Fighting the Losing Battle

Chapter 16 - Trust Issues

I need an excuse to go back in – if she won't speak to me, I can't just stand there like an idiot. I suppose I could collect her lunch tray, see if she needs more water... That's doing my job. It definitely doesn't look desperate...

I quietly push the door open. Her back is turned, and for a moment, I can't help but stare. She is sat, her legs curled to one side. Thick black hair wildly tumbles down her back, tickling her waist. She looks so small, so fragile... My heart aches for her.

She doesn't seem to notice my arrival, too caught up in whatever it is she is doing. What is she doing? I'm about to take a step closer when she gasps, a agonised whimper. She flinches. I can feel my eyes widening in alarm. She's hurt, she must be. I can't just stand here and watch her in pain.

I cough lightly, clearing my throat, alerting her to my presence. She doesn't turn, but I see her body tense.

"Are you...okay?" The question is lame, pathetic – of course she's not okay. Nothing about her situation could possibly be construed as okay. But I have no other words, no other way to vocalise my concern.

I step towards her, tentatively. When she doesn't react, I move more quickly, my anxiety growing with every second that passes. Approaching her, I notice two things.

Firstly, she is wearing only a blood-stained slip. Next to her lies a small pile of rags, also stained – presumably the remains of her missing shirt.

Secondly, her arms are covered in wounds. Whether tiny cuts or grazes, there is barely a patch of skin left untouched.

Horrified, I close my eyes, hoping that when I reopen them, her skin will be untarnished. She must be in so much pain. She gasps again, and I open my eyes sharply. The wounds remain, tiny slivers of red criss-crossing her arms, and I grimace. I can almost feel her pain. I step in front of her, crouching to match her height. Her eyes are closed tightly, as she attempts to bear the pain, her face contorted in torment. Her cheeks are damp, tears trickling.

And that's when I notice them.

There's one on her hand, another on her upper left arm. Deep slices, like she's been cut with a knife. I wince. They look nasty. Really nasty. I think back to when she first arrived, and remember seeing the strip of fabric around her hand, clearly a make-shift bandage, but I'd never thought that her injuries could be this bad. To have kept quiet for so long, without seeking medical attention, was proof of her strength. Even if she doesn't trust us.

The wounds look damp, and sure enough, her glass of water is by her clenched fists. She must have been trying to clean them herself. I'm no doctor, but even I can tell that water alone won't be enough to help her now. The knife wounds could easily get infected, if they aren't already. I have to help her.

"Don't move. I'll be back in just a second. I promise." She doesn't respond, but I know that she can hear me. That will have to do.

I run, barely stopping to close the tower door, willing my legs to move faster. I don't feel happy about leaving her alone when she's so weak, but I can't see any way around it. I hardly notice the flights of narrow stairs, that usually leave me short of breath. Finally, the familiar door of my room comes into view, and I push it open with such force that I nearly overbalance. Stumbling to the floor, I reach under my bed, scrabbling around in the dust until I find it. The metal case.

I sprint back to the tower, heart racing, and kneel down in front of her again. She whimpers. So vulnerable. So alone. It must be so hard to be the only one left. To be constantly fighting everyone. I open the metal medical case, and am relieved to see that the contents are plentiful. I take a cloth, and dampen it with water. I gently take her wrist, but feel her resist feebly. Not wanting to distress her further, I let go. Her eyes flutter open in surprise, and I dip my head to meet her gaze.