Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  “It’s okay,” I soothe, the lump in my throat making my voice husky, “you’re going to be okay, I’m going to fix this.” Kneeling on the edge of the mattress, I brace one hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I begin to pull away the bandages. When I get to the bottom layer it refuses to come off, stuck to his skin. I try to tease it away, but frustrated tears fill my eyes when I realize it’s not working. “I am so, so sorry,” I half sob, clutching the end of the bandage. A second later, I rip it off. His muscles jump in reaction, yet his eyes don’t reopen and he makes not a sound. The sight that greets me makes me gag; whatever scab had been beginning to grow over the wound had been ripped away along with the bandage, leaving yellow puss to ooze freely from the cut, and beneath the skin, angry, jagged red lines streak out from the wound. Definitely infected. Swallowing tightly, my fingers tremble as I trace one of the deadly veins, before clambering off the bed.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promise, “I’m going to make this better.”

  Hurrying from the room, I dash down the hall and slam into my own room. Going to the far corner, beneath the window, which I have made into a makeshift wardrobe, I rifle through the pitifully small pile of clothes to find the medicine I had hidden in their midst. Pulling it free, I leave the clothes in disarray and leave. Once back in Sins’ room, I retake my seat on the bed and flip the cap off the pre-loaded syringe. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes dart and his breathing suddenly becomes laboured and uneven. I wonder if he’s having a fever induced nightmare, or if he can sense the needle coming towards him, since I know he’s scared of them.

  Patting his shoulder, I murmur, “Brace yourself.” And then I very carefully insert the needle into the throbbing vein on the inside of his elbow and press the injector, releasing the All-Cure into his blood stream. It doesn’t take long for the miracle cure to start working. It’s magical to watch, but eerie at the same time. Though I’ve been on the receiving end more times than I can count, I’ve never actually seen the healing process. The flush in his cheeks dulls, his ruined flesh knits back together, all trace of infection eradicated, leaving only traces of dried blood on his undamaged skin. The process is complete in only a few short minutes and before I know it clear, sharp blue eyes are staring up at me. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looks away, glances around the room, stares down at his partially naked body and then lifts his eyes back up to mine.

  “Why are you in my room?”

  There’s the sound of flesh hitting flesh as I slap at his bare chest. “You’re such an idiot.”

  “Hey,” he snaps, “be careful…” Sin stops short when his hand touches the spot where his wound should be and encounters only smooth skin.

  Ignoring his mystified look, I demand, “Why didn’t you tell anyone it got infected? Did you just think it would magically go away if you ignored it long enough?”

  “It did magically go away. What the hell did you do? Not that I’m complainin’,” he adds quickly. However, even as he asks the question his eyes are taking in the syringe in my hand and I can see him piecing it all together. Giving him some space, I get up and walk over to the window, pulling the curtains out of the way to let in a stream of sunlight and open it in the hopes of getting rid of the stale smell. Turning back around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean my hip against the windowsill, just in time to face his next question.

  “Where did you get All-Cure?”

  Though I’m expecting it, the question still knocks me back a figurative step and I don’t know how to answer. Briefly, I consider telling him the truth, but then that would raise unwanted questions which would inevitably lead to me having to tell him about my illness and I never want to see him look at me as if I’m broken. So I lie. “I stole it from Dr Wong. I thought it might come in handy. Obviously I was right.”

  The way he tilts his head and narrows his eyes makes me shift nervously and when he says, “You’re lyin’,” I flinch inwardly. Before I can defend myself, or deny it, he sits up fully and swings his legs over the side of the bed, presenting me with his back and shrugging carefully. “Keep your secrets, I don’t care.” Now he’s the one who’s lying. I don’t know how I know, I just do, but I don’t call him on it, instead I begin moving towards the door.

  “I should get going…” I trail off, because I can’t think of any specific reason why I have to leave, except that I’m beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable.

  “No!” his voice is loud in the small room, making me jump, however, when I glance over my shoulder at him with startled eyes, he softens his tone, asking, “Stay?” I guess I’m not the only one who fears being alone sometimes. Dampening my dry lips with my tongue, I nod and take a hesitant step in his direction before stopping, unsure as to what he wants me to do.

  Standing up, Sin motions towards the bed. “Sit.”

  Going to perch on the edge of the mattress, I watch as he staggers the few short steps over to the rickety looking chest of draws pressed up against the wall and lays one hand on the top of it to steady himself, making it wobble precariously. With the other hand, he goes to open the top draw, but instead of sliding opening when he pulls it, the front simply falls off, clattering loudly to the floor.

  Glancing over at me, he grimaces slightly, the expression making him look unnaturally boyish and contrite. “I’m goin’ to fix that, but there’s always some’it more important.”

  Being the Presidents’ daughter, I like to think I can hold my own in the meaningless small talk department, even if it bores me to tears, however, all I can do right now is nod again, my mind refusing to come up with anything to say. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t as if his statement had been a very good conversation starter, or a question, or joke, which would actually require some kind of response.

  Fishing out a shirt, as well as a pair of faded blue jeans with disgracefully ragged hems, he stumbles back to the bed, sitting down heavily and bending to massage his right calf. “My legs feel like jelly.”

  “You’ve been in bed for almost four days, you’re bound to feel a bit weak,” I comment, folding my hands together in my lap to stop them from reaching out to touch him without permission, because now that he’s no longer at deaths door, seeping puss, the urge to reach out and stroke all of that smooth bare skin on display is almost irresistible. What would he say if I just reached out and trailed my hand from his broad shoulder down his sinewy arm? Would he welcome my touch, or shrug me off? The chance of rejection is what keeps me in place.

  “What’s the serious face for?” Sin asks absently, not looking at me as he pulls on his jeans and does up the fly.

  “Nothing,” I say instantly, not even thinking about it.

  “Whatever,” he mutters. Something in his voice has me glancing over at him, taking in his harsh features and the prominent jut of his high cheekbones. Jaw clenched, he’s staring resolutely at the wall in front of us as he yanks his shirt aggressively over his head and pulls the sleeves down to cover his forearm with such force that I hear the already threadbare material rip.

  Suddenly it occurs to me, he’s as insecure about our budding relationship as I am.

  It takes all the courage I possess to reach out to him in that moment. Surely it shouldn’t be so hard to move my hands the scant few inches separating us? A second ago I had been battling not to touch him and now I feel as if my limbs are weighed down with lead and my fingers tremble. When I finally manage to touch my fingertips to the back of his hand, fisted tightly upon his thigh, he glances over at me with steel blue eyes. The hardness there almost makes me draw back, but instead I lay my hand fully over his and edge closer until our legs are touching from hip to ankle, shoulders brushing with every breath. Turning his hand so that our palms touch, he presses his fingers into the gaps between mine. They fit perfectly as if we were made for one another.

  “Sin,” I whisper, half hoping he won’t hear, “what are we doing?”

  For long minutes he doesn’t answer and I begin to think maybe he didn’
t hear, but then he squeezes my fingers and replies just as quietly, “I don’t know. But I don’t want it to end yet.”

  “Me neither,” I admit, leaning more heavily against him now that I know a little of how he’s actually feeling beneath the impenetrable mask he wears, “so what do we do?”

  “Let’s see how it goes.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 14

  Things only go downhill from that point onwards, not between Sin and I, though nothing much happens in that department either, except a little harmless hand holding and a few stolen kisses when no one is watching. The trouble comes from the increased police presence in the Ghetto. Daily raids on random houses, a before-dark curfew, armed police patrolling the streets, there were even whispered rumours of vicious beatings being dealt out for no apparent reason. Because of the patrols it is decided that Sin and I should stay at Base until things die down, though Sin takes quite a bit of persuading. However, by the third day he’s ready to renegade on his promise to stay safely inside.

  “Will you stop that?” I snap, looking up from the laptop, which I’m trying to update so that it’ll run faster, “I can’t concentrate with you pacing behind me.”

  A second later, he flops down on the bench next to me, making the canteen table shudder. Resting his elbows on the table, he peers over my shoulder at the glowing screen, before abruptly pushing back to his feet and resuming his restless pacing. I close my eyes and pray for patience; he’s like a caged tiger and he’s driving me insane.

  “Can’t you find something to do?”

  “Like what, all the good stuff is out there!” Jabbing a finger towards the window, he glowers at me.

  “Not nice being a prisoner is it?” I turn my head and arch an eyebrow at him.

  “You’re never gunna let that go, are you?” he growls.

  “Not for a few years at least,” I answer dryly, before commenting, “you could go fix the draw in your room and while you’re at it, one of the slates supporting my mattress is loose.”

  His response is to snarl something obscene under his breath and stalk out. Folding my lips inwards to keep from laughing aloud, I turn back to the computer screen. I seriously doubt he’s gone to do those odd jobs, but at least he’s out of my hair for a couple of hours, or at least until he’s cooled off.

  Finishing the updates I return to what I was doing before Sin burst into the canteen and exclaimed he was bored. It’s not a secret, but I’d prefer to be sure that my idea will be effective and achievable before I reveal it to anyone. In the privacy of my own room, I have already started cobbling together a camera of sorts, using the inbuilt webcams from the husks of various computers rescued from the scrapyard. So far, my plan is vague, but it goes along the lines of filming the communities in the Ghetto, getting heart wrenching footage of children living in squalid conditions and incriminating evidence of the police attacking innocent people, and then sending the finished product out into the world to stir up protests. I figure that, like I was, most people are unaware of the true facts about the Ghetto Folk and I believe that if they did know they would not allow the government to continue treating them the way they do. However, until I complete the camera there’s not much else I can do, except to ascertain whether I will actually be able to get it out into the open; I plan to send it to every email address registered in the city and surrounding areas, school computers and to the larger public screens posted around the city, which usually display advertisements and popular music.

  Fingers flying across the keys, I practice hacking into a selection of different sites, just to make sure I haven’t lost my touch, since I haven’t been using my skills as much as I used to. I do that for about an hour, before shutting it down and closing the lid when someone comes in to begin preparing the evening meal. Taking the laptop over to the kitchen half of the canteen, I set it down on the counter and commence helping chop vegetables for what looks like more of the same old, predictable, meatless stew, though this time it looks like we may be treated to dumplings.

  Once dinner is served, Maya sits with me, but Sin and Kit are suspiciously absent, since they had been dining with us for the last few days, along with Ben, who is seemingly oblivious to Maya’s obvious and quite aggressive flirting. Today all three of them are sat at another table, bent over their bowls as they talk intently among a group of other men, several of whom I recognise from Sin’s private meeting the other night.

  Craning my neck to watch their heated discussion, I ask, “What do you think they’re talking about?”

  “A new delivery’s turned up, they’re arguing about whether they should go get it.”

  “How do you know that?” I turn back to her with a frown.

  Shrugging in answer, Maya licks the back of her spoon clean and says cryptically, “I know people.”

  “If you know so much, tell me what the outcome’s going to be.”

  “I’m betting on Sin.”

  “Oh yeah? And what side’s he on?” I ask as if I don’t already know.

  “He wants to go get it,” she says distractedly, running her finger around the side of her bowl before sticking it into her mouth and sucking it clean.

  “Of course he does,” I mutter to myself, swivelling back around to watch him through narrowed eyes. I should have known it wouldn’t take him long to break.

  Half-an-hour later, when Sin pushes away from the table and strides towards the door, I get up too and follow. Out in the hall, I run to catch up with him, managing it just as he’s turning the corner. “Hey,” I catch hold of his sleeve, “where are you going?”

  Quirking his head to one size, he regards me with cool blue eyes. “Since you’re askin’, I’m guessin’ you already know.”

  “Yes,” I admit, squaring my shoulders, before accusing, “You promised you’d stay here.”

  “I didn’t promise nothin’. I said I’d try it, but I can’t do it. It’s not in me to stay behind while my men take risks.”

  That’s understandable, admirable even, but… “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Life is dangerous,” he shrugs his broad shoulders, “everyone dies.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to race towards death,” I argue.

  “You’re overreactin’, we’ve done this loads of times. It’ll be fine.”

  “You’ve never done it with police patrolling every inch of the Ghetto before.” Again he shrugs and I know this is a battle I can’t win; he’s made up his mind and nothing will sway him. Despite this epiphany, I still try one more time. “Please, Sin, stay here. Leaders are supposed to delegate tasks, give this job to Ben or someone else.”

  Immediately I know that I’ve said the wrong thing, because his eyes harden and his mouth tightens subtly. “Your dad might do that, but I won’t.” And that’s the end of it.

  “Fine,” I huff, “but I’m coming too.” Before he can open his mouth to shoot me down, I hold up an imperious hand for silence. Once more it’s the wrong thing to do, because his eyebrows shoot up into the ragged blond hair hanging over his forehead, but in that moment I’m heedless to my mistake. “Don’t try and talk me out of it, because I’ll just follow with or without your permission.” When I’m finished the silence stretches between us, taut with tension.

  “In the city you’re the Presidents’ daughter,” Sin’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low and dangerous, “but here you’re just like everybody else and if you ever speak to me like that again this relationship is over and I’ll send you back to your fuckin’ father.” Leaving me gaping after him, he turns and walks away, pausing after a few steps to call over his shoulder, “And if I didn’t want you to come tonight you wouldn’t be. We leave at midnight, don’t be late.”

  Back in my room, I sit on my creaky bed and glare at the cracked wall. How dare he talk to me like that? Even before my dad became President, nobody had ever been so rude to me. But then again, I had been less than polite to him. I should know by now that if you hit Sin, he always hits back
harder.

  Biting my fingernails, I think back to our exchange and am instantly filled with regret; I had spoken to him as if he were beneath me. In my exasperation I had treated him like a servant. And the way I’d held up a hand to silence him… Shame curdles in my stomach. I should apologize.

  Despite knowing that it is indisputably the right thing to do, I can feel those two little words sticking in my throat. Fighting back my pride, I slip off the bed and head towards the door. Every step feels like I’m wading through molasses. Why is doing the right thing so damn hard?

  Arriving outside Sin’s room, I knock on the door, but get no answer. Just to make sure I’m not being ignored, I crack open the door and stick my head inside to find the room empty, before heading towards the canteen, which is the only other place I can think that he might be, since he doesn’t usually hang out in the rec-room, where all the other men seem to congregate to shoot the breeze, play video games and drink.

  Locating him in the canteen, along with a handful of other young men, my urge to apologize disappears, because they looks as if they’re preparing to leave. Now.