The Chickadee Girl

The Key

She ran without being certain what she was running from, and wondering, with every footfall, if she should turn back. She ran, a terror so real nipping at her heels that she half turned to see if it was actually there.

She came to a halt in front of the infirmary, and looked back to see if he'd followed. Nothing. Her distress came in waves. Had despair taken Tristan over so completely? Could she, or should she go back? She clutched at her face. Nothing made sense. Why and how could he have medicine with her name on it? Why would he hide it from her? How could the child she had come to love suddenly make her blood run cold?

Isa crashed into the infirmary through the side entrance, desperate for somewhere to take cover, turning the bolt behind her. She was in the infirmary's kitchenette, a cramped white room with nothing but a microwave, a mini-fridge and a small cafe table and chairs. A sink and a block of grey cabinets stood against the window to her immediate left, and she began rummaging through them, desperate to find a replacement weapon for the hammer she'd left in the room. A package of plastic cutlery, some mustard-coloured melamine plates, and a box of plastic food wrap. A single chipped mug. She spied a small tower of cardboard boxes wedged into a corner, and rummaged through these as well. They were a supply delivery from a pharmaceutical company that someone had opened but never unpacked, and they were full of bandages, cotton swabs, acetaminophen, ibuprofen and rubbing alcohol.  Nothing useful in terms of self defence. Without missing a beat, she wedged them in front of the door she'd just come in. They would at least slow him down, if he tried to break in. 

Who? At this point, she wasn't sure if the "he" she was running from was Tristan or Stagger, and that thought further distressed her. She sat down against the boxes, and held her head for a moment, then leapt back up to pull the curtains shut over the sink and opposite the kitchen table. She couldn't let him see inside, or he'd be on her in a second, she knew it. 

Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Sunlight slotted in under the curtains, and she watched it slowly travel down the wall. Gradually, her breath slowed, and she realized she was rocking back and forth ever so slightly. 

Was she being absurd? Was there a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this? An Autumn that was unseasonably dry and warm, maybe? Perhaps she had filled that prescription herself and forgotten it in a drawer, and Tristan had simply stumbled upon it? 

"Can we go, now?" He had asked her that. What did that mean? Remembering the intensity in his tone, she trembled afresh. Her eyes darted from window to window, squinting for a shadow on the curtains. 

More time passed. Her throat was paper-dry. Carefully, she rose and drew some water from the tap into the chipped coffee mug. She sat back down against the boxes, and felt some relief as the coolness of the water passed down her throat. She ran a finger over the chip in her mug, pressing down until it left a mark in her fingertip. It hurt. This couldn't be a dream. She'd wondered several times if she might wake up and suddenly find herself in Peyman, with Cass sprawled in the bed across the room. Hoped and prayed, actually. Was it possible? It would explain a lot. 

She stood and pulled down the waist of her track pants, exposing her upper thigh. The place where the knife had pierced her had long since scabbed over, and it was shrinking up by the day. There would be a scar. That was real enough, and she recalled the pain. She was hungry and thirsty, desperately so. Those things didn't happen in dreams, surely? She reached into her pocket and felt the chickadee pin between her fingers. Without hesitation, she pulled it out and jammed the post into the pad of her thumb. That hurt, too, to the point that she wished she hadn't done it. Blood seeped to the surface, and she pulled out some alcohol and a bandaid from one of the boxes. 

After another hour of absolute silence, she rose again, and began to wander through the infirmary, hands clammy, poised for flight.  She hadn't been back inside since she and Tristan and Midas had moved into Peyman. There was enough room in the little health centre for about eight students to lie down in small, private rooms like the one she'd nursed Tristan back to health in. This was a generous space, given that each student already had a bedroom on campus, and that at least three of them were usually there to duck out of Herr Bachman's German class. Isa wandered into the room where Tristan had slept, and ran her hand over the still-rumpled bed clothes, fighting tears. She'd cared for that boy as though he was her own, and she'd just fled, leaving him helpless in Peyman, without even giving him a chance to properly explain himself. He'd lost Midas two days before, and now she'd abandoned him, as well.