
ish
water running over my body. I grab a second bottle and squeeze the creamy orange liquid onto my hand, and gently rub it over my bruised and battered body. I rub every curve, crack, and part of myself that I can find, and as the water turns an icy cold, I quickly wash away the dirty bubbles.
I still find it therapeutic,
even with the cold water, as if washing away the past couple of years will somehow make it easier. With every body part cleansed I feel better, stronger, and more like myself. Less a victim and more a warrior—perhaps truly believing the words I said to Emily.
When I can
’t take the cold any longer, I turn the shower off and wrap a towel around myself clumsily, making sure to dry my shoulder as I carefully unwrap the Saran Wrap from my bandage. It’s a little damp, and I’m sure Becky will flip out about it, but it’s not so bad. I step toward a mirror on the opposite side of the room and stare at my reflection. I’m almost unrecognizable from the woman I was before the apocalypse. I squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush that was left for me, and I scrub until all I can taste is blood mixed with mint. I struggle to brush my hair; the knots—even with the help of shampoo and conditioner—are huge, and I shout Emily in.
“What
’s up?” she asks as she comes in. I turn to her and she smiles. “Wow, you look so much better.”
“It
’s been a while since I’ve been clean,” I chuckle.
“It makes such a difference,” s
he says in amazement.
“
All right,” I grumble and frown. “I want some scissors: I need to cut this stupid hair,” I say firmly.
“I can help get the knots out.”
“No.” I turn back to the mirror. “I want to cut it. It’s too long for an apocalypse,” I say. “Never thought I’d say those words.” I lean over the sink, feeling tired and ready for some sleep, my body betraying me again. “Please, Em, get me some scissors.”
I sit on a stool
to rest and close my eyes as she goes to find some scissors. I feel myself ready to nod off, but she’s back before I’m fully gone. I yawn and stand, taking the scissors from her as I try and decide how much hair I want to cut away.
Right now it
’s waist length, though I haven’t worn it down for over a year, and so it’s a mass of dark knots. I hadn’t realized how long it had gotten, actually. I take a large handful of it, holding it shoulder height, and then realize that I can’t cut it and hold it at the same time because of the restricted movements in my shoulder. Emily comes over without saying anything and takes the scissors from me. She looks me in the eye and I nod once before she begins to cut away my hair. She grimaces with each snip of the metal, but me? I feel like I have a new lease on life. As if cutting away the matted dark hair allows me to breathe again.
A part of my past falls away with each snip of the scissor
s, and again I feel stronger, less who I was, less a bitch with an attitude because of what I’ve been through and more a bitch because I want to survive in this new world.
And then it hits me:
I
do
want to survive. I want to build a home and a community and not live day to day. I want to build the world back up from what it was, because this, right now, this isn’t living, this is existing. And the two things are very different.
And damn it
, I want to live.
*
I struggle back from the bathroom with Emily’s help, still wrapped in my towel, feeling more like myself than I have in days—hell, longer in fact. I feel stronger and ready to take on the world. When I get back to my room, James is snoring soundly and Mikey is sitting on the edge of my bed. He looks up as I come in, and smiles. His face looks handsome and more like the carefree man I met so many months ago.
“Hey you,
” I say as I sit down next to him, letting my feet trail to the floor. Emily smiles at me and heads out, whispering a goodbye.
“Hey.” He leans over and
tentatively kisses me on the cheek. “I like this.” He tugs on my hair gently and I smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. I
’d like to get dressed today, see this place a bit.” I stifle a yawn.
“If you think that you
’re up to it.” He smiles again. His face is clean and clear of his scratchy beard, but a five o’clock shadow starting to grow back. His hair is still long or long for him. It suits him, but I miss his shaved head too. The shaved head seems more the man he was, not this pretense of a man.