into each pore.
She thought she sank beneath the oil at first and she could swear that the bliss smile had pulled at the corners of her mouth, except something wasn't quite right. There was an army of tiny ants crawling over her skin, biting her in unison here and there like hot pokers pressing into her flesh. First her bicep, then her ribs. Once she thought they'd even found a way to make her cheek feel as though it had been slapped.
She tried to open her eyes; there was too much oil lubricating them shut. All she could manage was a greased smile that somehow got pinched together so hard her jaw gaped open and her cheeks ached.
She started to float then and she thought, finally. The godspit had taken over, driving the ants back to their nest. It would be okay now. She'd float and watch the lights and lose everything except the pure euphoria filling her to the roots of her hair.
###
She woke shivering. At first, she wasn't sure she had opened her eyes at all; the darkness was so complete. Before she could orient herself she realized the bed was no longer soft and warm; it didn't yield beneath her shoulder like it should and it smelled of cement and wet leaves. Even so, there was no need for panic; all she had to do was take a breath, force it down to her toes, swallow. Her hands groped into the darkness anyway, searching for information that she could feed to her still-fuzzy brain. She expected to reach out into a good deal of space, but her fingers tangled into something scratchy and holey, like an old-fashioned Afghan.
"Finally awake?"
Ezekiel's voice had come from somewhere up around her head. She tried to crane her neck to see him, but even as she tilted her head, she began to realize he was hovering over her, probably mere inches above. She wished she could see him. She wished she could see anything.
She wanted to ask where they were, but all that came out was a groan. She didn't need him to speak again to know he was furious with her. The tension was enough to light the dark. Better to try to figure out her location. A cursory search with palms over her body told her she was still undressed, but that she did indeed have some sort of homemade crocheted blanket wrapped around her. Her nose told her she was lying very close to some sort of cement wall, that the wall was curved and that it was damp. A drain. That's where they were. And it was obviously nighttime.
"Why?" she managed to croak out.
He snorted. "Why? I could ask you the same thing."
She wouldn't defend herself for using the smear. She didn't regret it. "It was mine. I had a right to use it."
"There's an addict for you, thinking of yourself first."
It occurred to her that he could have just dumped her in the storm drain and left her.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For making sure have a safe place to stay."
She tried to squirm out of the blanket or at least get her arms free so she could find some sort of sitting position, hunkered inside. Her night vision began to adjust and she could make out the way he was curled into the drainage pipe, his arms crossed over his knees. Some of the light from the street leaked in enough that she could see the outline of his face. She imagined how he'd look in the full light, ridiculously overlarge like Clifford the Big Red Dog. She thought she might smile at the image, but then remembered he'd dumped her in a drain pipe.
She moaned herself upright, wrapping the blanket behind her shoulders and stretching it to her toes. Through the opening, she could see street lamps and beyond those a few squares of dim light that would undoubtedly be apartment windows in the west end. She could do worse, she supposed. She wouldn't be able to set up shop for a while, all things considered, but she might be able to find her way back to the survivor station, get a sandwich from Ami if he was still alive, maybe enough smears to last a week if he took pity on her, make her way back here and lay low until this all blew
She thought she sank beneath the oil at first and she could swear that the bliss smile had pulled at the corners of her mouth, except something wasn't quite right. There was an army of tiny ants crawling over her skin, biting her in unison here and there like hot pokers pressing into her flesh. First her bicep, then her ribs. Once she thought they'd even found a way to make her cheek feel as though it had been slapped.
She tried to open her eyes; there was too much oil lubricating them shut. All she could manage was a greased smile that somehow got pinched together so hard her jaw gaped open and her cheeks ached.
She started to float then and she thought, finally. The godspit had taken over, driving the ants back to their nest. It would be okay now. She'd float and watch the lights and lose everything except the pure euphoria filling her to the roots of her hair.
###
She woke shivering. At first, she wasn't sure she had opened her eyes at all; the darkness was so complete. Before she could orient herself she realized the bed was no longer soft and warm; it didn't yield beneath her shoulder like it should and it smelled of cement and wet leaves. Even so, there was no need for panic; all she had to do was take a breath, force it down to her toes, swallow. Her hands groped into the darkness anyway, searching for information that she could feed to her still-fuzzy brain. She expected to reach out into a good deal of space, but her fingers tangled into something scratchy and holey, like an old-fashioned Afghan.
"Finally awake?"
Ezekiel's voice had come from somewhere up around her head. She tried to crane her neck to see him, but even as she tilted her head, she began to realize he was hovering over her, probably mere inches above. She wished she could see him. She wished she could see anything.
She wanted to ask where they were, but all that came out was a groan. She didn't need him to speak again to know he was furious with her. The tension was enough to light the dark. Better to try to figure out her location. A cursory search with palms over her body told her she was still undressed, but that she did indeed have some sort of homemade crocheted blanket wrapped around her. Her nose told her she was lying very close to some sort of cement wall, that the wall was curved and that it was damp. A drain. That's where they were. And it was obviously nighttime.
"Why?" she managed to croak out.
He snorted. "Why? I could ask you the same thing."
She wouldn't defend herself for using the smear. She didn't regret it. "It was mine. I had a right to use it."
"There's an addict for you, thinking of yourself first."
It occurred to her that he could have just dumped her in the storm drain and left her.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For making sure have a safe place to stay."
She tried to squirm out of the blanket or at least get her arms free so she could find some sort of sitting position, hunkered inside. Her night vision began to adjust and she could make out the way he was curled into the drainage pipe, his arms crossed over his knees. Some of the light from the street leaked in enough that she could see the outline of his face. She imagined how he'd look in the full light, ridiculously overlarge like Clifford the Big Red Dog. She thought she might smile at the image, but then remembered he'd dumped her in a drain pipe.
She moaned herself upright, wrapping the blanket behind her shoulders and stretching it to her toes. Through the opening, she could see street lamps and beyond those a few squares of dim light that would undoubtedly be apartment windows in the west end. She could do worse, she supposed. She wouldn't be able to set up shop for a while, all things considered, but she might be able to find her way back to the survivor station, get a sandwich from Ami if he was still alive, maybe enough smears to last a week if he took pity on her, make her way back here and lay low until this all blew
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