Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

Sloane does some quick calculations in her head. “He’s over ninety!”

  “Ninety-six,” Charlotte confirms, a spark of pride in her voice.

  Sloane takes another look at Dmitri. He is fit, with muscular arms that carry Ches easily, likely having carried rifles with more weight. “Honestly, he doesn’t look a day over eighty,” she says. Charlotte laughs, and Dmitri’s ears perk up at the familiar sound.

  The path of lights ends ahead, the trees clear, and they enter a smaller cavern. The gentle rush of water below echoes off the rock ceiling. It’s a little lower here, perhaps only two stories high. Stretching all down the corridor are black wooden doors with white engraved numbers. Some doors are illuminated by lights overhead, and some are dark. Periodically along the hallway, skylights let in the moon’s glow. “The rooms with lights are occupied, but the others are empty,” Dmitri explains, leading them towards one of the dark ones.

  Sloane opens the door to a room that is much larger than it looks from the outside. There are two bunks carved into the rock of the far wall, a modern gray couch to the right, and a wide mirror on the left. On the wall next to the door, there is a small table with a couple of chairs. A small pool the size of a bathtub sits in the corner.

  Sloane gently takes Ches off Dmitri’s back and lays him in the bottom bunk. Charlotte pulls the covers up over him. Dmitri rests his hand on Charlotte’s back as she returns to him, and they take a moment to watch Ches’s carefree sleep. They seem like they would be excellent parents, but they won’t ever get the chance. Sloane won’t either. Dmitri realizes she’s watching them and pulls Charlotte away, not wanting to overstep. Sloane is about to tell him it’s okay, but he cuts her off. “All settled. You two get some rest.”

  “Thank you,” Sloane whispers. “Hope to see you around.” They let themselves out silently as the door closes with a click. Sloane’s entire body loosens at their exit, and she collapses onto the couch, exhausted. She kicks off her shoes, wrapping her hair into a half-hearted braid. She tucks Ches’s covers into the side of the bed; he has a tendency of kicking them off in the night. Then she hoists herself onto the top bunk. The bed is incredibly soft, and if Sloane didn’t know better, she would have thought it was sitting on clouds rather than rock. She reclines onto her pillow, having nowhere to look but the ceiling. She reaches up to feel the smooth stone. It makes her wish for the sensation of chilly wet clay between her fingers—live fingers. Sloane pulls the covers up to her chin as her body settles for sleep, her mind clearing itself as best it can.

  A heart monitor beeps and a plunger pumps up and down, pushing out oxygen. Sloane tries to open her eyes, but her eyelids refuse to budge, leaving her in complete blackness. She can feel a blanket over her toes, a clip on her index finger, and a needle in her arm. There’s a tube down her throat, an unnatural discomfort, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s strange, her lungs rising and falling without her body’s natural instruction. The strong scent of antiseptic floods her head. An audible thud in her chest tells Sloane that her heart is one organ that’s working on its own. She can’t get her body to move a muscle. All she can do is let the machines breathe for her and rely on hearing for everything else.

  Her attempt at movement must have activated her adrenaline because the beeping speeds up. Sloane hears the squeak of shoes on linoleum, likely a nurse that’s hurried into the room to check on her. “Keep that heart steady, my girl. We can’t have you coding again,” the woman says. Sloane can tell that she is elderly by the slight rasp that mingles with her voice.

  “Is she alright, Nurse Craine?” a younger male voice asks. Sloane didn’t hear his footsteps.

  “Well, that depends on your definition of alright, I suppose Levi.” She sighs. “She’s got internal bleeding, broken bones, and a severe concussion. Surgery wasn’t able to fix everything.” The woman’s soft wrinkled hand slides under Sloane’s, holding it tight.

  “Is she going to die?” Levi sounds indifferent to that possibility.

  “Her organs may fail, and there is some bleeding in her brain. It doesn’t look good, but it’s entirely up to her if she makes it through this.”

  “What about the little boy she came in with?” Now he’s next to Sloane’s bed. He sounds low, must be in a wheelchair.

  “He had head trauma. The doctors relieved the swelling in his brain, but all we can do is wait.” Her voice is level, probably tamed from years of nursing. “Speaking of waiting, you better get back to your room before your parents tan your hide.”

  “Aww, c’mon Craine, how can you talk to a guy with cancer like that?”

  “Levi Oden!” She raises her voice. “Don’t you go pulling that cancer card on me! Now get outta here before her mother comes back, or I will take you by the ear myself, cancer or no cancer.” He groans as she wheels him out of the room. The sounds blur together, and Sloane feels her senses slip.

  Sloane jolts awake, panting. She sits up and grasps at her arm in the gloom, finding no needle. Her hand trails down and finds no finger clip either. She rolls onto her chest and peeks her head down to check on Ches, who is sleeping soundly. Sloane lies back, trying to slow her breathing.

  It wasn’t just a dream. Sloane can feel that she isn’t completely whole, like she’s missing a piece. Half of her is here in The Midst, and the other half is lingering in that hospital bed, trying to tell her something. Something about that other half that feels invasive, almost parasitic. Sloane forces her eyelids shut and begs for sleep to shut the other side out, but it evades her. Whispers in her own voice grow in her mind, pulling pieces of Erim’s words from the day. “We’re in the gray area… a very meaningful mistake… you tried to save him… save him.” With each word, the other half reaches into Sloane’s mind, planting a small seed.

  Sloane wants her out. She clamps her lips shut and slams her fist against the wall, getting a gratifying jolt of pain. The other half fade into the quieter recesses of her mind. But she leaves Sloane with a sick instinct that she left because she was finished, not because she was forced to retreat. The little seed she left behind festers, blooming into an idea of redemption and possibly a way back to life. The plan is daunting, the reasoning intangible, but she will have to try. As Sloane feels herself sliding into sleep, she swears she will do what she can to see it through… even though it will destroy her.

  SEX

  “Are you awake?” Ches whispers.

  Sloane cracks one eye to see him peeking over her bunk. “No,” she grumbles, stretching. Her muscles protest at the movement, and she pulls the blanket up over her head. Sleep wouldn’t indulge her the whole night, keeping her in an awful limbo between consciousnesses. Daylight seemed to descend even faster than usual to keep her from resting. The exhaustion has left her feeling barely human.

  “Good!” Ches leaps off the bed. “Let’s go!”

  “Where?” She groans through the sheets. Ches hadn’t thought about that, and the ensuing silence makes Sloane smile. She drags the blanket off her face and watches him purse his lips in thought. His brown hair sticks up every which way, ruffled from sleep. “How about we start with breakfast?” Sloane suggests weakly.

  “Perfect!” Ches claps his hands together and looks at her expectantly. Sloane sighs and throws off the covers, dangling her legs off the bed for a yawn. Small windows below and above the bunk let in bright white light, which her sore eyes do not appreciate. She shakes out her hair and smooths her shirt, hopping down in front of the mirror. Of course, after a night of sleeping very little and in her clothes, she looks phenomenal.

  Sloane asks Ches if they can just eat in the room, but he begins to profile her for several antisocial personality disorders, so they leave. Outside, The Midst is bright and cheerful, irritatingly so for Sloane. The trees sway in the breeze, a buzz of people in every direction. The two splash along the path, passing through the dinner clearing. There are only a few people scattered there for breakfast. Completely new place settings are ready for dinner.

  “Where are you taking
us?” Sloane asks, looking back at the table.

  “I saw a place before that I want to try.” Ches pulls her down the trail. He wraps around a tight corner and drags Sloane right into a brick wall. She loses her footing, but a hand reaches out and grabs her forearm to steady her. Sloane shakes off the impact and glances up to see the brick wall staring down at her. She straightens herself and looks at Erim, thoroughly embarrassed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” He chuckles.

  “No, it’s my fault. I let Blackbeard steer.” Sloane gives Ches a stern look.

  “I was just coming to check on you two,” Erim says. Sloane notices there’s a bit of a shadow on his jaw.

  “We’re going to eat breakfast,” Ches pipes up, taking advantage of Sloane’s distraction to pet Nim, who certainly tolerates him more than her.

  “And then maybe to the beach,” Sloane adds. Ches looks at her cluelessly.

  “Well then, I won’t keep you.” Erim bows slightly to take his leave, and Sloane watches him turn the corner.

  She turns to Ches. “Wouldn’t Blackbeard enjoy a trip to the beach?” She shoves his shoulder gently. He follows her down the path, newly excited to play out some Blackbeard authenticity. They emerge into the central glade, and Ches makes a beeline for a small chess table next to a couple of trees and a hammock. The checker pattern is engraved on the table, and the little black and white pieces stand at attention, just waiting to make a fool of Sloane. Ches takes a seat at one end.

  “I’ll let you go first this time,” he offers, batting his eyelashes.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that will improve my odds.” Sloane rolls her eyes.

  She has bacon with a side of pancakes for breakfast, and Ches has scrambled eggs with ketchup. As they eat, Ches corrects one or two of Sloane’s moves that aren’t allowed. Ches is naturally a chess master, but he’s become bored with it recently since he discovered backgammon. After they’re finished and Sloane can add another defeat to her record, Ches tries to explain different strategies to her as they walk towards the beach. The approaching tunnel makes her heart thump so loudly that she’s sure everyone can hear it.

  “Sloane, Ches!” Sloane cringes at the sound of Charlotte’s voice and turns slowly, trying to quiet her chest.

  “Hi!” Ches calls as she jogs towards them, Dmitri in tow.

  “What are ya’ll up to today?” she asks breathlessly, her bright smile beaming.

  “Sloane’s taking me to the beach,” Ches says. Sloane smiles.

  “May we join?” Charlotte asks. Sloane freezes, her eyes falter.

  Dmitri sees Sloane’s hesitation, and he puts his hands on Charlotte’s shoulders. “Love, let’s let these two have some time,” he mumbles.

  “Right, of course.” Charlotte’s smile fades, which is an unnatural look for her. Dmitri eyes Sloane over his shoulder as he leads Charlotte away.

  “Why couldn’t they come?” Ches’s nose scrunches with disapproval. Sloane takes his hand and leads him into the tunnel, pulling him along. She won’t let Charlotte, Dmitri, or even Ches sway her. She won’t apologize. Not for this, not yet. As they walk along the tunnel, Sloane looks back to where they first came in. It hadn’t occurred to her the first time through, but it’s very similar to the scene dying people describe before releasing life. The tunnel with the light at the end that they reach for, like they know it means peace. That’s what it could mean for Sloane now, too. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. The bright light consumes them as they step out onto the sunny beach. She inhales wet sand, the same smell as concrete after a good rain, comforting.

  “Last one in’s a rotten pirate!” Sloane yells as she takes off, running towards the water. She splashes into the shallows, whooping and flicking water over her head. Her performance makes Ches forget his concern, and he chases her, squealing with joy as he jumps in. Sloane laughs, swimming out, drawing him further, deeper. When she can just barely stand and keep her shoulders above water, she stops. Ches paddles up next to her. He assumes his starfish pose, facing the sky, and she puts her hand under his back. She lets him float there for a while, quietly, his hair like a halo floating around him. His weight is so light on her open palm. There’s an anxious energy humming through the water like it’s preparing for something.

  “Hey Ches, remember that winter I went with your family to Washington?” He looks up, drawing her into his chestnut eyes. “Adrian convinced you and me to go ice skating on that frozen pond we found.”

  “It wasn’t safe,” he says.

  “No, it wasn’t. But we didn’t know until the ice cracked underneath you.” His head quirks to the side a little. “Adrian ran off to get help, and I stayed with you,” Sloane reminds him.

  “I was scared,” he whispers.

  “I know.” Sloane nods. “But I told you to jump anyway, that I would catch you.”

  “And you did,” he says.

  “Of course I did,” Sloane breathes, “because I would never let anything happen to you.” Her voice cracks despite her best efforts.

  “I know,” Ches murmurs. Sloane can see in his eyes that he really does. There’s a more profound knowledge in there, beyond the math solutions and fancy vocabulary. A static builds in Sloane, like an untamable power that’s growing. The energy urges her on. She steadies her trembling hands, placing the free one on his chest.

  “Good.” She dulls to a whisper, smiling to calm him, but his face tightens with doubt. A single rush of liquid heat races down her cheek, and there’s no more time. She has to do it.

  In one swift motion, she moves the supporting hand from his back to his abdomen and shifts the other just below his neck. He’s not expecting it, so he’s too slow to stop it. Sloane is careful not to meet his eyes as she presses down both hands, submerging his body into the water.

  It gets rough fast as his instincts kick in, and every part of his body fights for air. He kicks and tries to claw at her, but his limbs are too short, and none of his blows land. His torso writhes and twists, trying to squirm out of her grasp, but she grabs fistfuls of his shirt to keep a grip. His struggles create violent splashes, and water sprays Sloane’s face, mixing with salty tears. Tremors radiate throughout her body, creeping down her arms, weakening them. A rush of power forces her hands down more, locking them at the elbow, so they cannot fail.

  Ches’s thrashes become more sporadic, his movement slows. Suddenly, he stills, and Sloane feels him leaving. At the last moment, she digs her fingers into his skin and thrusts all of her energy down. A strained cry escapes her lips as everything in her drains, and her arms fall limp. Sloane’s legs give out, and the water receives her gently. Through falling eyelids, she sees a blurred figure moving towards her through the water.

  “Forgive me,” Sloane whispers, plummeting into darkness.

  That incessant mechanical beeping starts again, and Sloane opens her eyes, determined to make it stop. She finds herself back in the hospital room, but it all seems new because she can see this time. She stands next to the bed, looking down at her comatose self. Her mother is dozing in a chair near her bed, Adrian’s jacket draped over her shoulders. Sofia’s purse and car keys lay on the bed near Sloane’s feet.

  Adrian’s head is resting next to Sloane’s arm, her hand in his. The quiet peace breaks when the beeping accelerates suddenly, faster and faster. It jolts everyone awake, and her mother calls for the nurse. Adrian lurches up, red-eyed and disheveled, backing away from the bed. Sofia rushes into the room with a nurse behind her. The nurse, who Sloane suspects is Craine, checks the heart monitor right as it flat lines.

  “Get me a crash cart in here now!” Nurse Craine cries. She claps her hands together into one big fist and begins chest compressions. She’s small and looks frail but couldn’t be more speedy or strong. Adrian stands back, raising both white-knuckled fists to his head, pulling on his hair. A contorted look of pain twists his face, and his eyes dart between Sloane’s sleeping face and the heart monitor. Sofia’s arms are wrapped around
Sloane’s mother tightly like she can’t bear any of her own weight. Tears streak her face, and her mouth is open in a silent wail. Sofia’s face is emotionless; only her eyes show the pain as she whispers consolations into Sloane’s mother’s ear.

  Craine keeps Sloane’s heart beating until the doctor, and more nurses arrive with the crash cart. Working as a unit, they prepare the paddles and tell everyone to stand clear. Sloane doesn’t feel the shock but sees it shake her chest and imagines that it must hurt. Minutes pass, and the defibrillators don’t make any difference. Sloane didn’t expect that they would. She’s made her choice. The doctor shocks her four times and gets more frustrated each time she doesn’t respond. The other staff slows their efforts, giving up more with each useless bolt of electricity.

  Nine minutes. That’s how long the monitor’s been flat-lined. The doctor sighs, meeting Craine’s eyes briefly before checking his watch.

  “Time of death, two forty-six.” A bolt of energy slams into Sloane, knocking her off her feet. She hears her mother scream and can see her legs under the bed as she rushes to the bedside.

  Sloane takes a moment on her knees to let the residual energy sink in. There’s a sense of peace finally, a feeling of completeness. She isn’t fragmented anymore. Every piece is with her, totally under her control. Taking deep breaths, she focuses on the endgame. Her part may be finished, but it’s not over. There’s a thud next to her. Adrian has fallen to his knees, hand clamped over his mouth in a hushed sob. Sloane just wants to crawl over and hold him, but she can’t. Their agony is too much to bear. She wants it all finished.

  She stands and looks around the room. Her mother is sitting on the bed, holding Sloane’s dead hand to her chest, stroking her dead face, telling her it’s okay. Her tears run down Sloane’s dead arm and drip off her dead elbow, splashing onto the floor silently. Sofia has sunken into a chair, watching Sloane’s mother blankly. Adrian sits broken on the floor, head in his hands, weeping quietly. The staff file out silently, defeated. Nurse Craine, the last one out of the room, turns off all the machines, leaving that damned heart monitor for last.