The Immune

28. Waiting

When I was smaller, watching my mother go through the phases of infection, I tried to escape it. My friends would pull me away to play with our dolls and games. Distraction was so close. So easy. Sure, Mom was important to me, but I was young and easily escaped into my childish alternate reality.

This time, I can't escape it. The loss of Isaac is first and foremost in my brain, tearing me apart from the inside out. Breathing burns my lungs; opening my eyes proves near impossible. Time ceases to pass, leaving me alone with my remorse.

He would be alive if it wasn't for me. I could have pulled him into the room with me, left him back at the Alma with Mandy, or told him to go with Jane to Compound 3. Maybe I should have tried to break out of Compound 4 alone and left him to his guarding job.

But I was selfish. I wanted company. I brought him along so that I had someone to talk to, someone who was familiar.

I miss him more than I thought humanly possible. The gentle tone in his voice, the way he laughed, his contagious smile, his evergreen eyes. I wish I could analyze his sketches deeper. I would trace the indentations on the paper. Every thread of my being wants to be back on that highway with his head in my lap, touching his hair, and sleeping with our heads touching.

It only becomes clear to me when he isn't beside me just how much I've been taking for granted.

White walls surround me. They're soft, covered in plush cushions. I don't have a bed or windows. Overhead, a single, bright, white light blinks occasionally. I've squeezed myself into one of the corners, head tucked between my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible.

At first, people came in and out of the room. They cleaned my wounds and gave me injections of unknown origin. When I started to heal, though, the nurses stopped visiting. Instead, they open up a slot in the door and drop small bags through. The pile at the base of the door grows, and the smell of molding food fills the small room. I can't eat, though, because I deserve to die.

Isaac would be so disappointed in me for giving up, but thinking about him cripples me even more.

How much time has passed is a mystery to me. I drift in and out of nightmarish sleep, sometimes screaming for anyone to hear. I pray to a God I've always somewhat believed in— not for myself but Isaac.

I count the tiles on the ceiling to pass the time. Nine down, fifteen across. That's a total of 135 tiles. I carve into the cushions with my fingernails. Since I'm not cuffed in the room, I've chewed them down to nubs, and they grow back at awkward, sharp angles. Then, I pick at the caked blood on my jeans. Flakes of my blood, Isaac's blood, and Clare's blood gather on the white, cushioned floor.

Most of my time, though, is spent screaming and crying, talking to the ghosts that share the room with me, and begging for someone to tell me whether he's alive or dead. Not knowing drives me insane.

I'm ripping through my jeans when I hear the door unlock. I shield my eyes as new light rushes in with the silhouette of a person.

"Hello, sweetheart."

Fear and rage rises up in my chest at the sound of Hartley's voice. I uncover my eyes and scowl at him as he leans leisurely against the door frame.

"What?" I croak. Dehydration has nearly stolen my voice. Or maybe it was the screaming. My hands shake as I push myself back into a corner, as far away from him as possible.

"I see solitary hasn't dampened your attitude." He smirks at me. "I just came to inform you of your public trial date. It was yesterday. I didn't really feel like it was a good idea for you to be present in your current state. You look rough, Jaelyn." He takes a step towards me, and I push myself further into the wall. "Want to know what they said?"