A terrifying unease moves through me at that. Winston’s guilt and fear is palpable, his anxiety growing.
Something is wrong.
I glance one last time at Ella’s empty bed before unlatching the lock. I’m only dimly aware of my appearance, that I’m opening the door in my underwear. I’m reminded swiftly of this fact when Winston does an exaggerated double take upon seeing me.
He quickly averts his eyes.
“Fucking hell—why did you have to take off your clothes?”
“What is going on?” I ask coldly. “Where is Juliette?”
“What? I don’t know.” Winston is turned away entirely now, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “And I’m not allowed to tell you what’s going on.”
“Why not?”
He looks up at that, meeting my eyes for only a nanosecond before turning sharply away; a mottled heat rushes up his neck, burns his ears. “Please, for the love of God,” he says, yanking off his glasses to rub at his face. “Put on some clothes. I can’t talk to you like this.”
“Then leave.”
Winston only shakes his head, crossing his arms against his chest. “I can’t. And I can’t tell you what’s going on, because it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The fight leaves my body in a single gust, leaving me light-headed. “A surprise?”
“Can you please go take a shower? I’ll wait for you outside the MT. Just—just show up with your clothes on. Please.”
I let the door slam shut between us, then stare at it, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. There’s a wave of relief from Winston, then a flicker of happiness.
He seems—excited.
I finally walk away, stepping out of my underwear and tossing it into a nearby laundry bin before entering the quickly steaming bathroom. I catch my reflection in the floor-length mirror affixed to the wall, my face and body being devoured slowly by steam.
It’s supposed to be a surprise.
For a protracted moment, I can’t seem to move. My eyes, I notice, are dilated in this dim light—darker. I look slightly different to myself, my body hardening by degrees every day. I’ve always been toned, but this is different. My face has lost any lingering softness. My chest is broader, my legs more firmly planted. These slight changes in muscle definition, in vascularity—
I can see myself getting older.
Our research for The Reestablishment indicated that there was once a time when the twenties were considered the prime years of youth. I always struggled to visualize this world, one wherein teenagers were treated like children, where those in their twenties felt young and carefree, their futures boundless.
It sounded like fiction.
And yet—I have often played this game in the privacy of my mind. In another world, I might live in a house with my parents. In another world, I might not even be expected to have a job. In another world, I might not know the weight of death, might never have held a gun, shot a bullet, killed so many. The thoughts register as absurd even as I think them: that in an alternate universe I might be considered some kind of adolescent, free from responsibility.
Strange.
Was there ever truly a world wherein parents did the job expected of them? Was there ever a reality in which the adults were not murdered merely for resisting fascism, leaving their young children behind to raise themselves?
Here, we are nearly all of us a contingent of orphans roaming—then running—this broken planet.
I often imagine what it would be like to step into such an alternate reality. I wonder what it would be like to set down the weight of darkness in exchange for a family, a home, a refuge.
I abandon my reflection to step under the hot water.
I never thought I’d come close to touching such a dream; I never thought I’d be able to trust, or love, or find peace. I’ve been searching for so long for a pocket of quiet to inhabit, a place to exist unencumbered. I always wanted a door I might close—for even a moment—against the violence of the world. I didn’t understand then that a home is not always a place. Sometimes, it’s a person.
I would sleep on the cold floor of our hospital room for the rest of my life if it meant staying by Ella’s side. I can forgo quiet. I can compartmentalize my need for space. My desire for privacy.
But to lose her—
I close my eyes against the water pressure, the jet forging tributaries against my face, my body. The heat is a balm, welcome against my skin. I want to burn off the residue of yesterday. I want an explanation for all that happened—or even to forget it altogether. When things are out of alignment between myself and Ella, I can’t focus. The world seems colorless; my bones too large for my body. All I want, more than anything else, is to bridge the distance between us.