Page 61 of Palingenesis

I find myself more drawn to him than I already was, seating myself close to him, perching on the edge of the bed to be within his reach at every possible moment.

My fingertips tingle with the need to touch, to swipe away the droplet rolling down his brow and toward his ear.

He looks different without the spectacles resting on his nose or the devices behind his ears. The former I understand, the latter I do not. They seem to help increase his hearing, yet not always, and smell of electrical components.

They also bother him.

In his fantasies, he chooses not to utilize them, though he is always surprised when using his hands to communicate is accepted–as if it is unreasonable to his own thoughts that others would learn his ways.

I want to learn his ways.

His language is unlike anything I’ve seen before and I yearn to know it as he does, to show him how beautiful it is to witness.

Leaning over him, I press my forehead to his in a promise, an oath that can only be broken by time.

Once he wakes, I will let him teach me.

Chapter 33

Shannon

I wish I’d been hit by a semi truck.

It seems like that would hurt less than my body’s current state–and it would mean I was closer to civilization. If there’s trucks, there’s humans. Gas stations. Warehouses and places to dump off the load it’s carrying.

Instead, I’m in a bedroom I once made up in one of my many nights of unrest and staring at the deep red eyes of a monster.

I shouldn’t even be lucid, all things considered, let alone being expected to do what Ilios is suggesting.

“The fuck do you mean walk?” I ask with as much incredulity I can muster up without hearing myself speak. I don’t even care if it sounds thick or mumbled or forced. I’ve earned the right to be frustrated and at this point, Ilios has equally earned catching the brunt of my attitude.

He makes the same movement with his hands.

“Stand. Walk.”

They’re signs, clearly portrayed as if I’d taught them to him.

“No.” The growl vibrates up my throat.

His scarred face falls flat, irritated. “Why.”

“I need a hospital, not a fucking walker!” I yell, the words ripping from my throat and my hands in kind.

Ilios is completely unfazed by my outburst, almost bored looking as he watches my arms fling out to my sides.

“Human,” I sign, then point to my leg. “Broken.”

“Walking heals it,” he returns, again in sign language, and fuck I hate that watching his black-tipped talons for fingers flutter around in communication is kicking up a flutter in my stomach. I will not fall for it. He will not get to me this way.

“No,” I emphasize again and throw myself back on the bed. “I’d rather rot.”

“Maturity lacks.”

The cutting snipe echoes in my head, his voice replacing my own thoughts, and I don’t miss the fact that I no longer feel pain from his invasions. It’s just his words accompanying mine, tickling the back of my mind and settling into all the crevices left behind.

Lifting a hand, I flip up my middle finger at him.

I hate that he’s in me in that way. Seeing what I’m thinking and responding like he has any right to be in here rooting around. Making me see things and waking me when I’d rather be dead.