A Sharper, More Lasting Pain

Thirteen

Simone Allard || After

They drop to Etienne's side at once, scanning him for a pulse. "Shards," they hiss, skin clammy as they touch him. His heartbeat is weak, but by some small mercy, it's steady. He's alive.

They give his face a testing pat with their palm, hard enough to make a sound but not enough to cause damage. He doesn't stir. Before they can think, they strike him again. Harder. A pink splotch blossoms across his pale cheek. Aside from a harsh inhale, Etienne still doesn't wake up.

"Shards, Etienne..."

Digging their fingers under his arms, they drag him back towards the living room with a grunt. They make it a few steps before they have to drop him and pant. He's heavier than he looks. Or they're weaker than they believed.

Okay. Think, Simone. They lean into his doorframe and survey their surroundings. Etienne remains sprawled out at an awkward angle beneath them. They can't drag him into the living room, clearly. They can't call the medic ward. What can they do?

As the panic bubbles up within them, Etienne snorts as if waking from sleep. His eyes open, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

A stifled gasp escapes as they survey him. "Etienne."

He brushes the back of his head, the movement done in sluggish slivers. After an eternity, he sits up. "That fuckin' hurt," he says, staring up at Simone with narrowed eyes. His hands come away tinged with blood.

"Easy," Simone says. He flinches when they get too close, but they don't let his fear dissuade them. "You just... collapsed."

He frowns. "I did?"

They nod. "You were trying to tell me about Nadia when—"

"I'm sorry, who?"

Dread sinks into their stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. "You know who."

And yet, when they search his face for any sign of recognition, there is nothing. Etienne's brow furrows as he continues to rub the back of his head.

"You know who," they say again, more desperate this time. Their nails press harsh crescents into their palm. "Nadia DuPont. Your best friend."

Etienne's nose scrunches. "I'm sorry, but I'm unsure who you're talking about."

Silence. Simone scans his face for any hint of recognition, any trace that he's joking, but his face is scrunched in confusion. Real, genuine puzzlement.

Etienne cocks his head, brows drawing together as he studies them. "And... who are you?"

A soft chuckle escapes, then another. How absolutely absurd, the situation Simone finds themself in. And yet, somehow, hilariously pitiful. Before they can stop themself, they are heaving with delirious laughter, clawing at their collar to get more air into their lungs. Tears stream down their cheeks unhindered. And then, with a painful scream, they throw themself to the floor and let out a low howl, keening until the sorrow threatens to swallow them whole.

All the while, Etienne says nothing.

Etienne. How can he sit here and toil with them like this? What gives him the right to play at idiocy? He's lying. He has to be. He's lied this whole time, hasn't he? They want to claw their way into the depths of his brain and hollow out the recesses of his memory. Who could forget something so painfully important?

Simone forces themself off the floor. When they look up, Etienne's expression has shifted from confused to terrified.

"I-I don't know who you are," he says, lip trembling, "but you need to leave before I call the faculty."