Eden Green

by Fiona van Dahl

  Tedrin lifts me off the seat a little, and my head falls back.

  —MY NECK—

  In the distance, in a world outside this level-20 agony, Tedrin curses under his breath. The car door slams, and a cool hand presses against my yowling mouth. Miraculously, another cradles the back of my head and lifts, until my neck is in a more comfortable position. The left side of my face is pressed to Tedrin’s shoulder, and I can stop screaming long enough to suck in anguished breaths.

  My eyes are squeezed shut, but I can feel every heavy step Tedrin takes. When we reach the stairs, he slows even more, taking them one at a time, exceedingly careful not to lose his balance. Ron keeps her hands on my mouth and the back of my head, whispering soothingly.

  We reach the door and Ron takes her hand from my mouth and fumbles for her keys. A turn in the lock. Her door pushes open with a long squeal, and Tedrin carries me inside.

  “The couch,” Ron instructs, shutting the door behind us and switching on a lamp.

  My eyes are open; I watch the ceiling as Tedrin carefully sets me down on the couch. Shapes swim in front of my eyes. I suck in a few deep breaths and manage, “Ron?”

  Tedrin disappears, and Ron kneels in his place and takes one of my hands. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”

  “Gon’ throw up.”

  “I’ll get a bowl.” She gets up and disappears.

  As far as I can tell, the needles have stopped growing for the moment. There’s a vine of them stretching from my neck to the fingertips of my left hand, and up into my skull and face. The more I think about them, the worse they hurt. I start to weep, and that starts up an awful burning in my nose, and then I’m stuck in a loop of sneezing and crying and sneezing and wailing and sneezing and screaming at the top of my lungs—

  Ron is beside me again, her hands on my arm. “Are you still going to throw—”

  “MAKE IT STOP, JESUS GOD!” It’s like someone else’s mouth is shrieking. Hot blood runs down my face from my nose.

  “When will this get better?” she demands, raising her voice to be heard over my wailing.

  “It could take hours, especially if she keeps fighting it.”

  I cry harder, digging my hands into the couch and wrenching hard enough to rip the fabric. “MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE!”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Tedrin snaps.

  Miles away, Ron says, “I’m not going to let her suffer. I’ll be back in a second.” The door opens and slams.

  For some strange reason, I expect Tedrin to take over comforting me, but when I reach out a shaking, claw-clenched hand, he’s nowhere beside me. I descend into a still-more grisly level of Hell, shrieking and writhing and shuddering out of control. My throat is going raw, and to my horror, more needles spike down into it to repair the damage.

  Several minutes or hours later, Ron is beside me again. “It’ll be better in a minute.”

  “Veronica,” Tedrin whispers, appalled. “What the hell is that?”

  “Bought it from my neighbor.” Something tightens around my upper left arm until my fingers start to tingle. “Can you hold her still?”

  Tedrin grips my left shoulder so firmly that I can’t move my arm. The rest of me still writhes, fingers buried in the couch cushion, mouth open in an unending wail.

  There’s a sharp prick on the inside of my elbow, and warmth spreads up and down my arm. Not the harsh heat of the needles, but a glow of life and comfort. Ron loosens the tight band around my upper arm and massages the spot to encourage blood flow.

  The warmth spreads into my chest and feels wonderful, but only when it reaches my neck does my screaming stop. I’m a little horrified by how good it feels; I had already given up hope of ever feeling like a human being again. I sob a few times, and my chest makes broken sounds, and then I’m sagging, gulping for air and sighing with relief. I open my eyes.

  Ron is watching me, eyes sad. “Better?”

  A soft, twilight euphoria slides over my brain like a nice blanket. “What is this?”

  “Don’t worry, just rest.”

  After a drifting eternity, she reappears beside me with a wet cloth and begins wiping tears and snot and blood from my face. Whenever she touches my burning lips and nose, the cool water is like a healing gift.

  “Veronica, what was that?” Tedrin whispers.

  Ron makes an uncomfortable noise. “I wanted oxycontin, but he was fresh out, and anyway, I’ve never injected it before. So I got the next best thing.”

  “Veronica.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Did you just give her heroin?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? Right?”

  I slowly realize that the question was aimed at me. I look at her frankly for a moment, then feel my face splitting in a smile. “Hey,” I whisper.

  “She’s fine.”

  “I don’t think she’ll appreciate you injecting her with—”

  “Yeah, well, you injected her with your horrible alien blood, so we’re both really bad friends.”

  He’s annoyed now. “Mine brought her back from the dead.”

  “And mine—” She holds up her hands. “Let’s not fight. Let’s all relax and figure out what to do. I don’t think one hit will turn her into an addict.”

  My mouth starts babbling something even I don’t understand, about murder and needles and spiders and pillows. They ignore me. Ron finds a blanket and tucks me in, then sits back down on the edge of the couch, holding my hand, stroking my palm. It feels very good, so I shut up and enjoy it.

  Then I squeeze her hand and look up at her admiringly. “You deserve to be happy.”

  She’s startled, and looks down at me with her eyebrows together. “Huh?”

  “You’re a good person, and you deserve to be happy.” God, I’m so happy I know her.

  “I think we did the wrong thing.”

  She cares so much. “We’ll worry about that later.”

  “That’s the heroin talking.”

  I giggle for a little while. She smiles, holding my hand, and then looks up. Tedrin is handing her a glass of water. She accepts it, holds it to my still-healing lips. It feels unpleasant on my tongue, like fluid, but I drain the glass.

  Tedrin says something and disappears into the bathroom. Ron stays where she is.

  “He’s a monster, but he’s also a good person,” I tell her.

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said about him. I should give you heroin every time you meet a new boyfriend of mine.”

  Reasons and memories drift free-form through my head— a church, a spider— but more than that, I remember him carrying me here. I can’t hold onto any thought long enough to slot it all together, so I just shake my head.

  “He saved your life tonight. I know you two didn’t hit it off, but . . .” She shrugs awkwardly. “He saved your life.”

  I want to argue, but the will and the wit are gone, buried under layers of soft blanket. I snuggle deeper and close my eyes. “Be careful,” I mumble, and feel like drifting off.

  “I think I’m gonna tell him.”

  Silence stretches.

  A little while later, I hear Ron whisper, “What took you so long?”

  “Had to wash her blood off my face. How is she?”

  “Sleeping, thank God. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.” She gently sets my hand down by my side, and I feel her weight leave the couch. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.”

  Their voices go far away, into the bedroom, and the door clicks shut.

  I get lost in a forest of their wordless whispers.

  I dive and weave between their voices.

  Spinning and turning and whipping, I stretch thin as a piece of spaghetti.

  Part of me waits to hear a shout, a scream, a cry for help, but it never comes. It looms.

  I am at home in my body, and I sink into it with a satisfied sigh.

  I snap awake more abruptly than I’m used to, and my entire body is heavy
with pain. A groan squeezes out through my swollen throat. I’m trapped under a stifling blanket and don’t have the strength to kick it off.

  Soft light pours through the window on the wall above me; it’s dawn. Cars are starting in the parking lot below. Somewhere off to my left, in the bedroom, Ron snores gently.

  There’s a spine pierced through the center of my brain.

  I turn my head, wincing at the stinging in my neck, and look into the bedroom. The door hangs open, and through it I see Ron lying on her stomach, buried in covers up to her head. Her pixie-cut hair is mussed, and her face is slack in sleep.

  Something moves under the covers, an arm slung over Ron’s back. It slides up to her neck, then down, stroking slowly. She stirs, buries her face in her pillow.

  On her far side, Tedrin props himself up on one elbow. He’s shirtless; the rest of him is covered by blanket or hidden by Ron’s body. He keeps stroking her back, and he’s smiling affectionately down at her.

  He knows.

  She told him. She showed him.

  And he loves her anyway.

  I feel like my heart should swell with happiness for them, except I’m stuck in a hangover from whatever Ron gave me. As I force my aching arms to push me up, memories of last night start blasting through me. The spider, the giraffe, the gun, the church, my smashed face, and most of all, Tedrin’s psychotic pinprick eyes. My head spins, and I press a hand to my mouth for fear of vomiting.

  “She’s awake,” I hear him whisper. “Doesn’t look happy.”

  Ron moans, and climbs out of bed. Her closet opens and she starts pulling out clothes. “You okay in there?” she calls.

  I take a few deep breaths and lower my hand. “What did you give me last night?”

  “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” she mutters angrily, and I hear pants zipping up. “You hungry? Want to go to Denny’s?”

  “I don’t want to be in public right now,” I moan. When I open my eyes, I notice an empty syringe lying on the coffee table. “Ron? Did you give me heroin?”

  She appears in the bedroom doorway, dressed in a messy t-shirt and jeans. “Just a tiny dose, enough to dull the pain. I'd have put you on a morphine drip if my neighbor sold those.” She picks up the syringe with two fingers like a dead rat and carries it into the kitchen; I hear her wrap it in paper towels and thunk it into the trash.

  “I feel like garbage,” I mumble. “Can you get a hangover from heroin?”

  “Probably. I dunno, never tried it.” She comes back in with a banana and glass of milk. “Here.”

  I shudder and don’t accept them. “I can’t eat right now.”

  “You should. It’ll help.” She adds softly, “Please.”

  I grudgingly take the banana and start peeling it, but the sight of the ribbed flesh turns my stomach. I wince and sit with my eyes squeezed shut.

  There are branches of needles in my neck, face, arm, and brain.

  Ron goes back into the bedroom and closes the door halfway. I hear her and Tedrin talking quietly.

  I set the banana down on the coffee table and slowly, groaning, get to my feet. My shirtfront is crusted with dried blood. I’m sure I’m headed for the bathroom to vomit, but instead my legs carry me to the front door, out onto the porch, down the stairs.

  I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I can’t live like this, with these pins pricking into me with every movement, growing into my brain, taking over. As I stumble down the stairs, one hand on the rail, I raise my other hand to my lips. And there, so slight that my fingertips can barely detect them, are little needles filling the gaps that Tedrin tore open.

  I don’t want this body anymore.

  Ron’s apartment door squeals just as I wrench open the door to my back seat. There’s the shotgun lying on the floor. I pull it out and switch off the safety.

  “STOP!” Ron screams, and I hear her pounding down the stairs.

  I set the butt of the gun on the ground, kick off my sneaker, and fit a toe through the trigger guard. I get the barrel into my mouth and clench my teeth gently around it.

  Ron stops ten feet away, eyes wide, with her hands up in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Please, God, don’t. Please. Stop.”

  Tedrin comes out on the porch, shirtless, in jeans. He leans against the railing, utterly relaxed, and watches me.

  I stare up at him and feel rage pouring into me, swelling my chest like a water balloon. I dare him, with my eyes, to keep watching as I blow my brains out.

  “That won’t work,” he calls, and taps a finger to the soft underside of his chin. “Tried it.”

  Now that makes me pause. I keep watching him, mostly to avoid looking at Ron’s devastated expression.

  “Here’s what’ll happen if you pull that trigger,” he continues, coming down the steps at a leisurely pace. “The needles in your neck will activate and start reconstructing your brain. This also sends a signal to begin replacing flesh until your entire body is transformed.” He gets to the bottom and moves to Ron’s side, stands there with arms crossed, expression serious. “The sad fact is, you’re stuck like this and there is no way out.”

  Ron takes a step closer, but I flinch, tighten my grip on the barrel. The metal is tangy, and I wonder if any saliva is getting down into the gun and ruining it. Ron freezes, eyes still wide, and tears slide down her face.

  “Now,” Tedrin continues, uncrossing his arms. “You can either traumatize Veronica and wake all her neighbors, or you can put the gun down and we’ll eat some breakfast. Either way, this is your life now, and the sooner you learn to accept it, the happier everyone will be.”

  I hate his calm, reasonable tone. I want so badly to hurt him. But more than that, I want to escape him. He must be lying. If I damage my brain badly enough, there’s no way I can recover. I’ll die and stay dead, like I should have in that church. No more needles, no more worry, no more existential despair, no more shitty best friend, no more dangerous boyfriends to rescue her from, no more crap job, no more car repairs, no more unrealized potential, no more disappointment—

  I’m finally ready to do this.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, pump a round into the chamber — the sound is so strange from this angle — and push down with my toe.

  Click.

  Well, don’t I feel like an idiot.

  I pull the barrel out of my mouth and lift it up into my arms, switch the safety on, inspect the chamber, hold down the unload switch. Nothing drops out. The gun is empty.

  While the two of them stand there staring at me, I think back over last night. I loaded six— no, five rounds, I forgot to load the sixth. Wasted a round, shot Tedrin in the chest, wasted a round, shot the door, shot the ceiling . . . and when I pumped just now, I was chambering nothing.

  After years of contemplation, I was finally ready to end it all, and I did it with an empty gun.

  I look at Ron, then quickly down at her feet, and manage, “I’m sorry.”

  She approaches slowly and takes the gun from my shaking hands. She passes it to Tedrin, then wraps her arms around me.

  My vision blurs. “I don’t want this,” I whisper into her shoulder.

  “I know.” She rubs my back comfortingly.

  “I didn’t want this! You knew I didn’t!”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to live like this and now I have to!” My voice rises to a muffled wail. “I said over and over that I didn’t want it and you did it anywaaaaay!”

  “I know.”

  Tedrin stows the gun in the back seat and shuts the door. “Let’s get her inside.” He sounds disgusted.

  Slowly, with me still crying and babbling, Ron helps me back up the stairs and into the apartment. While she pushes open the door, I feel a nudge against my hand; Tedrin is handing me the sneaker I shed.

  By the time Ron sits me down on the couch, I’m numb and distant. My head lolls back and I stare up at the ceiling.

  I’m starting to remember the church.

  Ron
hands me a tissue and then sits down beside me, takes my hand in both of hers, and goes quiet. We sit together like that for a few minutes, her waiting for a way to help, me waiting for my neck to stop stinging. Occasionally I raise a shaking hand to my face and wipe clean another patch of snot and tears.

  Tedrin is perched on the edge of the coffee table, playing with his phone, checking his texts or something. Who the fuck he could be texting, I have no idea. All I know is that he’s being very casual, playing innocent hero who saved the dying damsel and now expects nothing but gratitude.

  I swallow thickly. “Tedrin.”

  He looks up and his expression is carefully neutral. “Yes?”

  “What happened last night?” Ron starts to answer, but I shake my head, not taking my eyes off him.

  “How much do you remember?”

  I shrug. “It’s a jumble. Can you help me out?”

  “I pointed you toward an herbivore you could study. When I told Veronica, she headed that way, to make sure you were alright; I took a different route so I could patrol a bit.”

  “I couldn’t find the place,” she mutters. “It’s all my fault. If I had gotten there sooner—”

  “By the time I caught up, I found that you had been attacked by—” He looks at Veronica. “You know, I’ll bet it killed the herbivore, too.”

  “And I was so far-gone that you felt the need to infect me, against my wishes,” I whisper, still watching him. “And this has nothing to do with what you said yesterday evening, about how I might be able to ‘understand’ this shitstorm you’ve landed in.”

  Ron gives him a quizzical look. “You never mentioned that.”

  “I was admiring Eden’s curiosity and scientific knowledge.” He regards me. “Now that you’re infected and there’s nothing more to be done about it, I hope we’ll benefit from your talents.” He doesn’t even look nervous; the backpedaling is strong with this one.

  “I’d like to talk to Ron alone.”

  He looks to her, back to me, and to my infinite surprise, he nods. “Do you need anything at the store, Veronica?”

  “Bacon. And bagels and cream cheese.”

  He gets to his feet and smiles down at her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, then.”