Fifteen

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I don't know what's worse, drowning beneath the waves or dying from thirst, choosing to hold on to the life that's destroying you or letting it go.

I sit there, tears pricking my eyes, pale hands trembling with fear and sorrow. I've been trying to block out the screams, but now it's impossible. The noise rips my heart to be set free. At first it was the occasional wince of a groan, but then it got louder and more constant.

Ian's voice plays in the background, murmuring words I can no longer make out, he jerks me a couple of times, trying to grab my attention but the agony withholds my senses, making even my vision become spots of red and yellow.

It feels as though cold metallic claws are digging their way into my brain. Chiseling some warning on the walls of my skull, and it's not my choice to hold on to the memory no more, it's rewinding it's own self, engraving the image of the boots in my head along with the agony. Sweat showers my body impinging with the cold breeze making me shiver.

"Ian," I breathlessly whisper through my sobs holding on to his shirt, begging him for help he can't provide and through my hazy vision, I can see tears weighing his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I hear him whisper, then pauses for a few minutes, sniffles a couple of times before he fetches his clothes and take out something small with a metallic luster, holding it between his fingers. The strong early light shines strongly from the steel barrel of what I think is a revolver. The vagueness my mind curses my vision with makes it hard for me to tell what it is, and the soreness showering my head makes it hard for me to process.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice intermittent and I clench onto his clothes. Tears stream down my face, I can't even tell whether they're tears or blood. Breaths escape my mouth in chaotic order, my heartbeats became random. I should've listened to him, I should've let it go when I can. My vision goes dark again and I see it once more for the thousandth time. It feels like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, on the very edge that a breeze can throw me off.

Ian holds my head between his hands and I jolt a bit from his grip, "What are you doing?" I ask again, tightening my grip on his clothes, trying to jerk out of his grip. Fear pricks my heart as he places my head on his lap, mouthing something I can't make it out.

Before I can try to get up, a hum saunters into my ears, it starts abruptly, randomly, loud and soothing. The music is like liquid adrenaline being injected right into my blood stream - not so strong as to freak me out, but just enough to make me tingle and focus on it. It dwells the tension in my body, brushes over my heart gently, dances around my brain and my hands involuntarily slowly unclench.

The sound is slow, palliative and I abruptly heave in a breath as though someone has been choking me and decided to set me free. Objects start falling into place and the throbbing pain doesn't resign but it deliberates. Ian doesn't stop and he keeps on blowing on the metallic small instrument in his hand. I sit there, not strong enough to lift myself up as I look at him. Though there's still a white cloud over my eyes, I can see the crease formed between his brows. With his eyes shut, he produces music as though he's breathing through it.

I release the tension in my neck, resting my head on his knee and I let the music shoot arrows of quiescence midst my heart as I look at the grey sky that's been watching us all along, watching everything all along and I want to ask it if it thinks I deserve this.

"Why?" I whisper, because that's all I can think of. Maybe I've done horrible things in the past, but I'm not ready to pay the price yet. Why do I have to get punished for something I don't know I did?

Ian stops the music filling my heart with solicitude and I close my eyes, preparing myself for the pain but it's still tranquil there. It's stopped.

"They don't want you to see this particular memory," He explains, but this is not the explanation that I want.

"Why me?" I ask, my voice pale.

He pauses. "Why anyone?" He should be answering me, but the words come out with depth. They're too heavy for me to weigh at the moment, but I know there's so much behind them. "We can stay here for the night if you want." He says, looking down at my face in his lap.

"No," I shake my head. "We need to get going." I say, slowly getting up, wincing a couple of times. The last thing I want is to spend a night alongside a vertebrae. I just want to get to this Hamlet, sleep under a roof, with both of my hands moving freely as soon as possible. People won't know who I am, I probably won't see anything that reminds me of the person I am. I no longer feel the desire to know what has gotten me to the installation, or to know why did I go to the palace, or anything at all. I want to survive this.

"Can I see it?" I ask, stretching my hand out before he can put the metallic instrument in his pocket. He puts it in my palms carefully as though it might shatter. It looks old, a bit rusty, nevertheless, it's beautiful.

"Harmonica," He says. "My grandma gave it to me. It existed before all those electronic instruments, you know." In fact, I don't know, but I nod anyways tracing the edges of the rectangular piece of metal. It's the size of my palm, and it's amazing how something that's so small might've witnessed so much, traveled from a hand to hand to exist here at this very moment.

"You play it nicely," I say, handing it back to him. He takes it from me, half-smiles and turns around to tuck it back in his clothes. It's funny how both of us existed at the same place, wore the same clothes, had the same fate, yet hid completely different things in out pockets.

When he turns around and runs a hand through his tousled black hair, I can't tell why my heart is starting to race or why the air suddenly feels awkward or why am I inspecting his face close enough to notice the birthmark under his jawline. I don't know why do I have the desire to close the space between us that felt already cramped a day ago. I don't know why the chain feels as though it's too long now.

"We don't have to do this today," He nods his head at the sand river, breaking the awkward silence, or so it felt to me. "We're a few miles away from Novak, I thought it'd take us more than that to get there." He says, and the sentence strikes me. Novak, it feels as though the name wrapped its arms around my shoulders, embracing me. I can't help but smile and the urge to cross this damned river gets stronger.

"We'll do it today." I nod, making him frown.

"Cerissa, if you lost your equipoise for three seconds-" He says cautiously before I can cut him short.

"I've been feeding on this sentence all day already."

"You'll get us both killed." He continues anyway and I sigh, as he studies me for a second as though he can see it on my face whether or not we're going to make it. "Alright then, we'll have to take off our boots, they'll dive into the sand and slow us down," he says, already bending down, unlacing his boots. His muscles move beneath his clothes in a way that'd make a person look attractive just by waving, his dark hair leans forward with him, having the blazing sun look soft by shining on it and it feels foreign to think like that, to suck a sharp breath at his sight, to notice those details suddenly so I shake the idea out of my head, leaning down to unlace my shoes.

"You'll find it cool and convenient under your feet. No matter what, don't stop." And then there's the way he cautiously talks, makes you want to slap him.

I heave in a breath. "I think I've done this before." I say, trying to assure him, but he pauses and looks at me, clenching his jaw.

"You don't know that," he says, shaking his head. But I know that. I've seen me, the real brutal me and I must've crossed it, whoever was standing behind me couldn't have stopped me.

**

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