by Hagen, Layla
"My fever will kill me anyway," I say. Tristan's hand freezes in mid-air, his knuckles turning white. "Let's not pretend, Tristan, just this one time."
"I can't… I don't want to think like this, Aimee. There is still a chance they will reach us in time."
"Tristan." His name spills out my lips with urgency. I want to say it as often as I can in the time I have left. "We both know even if that happens, the hike to the helicopter will take too long. I'll never survive."
He flinches hard. I shouldn't have been so blunt. I'm the one who’s accepted my death after all. He hasn't.
"I'm sure they have medicine with them," Tristan says. That has to be true. But my blood poisoning needs more than what a mobile arsenal can carry. No, what I need can only be found in a hospital. But his tone is so hopeful there's no doubt he's not faking it. This is not good. The sooner he lets go of hope and accepts truth, the better—the faster he'll recover when the inevitable happens. I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure how to put this in words. I can't find it in myself to break him. I don't know what's crueller: letting him hope, or robbing the hope from him.
As if guessing what's on my mind, he presses his lips to mine, and no more words slip out. He sits next to me, and I melt in his kiss, losing myself in his taste and warmth, allowing my skin to tingle with need for him, and my body to soak up his proximity. My hands roam his body, driven by a will of their own—they caress his hard abdomen, the sharp ridges of his hipbones, and travel all the way to his back. He has become so thin. His hands travel over me with equal intensity. There's no restraint in his touch anymore. Since I was bitten, he's restrained, as if he's afraid his kisses or touch might break me. But not now. I revel in the feeling. His passion burns away every thought and worry. Like a balm, it runs through the cracks that have splintered me these last few days in which I tried to keep my pain hidden from him.
"You're everything to me, you know that? You always will be," he whispers against my lips. Tendrils of reality raze at me at the word always, but I push them away. I don’t want to bring reality up this very second. I refuse to lose what is mine for certain—the present—by worrying over a future I have no control over.
"Always?" I ask in a playful tone. "That's a serious statement right there."
He gazes at me with warm eyes. "Always. I would marry you in a heartbeat and take care of you until we're both old, wrinkly, and nagging. I'd brew you coffee every morning and hold you tightly in my arms every night. It would be a privilege to watch you fall asleep every night. I can't imagine anything more beautiful and fulfilling than growing old next to you and taking care of you. Always loving you."
My heart skips a beat at the impossible beauty of his words. "Tristan, I…" Words fail me, as usual.
"Would you say yes?" His eyes search mine with chilling urgency, and he inches closer to me. I feel the caress of his warm breath on my lips. "Would you marry me if we were in another place, and I could give you a big wedding, like the one you always dreamed of?"
I push him away, playfully. "No way."
His breath hitches, pain shadowing his gaze. I didn't come off as playful. "I wouldn't want a big wedding," I continue, "I'd want a small, intimate one."
"Yeah?" The corners of his lips tug upwards in a smile. "After which you'd run away to solve a big case."
I frown. "I wouldn’t want to solve cases anymore, or be a lawyer."
"Really?"
"No, I… I'd want to do something else."
"There's a good chance I'd reconsider piloting for a living."
"You, sir, would never get on a plane again. Ever." I kiss him, pulling him closer to me. "You could give that doctor thing a try."
"Nah, I'm too old," he whispers when we break off.
"You are twenty-eight. That is in no way old."
"So you would marry me?"
"I would."
"You said wouldn't want a big wedding… how would you like our wedding to be? Where would you want it to be?"
I lay my head on his chest, trying to envision what that day would look like. "Hmm, somewhere outside, with just a few close friends attending. To be honest, I'd love it if it was just the two of us, but I know a few people who wouldn't forgive me for not inviting them. I'd like to wear a simple dress and be surrounded by lots of flowers, exotic ones like the ones here, if we could get them." After a pause I add, "And I'd like to get one of those tattoos you said natives do."
Tristan tilts my chin up until I look at him. He's grinning. "I thought you found it barbaric."
"Because at the time I didn't understand what it meant to want to give yourself to someone completely. I do now." He pulls me up to him. I wish he wouldn't, because a tear has found its way down my cheek, and I want to hide it. Tristan catches it with his thumb, glancing at it stricken.
"Aimee," he whispers, and in this moment, all I can think of is what a privilege it is to hear him say my name, and how very few times I have to enjoy the luxury of hearing him say it. I hate it. Most of all, I hate there will never be a wedding. I'll never stay next to him in white, exchanging vows. The longing to do that hits me fast, and so hard it wipes the air from my lungs. If I could have one last wish granted, it would be to do that. I don't understand why it's suddenly so important, but it would give me the peace I lost when I realized I won't make it out of here. When Tristan looks at me, he reads my thoughts. I see he wants to reassure me that it's not true, that I'll have lots of time—months, years—to hear him say my name. But now I'm the one who doesn't let him say anything. To silence him, I press my mouth to his, allowing his lips to envelop me with that wonderful power they have to wipe away every thought. I'm glad we had this conversation. I know how important it was to him. When you are healthy you think you have all eternity to say what matters. When you're sick you learn how to live every moment, and how to make every moment matter. How sad that we learn this when we're about to run out of time. I would have never told him this if I were healthy. Embarrassment and inhibition have always kept me from expressing my deepest desires, hopes, and thoughts. I guess in a way, I cannot consider my illness a complete curse.
We break apart, gasping for air, and then he wraps me in a tight embrace, kissing my forehead. "Well, if you want to be surrounded by lots of exotic flowers, we'd better pack a handful of them when we leave this place," he says jokingly. Then he leaps to his feet. I pull myself up straighter, my heart hammering a million miles an hour as I look around, trying to find what alerted him. I don't see anything that could pose a threat.
"We could do it here," he says.
"Do what here?" I ask blankly.
"Get married." He cups my face in his hands. "There are more than enough flowers, and you have a white dress. The one you didn't want to wear because it was too long. Kind of hard to get rings, but we could do without them for now. We have some of those spines with coloring sap," he says, pointing to the stack of spines he plucked from the bird. "We can use them for the tattoos. What do you say?" I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, fighting tears. He can’t possibly understand how much this means to me.
"Cold feet already so soon after saying yes? What do you say, Aimee?" he beckons me to answer.
"I'd love that," I whisper.
He presses his lips on my forehead. "I'll sneak out to bring some flowers…"
"No way. I've memorized all the flowers on the inside of the fence anyway. I'll just imagine we have them here."
"I'll help you change in your white dress after I change. Or do you want to me to help you before?"
"No, no… I'll change on my own."
"But you can't—”
"Please, Tristan. I'd like to do this myself."
"All right."
He goes inside the cockpit, a feeling fluttering in my stomach. Since I can barely move, I crawl to my suitcase, gritting my teeth as pain sears my leg with even the lightest movement. I refuse to look at my leg and put on the white dress with dark blue lace, thankful for its length. I'll ha
ve to make sure it doesn't slide sideways, revealing my leg. That would be a definite mood-killer. I comb my hair, letting it fall on my back. It feels strange after the months I've worn it in a bun. I find the makeup bag I stuffed at the bottom of the suitcase when we first made an inventory of what we had. I forgot I had it. I open it, and in the small mirror on the inside of the cap, I see my reflection and gasp. I look horrible, like someone sucked the life out of me. My skin is a sickly pale color. I must have lost far more weight than I thought, because my cheekbones are very prominent. They make the deep, dark circles under my eyes look even more haunting. I sigh, biting my lip. I wish Tristan could remember me beautiful. It's a silly wish to have right now, but I don't care. He has enough ugly memories.
I eye the makeup bag. Maybe I can work with this, though I doubt any amount of makeup can make me look beautiful now. My spirits lift a tad as I start applying makeup. The fluttering feeling becomes more intense, filling me more and more as I apply concealer under my eyes, and put a light blush on my cheeks. By the time I smear lipstick on my lifeless lips, I'm certain I will burst with excitement. The image in the mirror gradually becomes alive. By the time I'm done, I'm far from beautiful, but I no longer look like a corpse. It takes me forever to crawl back to my seat. After pondering for a few seconds whether this is the best place to sit, I crawl to the space in front of the door. We'll have more room here. I'm attempting to clean the spot by pushing aside the remnants of thread Tristan uses to tie the end of the arrows, when an idea strikes me. I put some of the thread between my fingers and weave it in a surprise for Tristan. When he comes out of the cockpit, I hide my secret behind my back. My breath catches. He's wearing his uniform with a freshly washed, white shirt underneath.
"Wow. You look beautiful, Aimee."
My face warms as his gaze rakes over me, drinking me in. "Thank you." I check whether the dress covers my hurt leg. “So do you."
"I had a tie somewhere, but can't find it. Why are you holding your hands behind your back?"
"None of your business," I say cheekily.
"What are you hiding?" He grins, and takes a step toward me, trying to peek behind my back. I jerk, pressing my elbow on my hurt leg. I wince from the pain, and Tristan's grin drops. I force a smile on my face, even though the pain is so sharp that my eyes begin to water. "Shhh, don't look. It's a surprise. Go find your tie."
He looks at my covered leg, but I shake my head, smiling. "Go find it, before I change my mind about marrying you." The second he's out of sight I let my pain out through gritted teeth. There is a blood stain on my dress from where I pressed on my leg. I don't dare look under my dress. I rearrange the dress so the stain isn't visible.
Tristan takes forever, and I begin to wonder if something happened to him, or if he changed his mind, when he comes out. His tie in place, I don't think I have ever loved him more than when he sits in front of me, saying, "Ready to be mine forever?"
I smile. "Ready."
He takes my hands. "I haven't prepared any elaborate vows, but I… I would love for you to be my wife. It will be a privilege to love you more every day. I will not take your love for granted, but give you new reasons to fall in love with me every day. I will learn all the ways to make you smile and make sure the only kind of tears you spill are ones of happiness."
A knot forms in my throat, and when Tristan indicates it's my turn to speak, I chuckle.
"You hadn't prepared any vows, huh?" I whisper, searching for words, but only finding tears. He spoke so beautifully of a future we won't have.
"Hey, we can skip your vows and go straight to the kiss."
"No, you can't kiss me yet," I say.
At his puzzled expression, I bring out my hands from behind my back and hold them out to him. In my palm are two gray rings woven out of thread. He puts one between his fingers, and for a moment seems unable to speak.
"You like them?" I ask nervously. "I just wanted us to have something resembling rings—”
"They're perfect."
He's the first to push the ring on my finger, and I hold my breath, my whole body shaking with fulfilling, exhilarating happiness. As I push the larger ring on his finger, I see the thread has started to rot away already. The ring will wither away before long. Just like me. Perhaps it's a good thing. No permanent reminder of me. This way, he can recover quicker after I’m gone. Tristan's lips clash against mine when I secure the ring on his finger. His kiss isn't gentle or restrained like the ones grooms give their brides. He cups my head in his palms, his tongue ravaging mine. He kisses me like he knows he doesn't have many kisses left.
Afterward I ask, "Can you bring the spines?"
"Just a sec." He places the pile of spines on one of the old magazines I must have re-read at least ten times. My vision is so blurry it’s hard to distinguish one letter from the other on the magazine cover. That's when I know my fever is impossibly high. My heart pounding in my throat, I focus harder on the letters. A stream of hot tears bursts down my cheeks. I hope he thinks it's from emotion.
"Should I do yours first?" Tristan asks.
"Absolutely."
"How about I put the first letter of my name?”
"No. I want your whole name. It's beautiful."
"Are you sure?"
I nod.
"All right. Here we go."
While Tristan puts the dripping tip of the spine on my upper arm, I study his features. The arch of his brows, the curl of his long lashes, his lips. I want to memorize every detail about him, while I can still see through the blurs. Feeling the spine on my skin doesn't hurt at all. It gives me a giddy feeling of completion that is replaced by horror when Tristan puts another spine in my hand, saying, "Your turn. I want to get your whole name, too."
"No," I say, terrified. "Why not just the first letter or something else? You said natives use symbols sometimes…"
"I want us to match. Go on," he beckons, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing his upper arm. I mentally curse as I write my name on his skin. I shouldn't have brought tattooing up. A permanent reminder of my name is the last thing he needs. I only want him to remember how I made him feel. Nothing more.
I feel dizzy when I finish, and lie on the floor, with my head in his lap. I close my eyes as he threads his fingers through my hair. Each movement of his fingers, each breath seems to last an eternity. I no longer resent I won't have more time for moments like this. In fact, I no longer feel like I am out of time.
When you are on the brink of the great unknown, when you're so close to the edge of the abyss you can almost bite into the darkness, time acquires something of a magical quality to it. You start measuring time in seconds, and all of a sudden, each second lasts forever.
Death has its beauty.
It makes you see the eternity in every second; it makes you see every moment’s perfection instead of searching an eternity for the perfect moment.
Time moves differently—beautifully—for those who only have smidgens of it left. But there is no beauty in death for those left behind. When I open my eyes, I find Tristan looking at me. I try to avoid it, because there is no mistaking the pain in his eyes. I know that pain. I remember how it felt to watch over him, thinking how lucky he was for being the one who got to leave first, and how unlucky I was to be the one left behind. I am the lucky one now. The fever exhausts me, and I soon have to fight to keep my eyes open.
"I love you, Aimee," Tristan whispers. "So much." Cracks shatter his voice, finding their way deep into him. I know how those cracks feel. When he was sick, they splintered me too, in that terrifying way only pain can. Now I’m too weak to move, there is no pretending. Nowhere to run from the truth. Or in my case, the end.
In a blur, I raise my hand, touching his cheek. I find tears on it. Lowering my hand on his chest, I realize he's shaking.
He's losing it.
I'm glad the fever is tampering with my vision, because I can't see him like this. Not when I know there is nothing I can do to alleviate the p
ain of this man who has given me so much.
"I love you too," I say in a weak whisper. He hugs me to his chest. Despite the fact that I am barely aware of my surroundings, the rhythm of his heartbeats reaches me. Clear and loud. They sound like scattered fragments of hopes and dreams. With a shift that claims my very last drops of energy, I push myself up to meet his lips, hoping I can transfer some of my peace to him.
As I feel the warmth of his lips, I become greedy. Suddenly, an eternity is not enough, and his cracks become mine. The fragments slashing at him slash at me too, until tears stream on my cheeks as well, mingling with his. The fervor of our lips is not enough to build a shield around us. Inside it, we would be protected from the truth.
I give myself completely to him with this kiss, like I have with all the kisses before. Every kiss, caress, and word of his has claimed a part of me; now I belong more to him than to myself. One stolen kiss, one gifted smile, one shared memory at a time.
There is no wedding night because, still lying in Tristan's arms, I succumb to the fever. A heavy sleep overcomes me the moment I close my eyes. After that, days and nights morph into an endless spiral of pain and despair. My body shuts down systematically. Tristan tries to feed me, but my throat forgets how to swallow. My whole body rejects food. Soon, it starts rejecting water too, though it needs it. Oh, so much. I can feel myself cremating from the inside, scorching away until there is a bitter taste of ash in my mouth. And then comes the moment when I feel no hunger or thirst. I know I'm in real trouble when I can't even feel the pain anymore. What grounds me to the world is the intake of air—a whiff of forest air or the smell of Tristan's skin, indicating he's nearby.
I start praying for my body to reject the air, too, along with everything else. Tristan talks to me, but I can't make sense of his words. Of course, that could just be my imagination; maybe Tristan is not talking to me at all, too weak from hunger, or hurt by the jaguars. But if it's a mirage, I'll gladly stick to it.
I know my brain has succumbed to madness when I start hearing voices. Lots of them. Frantic and loud. I try to ignore them at first, because hearing voices in my head is not a dignified way to leave this world. But then I start paying attention. I recognize more than one voice. For the first time, I become aware that at least one part of my body is still functioning: my heart. It slams against my ribcage, reminding me I'm still alive.
