To Be A Champion

Chapter 41: my tears ricochet

"Ow," I hiss, dropping the needle I'd been using to sew a whip stitch to fix the seam of Sam's jumper. I bring my pointer finger to my mouth, sucking on the tip to relieve some of the sharp pain.

"You okay?" Sam asks, looking up at me while he sits on his cot. I nod, finger still in my mouth before taking it out. It shines in the light from my saliva.

"Yeah, just pricked myself. Nothing serious," I reply, although my entire body recoils as a small bead of blood wells up from the injury.

It's not the blood itself that gets me. God knows I've bled much more from far worse injuries. It's the color—red.

I've come to hate that color. After yesterday's events at the festival, I can't even stand to look at it. It's a shame since it used to be one of my favorite colors, seeing how good I look in it. But now, all it reminds me of is the entire island's impending death.

It reminds me of the dreams now taking over my mind—that nothing but red is taking hold of me. Red skies, red ground, red rock, red growing from my rotting flesh and running through my veins. In my dreams, there are words that hold no voice, yet I can still hear them. Even as it takes me, rips me apart bit by bit to make me into its own creation, I still hear the words with no voice. Somehow, I know there's malice behind them, fury, anger, and something else that makes me tremble to the point that more of my skin falls into the red earth as I rot away.

"Imposter, mimic, charlatan, fox."

They're much like the words I've heard before, although some are new. The meaning, however, stays the same. Whoever the skincoat leader is, whether it be the laird, which we think is highly likely, or someone else, they must be using the red fungus to talk to me. They don't like that I've got a man-made version of the fungus in me because it's slowing down the progress in my body.

I hate the dreams. I've only had two of them, so I can only imagine how bad it must be for everyone else who've had several. I never thought I'd wish to have dreams where I'm someone else—either a me in a different life or a different person in this world, or a dream that shows my own past or future.

Even though those dreams hurt, I didn't feel myself rotting away like this. I've felt myself dying in my dreams and visions, and they were horrible. But in these dreams, I can somehow feel everything that's happening to me—the rotting, the fungus spreading inside and outside of me—yet I also feel nothing at all. It's appalling, and when I open my eyes and make it back into the real world, I find myself trying not to vomit over the floor.

Sam's warm hand rests on my arm, and I jolt so hard that the needle in my lap falls to the floor, taking a considerable amount of thread with it. Sam withdraws a bit, brows knitting in slight concern as he looks down at me. I didn't even notice him getting up from his cot.

"You got that glazed-over look in your eye," He says. "Didn't want you getting lost in your own head."

"Sorry." I pick up the needle, but then just as I'm about to continue the stitch, I pause when I notice the small dark spot on the cuff of the green jumper. I groan. "I got blood on it."

Sam's eyes search for said blood spot, then shrugs. "It's not that big."

"I was supposed to be fixing this for you, not ruining it more."

"It's not ruined," He says as he sits beside me, smiling at my dramatics. "And you know you don't sew my jumpers up anyway. I know how to sew."

I send him a look. "I've seen you sew. You mess up and have to undo and redo the stitching like five times before you get it right."

He scoffs teasingly. "At least I don't get blood on it."

"I'll get it out."

"I was joking." Sam grabs the needle, thread, and jumper and sets them aside on the cot. He gives me a silly half-smile. "Besides, it's hardly my favorite one anyway."