Listen To The Silence by Sheryl

Chapter 13

What do you see...?
Do you see... or have you lost your sense of sight?
Why don't you see me...?
 
 

Hay, sticking into him.
Rueful reflection, it may be good enough for mice, but it surely is hell on a half naked human.
Sighing, he shifts a little, hating the scratchy surroundings, yet grateful for the warmth. The books were right, burrowing into a haystack DID take a lot of the chill away... but God, it hurt.
His eyes track the motion of a tiny bug... startling black in all this gold, the contrast finally sinking in... he can see the bug, he can see the hay. The sun is up. Time to move on.
He groans, feeling the fever chill still in him, the sick, dizzy, disorientation that just won't leave, the bone deep ache. He thinks about it as he brushes chaff from his face and arms, wincing as his own smell drifts up to meet him. All of his life he's been more or less immune to sickness, and look at him now! There seems no part of him not suffering some sort of symptom.

"How far do I have to go?"

His whispered query meets no answer. The guiding voice in his mind has been gone for days, only the lingering almost taste of "right direction wrong direction" hanging in his head. Something's happened to them, he knows. The people who brought him here. Some crisis, some tragedy, something... their flavor is of despair, fear. The maddening thought that it's his fault, that he was too late, rings in his brain.

"Shake it off, Jesse, you're not gonna hang on too much longer... oh God, I'm talking to myself again..."

He's done it more and more lately, as his physical strength ebbs, but it doesn't really bother him. The nightmarish sensation of being out control, that miserable half crazy losing his mind feeling is gone, bringing his infinite gratitude.
Physically he was sure he was dying, but at least he could think again.

Now, hauling himself up by the pump, cold iron burning the skin on his hands, he waits, catching his balance. He's almost done, he can feel it... his feet have been numb for days, and though he can see they're bleeding, there is no pain. The ache in his head has ceased its thumping and become a thick, bloodrich thrum that never leaves him. Worse, more frightening than any of this, more disturbing than the nausea, the fiery throat, the pain in his gut... worse than any of it, is the fact that each day is stealing his breath. Each awakening he finds it harder and harder to breathe, wracking cough bringing up nothing, accentuating the feeling of drowning, of lungs growing stiff, losing elasticity.

"I'm not gonna make it..."

There is no defeat in the thought, just resignation. He doesn't know how much farther he has to go, doesn't know what's wrong with him, doesn't even know where those people are... or if they ever existed in the first place. He doesn't know where he is, only that he's sick... and not getting any better.

"Starving too, that's always good..."

His memory drifts back to New York, and Eddie, that first day Ed found him, crouched behind a dumpster, trying to make up his mind.

"Don't just sit there boy, if you want that food you better take it, otherwise some other street trash like old Eddie here's gonna take it for you!"

His laugh had been good natured, the look in his eyes predatory, and Jesse had found himself almost blindly obeying, swallowing pride and uncertainty along with the half rancid scraps. Survival of the fittest, Ed had taught him that. Too bad it wasn't doing him any good now.
He'd found apples yesterday, green, not yet ripe, but his hunger had been so great, his need for fresh food overpowering. He'd eaten four, down to the core, and spent hours struggling with a nasty bout of stomach cramps, losing the apples finally, and everything else that was in him.

"Even if I had food I couldn't eat it..."

Shaking his head, he leans back against the pump, unscrewing the cap from the empty plastic bottle he found in the airport. God only knew what was growing in it, but he needed something to put water in... and it's worked. He's already so sick he doubts anymore germs would have much of an effect. So far the sips of water he swallows stay down, anyway.
Bottles empty, horrible thought with his burning throat.

"Great... I have to find water..."
He shifts a little, the metal of the pump digging into his back.
"Damn that hur... oh Jess for godsake..."
He sighs at his own stupidity, and shoves experimentally on the pump handle, sagging with relief at the sudden, cold gush of water.
"Thank God..."

Bottle filled, he leaves the barn, hoping no farmer is waiting outside with a pitchfork, or a shotgun aimed at his head. He sees no one, and in the sun he turns... feeling it working in him... right direction wrong direction right direction... he follows the taste of apples, always north.

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