Starfire

Chapter 8: -Johnathan-

Over and over, Najma's rest was haunted by the faces of the dead, and their screaming voices before they were tragically cut short in his mind. He could feel that he tossed and turned, but he was stuck in a state of half-wakefulness, so he was unsure where the nightmares ended, and real life began. It was an endless cycle, a vicious repeating of events that he could hardly bare.

   When he finally did wake up, he had to wonder just how long he'd been asleep, because most of his wounds had stopped their incessant stinging. He slid off the bed, which, although it had been soft and easy to sleep in, was small, and his feet had hung off the end. There was an oppressive, constantly cold sting to the air of the spaceship. He'd never been bothered by temperature before, but now it was almost able to make him shiver.

   He swallowed a bout of nausea.

   With a short, bracing shake, he straightened up and stretched, testing everything. No wounds remained except for the one on the back of his head, and the numbness of his legs—but even those had improved. Instead of the throbbing ache, there was only a stiff pain every time he moved his head too far in any direction. His legs hadn't changed very much, but it no longer took so much effort to move them through the stiffness.

   The bright side was awfully dim.

   He wished he'd paid more attention to the dates and times that were posted around the ship before he'd passed out, because if he had, he would be able to tell how long he'd been asleep. How long it had been since...

   The thought was forced from his mind before it could be completed. He focused instead on the fact that he didn't feel as though he'd slept for much time at all, and yet his wounds had healed so quickly. That had never happened before. He could remember clearly almost every instance that he'd ever sustained any real injury and each had taken a fairly decent time to heal. At least from the annoyed perspective he took while trying to get through his lessons with whatever sort of pain here or there.

   So why, and more importantly, how was he in very nearly perfect health, now? That wasn't even right. He felt closer to dead than alive. His mind might be playing tricks on him, and he'd never know. He couldn't shake the permanent fog of confusion.

   Any further reasoning was cut short when the door opened in front of him, coming about an inch or two from slamming right into his snout. It was a good thing he hadn't walked just a little bit further, or he'd have another wound to puzzle over.

   The alien with the pink bottle of water entered through the now-open door. She gave him what he remembered was called a smile. Maybe his memories were returning. It made him ashamed to think he'd forget one of the first things he'd ever learned from his mother.

   A lump formed in his throat. Too many thoughts, too many emotions. He didn't want to face them. He didn't know if he could.

   "I wasn't expecting you to be awake so soon." The alien—what was she again?—said, setting a stuffed basket of clothes on a cluttered desk. A few things were pushed off and then fell to a floor that was also littered with various belongings. "By the way you were acting yesterday morning, you could have slept for years." She chuckled lightly, her eyes glittering.

   He was pleased to suddenly realize that he now remembered what the language was. It was a mish-mashed shared language, widely accepted as the norm for communication—especially with off-worlders or multi-species starship crews. It was usually referred to as Quadrant Common.  It was a rather slur-ish mix, for sure, and was mainly invented to open up trading lines between races that didn't have compatible language centers, but it was so easy to learn that everyone adopted it as the common language as soon as it spread into the galaxies. It was required on most planets for anyone looking to seek work in space travel or other off-world activities.