"What happened to your face?" was the question which woke me up. Every movement hurt as I tried to stretch and adjust my body into a sitting position. I want to say I felt better, but it would be a lie. While the sleep did restore some of my energy, lying on a concrete for an unknown amount of hours didn't help my regeneration at all. As a wolf, we generally healed much faster. But after everything, my body simply had no strength to regenerate, to heal. So I was stuck with the pain and the injuries. Something I wasn't in any way used to. Is this how humans felt?
"I fell," I replied simply, not having enough energy to explain that I had no idea ice was slippery. Something told me she would just laugh at me anyway. Besides, was it safe to admit I wasn't from around here? "What's your name?" I asked, curious about the name of a woman who likely saved my life.
"My name doesn't matter. And neither does yours," she replied coldly. I gave her a questioning look. "You're not from around here, I can tell. I don't know where you came from or why. The fact that you're here means only one thing, you don't matter. You are no one. The sooner you remember that, the better chance you have to survive. Right now, I'm in a need of a roommate so to speak to protect this space. And you are in need of shelter. It works for both of us. But we are each on our own. You eat what you find, keep to yourself and never leave this place without one of us staying and we're good."
I listened to her words and nodded wordlessly when she was done, too scared to protest. Her words were like daggers to my chest. I was a nobody here. My name didn't matter. My past didn't matter. And neither did my hopes and dreams. Just two weeks ago I was on the beach, angry and jealous that a girl I considered a nobody stole the boy I loved. Now I'm here, so, so far away from that place, and all those issues seem so insignificant when the comparison is this. A fight for survival everyday. How many people lived down here? How long? Did they even remember their names? Was their life ever anything but this misery?
My companion left without another word. That meant only one thing. I was stuck here until she was back, whenever that may be. And so I reached into my backpack, pulling out one of my last three granola bars, only realizing how hungry I was as I bit in. I savored the small amount of food, eating slowly, eyes closed as I adjusted myself into a more comfortable position, allowing my weakened body as much rest and comfort as I possibly could. I needed to regain as much strength as possible so that my body could heal. Then I would go find myself a blanket, some food and drink. Anything to make this place a bit more welcoming, a bit more comfortable. I survived the Wastes. I can survive this, too.
As I finished my granola bar, I reached inside my backpack once again, this time to look at the other stuff my best friend hid in this thing. I searched for a bit before I found a small black pouch. Inside were a few photos. With my parents, with Olivia and Sheyla and our class photo. Then there were a handful of coins. At home, they would probably be enough for a decent meal and room for one night. Here, they were probably useless. Did people even need places like hotels here? If all the cities were unwelcoming to everyone but their own, was there a point in having any? The questions about the culture of northerners plagued my mind as I tucked the coins and the photos back into the pouch and into the backpack, where nobody could see them, not even me. Because the memories were too painful to explore right now. Because facing what I've lost and the reality of my current predicament would probably be enough to make me lose my mind to grief.
My companion returned as silently as she left while I was trying to sleep some more, giving my body time to regenerate.
"You should eat. And drink. Your body isn't going to just miraculously heal on sleep alone," she pointed out, not caring whether I was asleep or not. "Here," she threw a flask at me. "Drink this. I'll make us dinner," she commanded and I didn't dare resist. It was only when the cool liquid hit my tongue I realized how thirsty I've been since I ran out of water about 30 hours ago. I gulped on the water until every last drop was gone.
"Thank you," I said, returning the flask. "What's this?" I asked, watching her roast small chunks of unknown meat above our little firepit.
"A rat," she replied casually. If she noticed my horrified look, she didn't comment on it and I didn't dare ask anything else. In fact I wished I didn't ask anything at all. And I didn't protest either, when she handed me a piece of the sketchy meat. The feeling that I was on a thin ice with this woman wouldn't allow me to complain. She gave me a roof over my head, brought me a drink and food. In my circumstances, there was nothing more I could ask for. And so I ate in silence, trying to imagine it was something very different. Which was hard because the meat was tough and chewy, almost like a rubber in my mouth. With no seasoning to overpower the taste, it was the sheer hunger that likely stopped me from spitting it right out.
Despite the foul taste, a bit of hot food and some water did wonders for me and as I lied back down to try and sleep some more, I felt my regeneration abilities slowly coming back to life. The pain in my bones and muscles began to subside significantly and eventually I was able to drift off into a deep sleep, away from both the reality and the dreams of the past I so desperately missed. I could only hope that along with my regeneration, I'll also find the courage to carry on through all this.