Patient B-2

Chapter Twenty-Four: Avalyn

My gaze locks onto Jeannette's, her eyes mirroring my own tumult of emotions, her expression etched with concern and empathy. "Aren... Where's Aren?" I manage to choke out, my voice thick with emotion as tears threaten to spill over, blurring my vision.

My chest rises and falls in erratic waves, each breath a struggle to fill my lungs with enough air. Despite my efforts, it feels like I'm gasping in a vacuum, unable to satisfy the hunger of my body for oxygen. I press a trembling hand against my chest, anticipating the familiar flutter of panic-induced palpitations, but there's nothing- just an eerie stillness that amplifies my unease. It's as if my body has conspired against me, leaving me stranded in a whirlwind of breathlessness and uncertainty.

Aren's dead. I'm never going to get out of here.

The thought causes my body to fold inward, my forehead meeting the unforgiving chill of the concrete below. Jeannette's shuffling draws near, followed by the reassurance in her voice, but her words dissolve into the muffled cacophony of my panicked mind. Static reverberates through my skull, drowning out all semblance of clarity. A suffocating pressure builds in my throat as if the very airways are constricting upon themselves. Swallowing becomes a difficult task, my parched throat resisting each attempt to draw in precious oxygen. Tingling sensations ripple through my entire being, my head lightening with each passing moment, teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness.

"... be back."

Violent coughs rack my body, intertwining with the convulsive sobs that escape me. Each cough feels like a battle for breath, a desperate attempt to expel the suffocating pressure gripping my chest.

I can't breathe.

"Avalyn!"

Aren's gone. He'll never breathe again.

"You..." her voice goes in and out, "...to breathe."

She'll be next.

"Sweetheart..."

I'd rather it be me.

"Aren will be back!"

My head jerks toward Jeannette, her worried gaze meeting mine with intensity. "Do you hear me, sweetheart?" she repeats, her voice softer now, tinged with concern. "I assure you he'll be back later tonight; he was taken a short while ago. He's at an auction."

"He's alive?" The words spill from my lips in a rush, my voice strained with a mix of disbelief and relief, each syllable a struggle as I fight to regulate my breathing.

"Oh, sweetheart, of course he is. Now, why don't you take a deep breath for me?" Jeannette's voice is gentle, a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. I watch as she inhales deeply, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, before gesturing for me to follow suit. I try to mimic her, but my breaths come out ragged and uneven, interrupted by sporadic coughs that shake my frame.

Aren's alive. He's breathing too.

The thought brings comfort, a fleeting sense of relief in my turbulent thoughts. I can't fathom the devastation of discovering that my own blood had been the cause of his demise. The implications are chilling- him, a being with centuries under his belt, his very existence vulnerable in the presence of such a deadly force. The rapid onset of aging, decay gnawing away at his once lively form until only barren husks of flesh and bone are left. It's a haunting vision, one for which I am thankful remains tethered to the realm of imagination.

"There you go. In and out, Avalyn," Jeannette's voice is gentle, guiding me through each breath.

"When will he be back?"