Project HALO

Chapter 23

With a groan, I force myself to follow Frank.

Pouring alcohol on wounds is, first of all, a waste, and second of all, it stings as fuck, and third of all, I don't want to do it. But I know I have to. I sit back down and place my forearms out in front of me, palms up. Frank prepares the cotton pads, completely soaking them in alcohol. Yep, this is going to sting.

"Do you have any regular alcohol to go with that?" I ask, half-serious and half-kidding.

Frank glances sideways at me. "Aren't you a little young for that kinda alcohol?"

"Do I look like I care?" I reply, lifting an eyebrow.

"Wow. You really are a shitkid," Frank says and sits down on his knees in front of me, studying my arms.

"Just do it quickly," I say, the smugness in my voice now replaced with reluctance. His stubby fingers gently brush over my wounds, then he reaches for a soaked pad.

"Sorry, but I never finish quickly when I do it," he says, emphasizing the three last words.

I roll my eyes, almost laughing, but I have to snap my teeth together when the alcohol meets the open flesh. It feels like the handcuffs are back again, digging in like a dull saw biting into my skin.

"So what do you think about everything? You know, Project HALO and all that bullshit," Frank asks when I squeeze my eyes shut. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling. It's confusing enough for the rest of us and we're supposed to know every detail."

"I haven't really had a chance to think it through," I say through gritted teeth. I'm too busy holding back a groan and I'm scared it'll slip out if I open my mouth. Old blood is starting to loosen up from the alcohol. It taints my arms in pink stripes, smearing onto my pants.

"I don't know what to think yet," I admit.

I'll have to figure out a plan with Mikey later, when we've both had some sleep and our functioning brains have returned. Well, as functioning as mine can get.

"It might take a while to understand, but your eyes will open eventually," Frank says, putting away pink and red cotton pads to the side. "We can talk about something more... easy—"

"Like you?" I snort. Frank slaps my arm close to the wound, so it ends up sounding like I'm grunting.

"Watch it," he says, this time slapping an extra wet pad onto my wound.

I inhale through gritted teeth, but somehow end up chuckling instead. "You fucker."

Frank smiles back like I just paid him the biggest compliment and I stare at his smile for a few seconds too long.

"Thanks," he says. "And no, I was thinking more like... When's your birthday? What's your favorite color? What's your favorite movie? How many planets are there? That's a trick-question, by the way."

"What is this, twenty questions?" I ask, but I appreciate the fact that he's trying to steer my attention away from the pain. When we talk, the pain is more like a prickling sensation in the background, like a sleeping foot starting to wake up. Except the prickling feels like it's caused by tiny needles.

"Shush. Okay, I'll start. So, my favorite color is red, my favorite movie is Alien, my birthday is October 6th and-"

"And that makes you how old?" He doesn't look much older than me. "Thirty-four?" I joke.

"Shut up." His white teeth are revealed through a skewed grin. "I'm turning seventeen this year, actually. Young as a baby."

"Hm. You must've been a weird baby."

He shakes his head, but his contagious smile widens.

"Okay, since you don't want to answer any of my questions, I'll try again," he says. "I've heard some rumors about your skills, but I have to ask. Where did you learn to shoot?"

My smile fades. I didn't expect that question. "I'm... I don't..."

He waits for an answer. An answer I'm not willing to give.

"Uhm. I don't want to reveal my secrets," I say, trying to save the situation, but my voice sounds detached. My gaze flees to the ceiling to avoid Frank's curious stare. My mind drifts to my mother. I blink hard.

Truth is, I don't want to open any other wounds.

Not now.

Not ever.

I know Frank tries to be nice and to keep the conversation going, but my mood has changed. It's weird how some memories can do that, even though they happened years and years ago. I hate how they still impact me. How I still miss them.

There's a tension in the air now, heavy and defensive, and all of it radiates from me. I focus on the pain running through my arms to distract myself from the flow of memories.

"I... Eh, I'm sorry," Frank says. "I didn't mean to pry. I just think it's pretty badass."

"It's fine," I say, but my tone suggests differently, coming off much colder than I want.

"Aight, aight, I see you're the strong and silent type." Frank tries his best to redeem the situation. "I don't know how to shut up, so we'll get along well. Eventually."

"Heh," is all I manage to get through as I'm occupied with pushing away all the memories.

Maya rounds the corner before it has a chance to get anymore awkward.

"Good job, Frank," she says. She takes a step closer and leans down to my arms, studying the cuts. "I think they're ready to be bandaged. At least you don't have to get any stitches, which is probably the first good news you've heard today."

She's right about that.

She pulls out a roll of bandage and scissors from the medical kit. Frank gathers the used cotton pads and throws them in the trash without saying another word to me. I bite my lip. Should I say something?

"Hey, Mikey, how's it going?" Frank says before he turns the corner, walking away before I get a chance to speak.

I know he was only doing what Maya told him to, but I should have thanked him anyway. He was trying to be nice, but of course I fucked up a perfectly normal conversation. Nothing new there. I'll try my best not to do the same with Maya.