Page 22 of Diamond Kisses

And the horrors in my head pounced too swift and savage to fight them.

I tipped sideways.

All strength in my limbs bled free.

I passed out.

* * * * *

Today was a better day.

I’d been able to stay awake longer than usual, and the agony in my bones had faded just enough for me to be tortured by the endless icy damp instead of the fiery throb inside me.

Ily scratched yet another line on the rock wall behind her, keeping track of how long we’d been trapped down here. Her pen was a jagged pebble she’d found beneath her bed. The endless rubbing of stone against stone was almost as torturous as the constant dew dripping from the ceiling.

“How many?” I asked, itching the beard on my bruise-filthy face and twisting my forearm, testing to see if the broken bone beneath my cast had knitted.

“Twenty-seven,” Peter said, his voice mostly dead. “Twenty-seven nights since that bastard threw us in here and forgot about us.”

“Oh, he hasn’t forgotten.” I flinched as I forced myself to sit upright. I needed to piss, but the thought of shuffling to the toilet, even as close as it was, drenched me in cold sweat. Yesterday, I’d gone to use the facilities and came to as cold as a corpse on the ground.

Ily’s face had been streaked with tears as she kneeled on frigid rock, her fingers reaching for me, her neck bleeding from where the collar cut into her as she fought the chains to get to me.

I never wanted to do that again.

Not because it’d taken me twenty-four hours to feel somewhat alive again but because I didn’t want to scare or hurt her any more than I already had.

What must it be like for her, seeing me this way? Filthy and broken? Fighting to stay alive, all while being far too weak to save her.

Don’t answer that.

Dropping my gaze, I gathered my scratchy blanket tighter.

My black shirt and trousers had been sliced in places for the doctor to apply the cast to my arm and ankle. A few buttons had been torn off in the fight, and the stench of unwashed sweat and pain added to my never-leaving headache.

Christ, stop it.

Get yourself together.

You’re alive.

Focus on that and only that.

Lifting my chin, I didn’t say a word as Ily carefully tucked her calendar-marking pebble under her thin pillow and lay down. Huddling into her blanket, she looked across at me. Her lips tipped into a lovely smile. Her golden eyes a little brighter as if we’d all decided to be a little better and pretend to be a little stronger.

Peter stood and stretched. Working out the kinks in his thin body, he padded toward the toilet and vanished behind the wall.

We might not be able to see each other, but we could hear. While he emptied his bladder, I did my best to speak over the splash by repeating the phrase Ily had told me yesterday. “Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Rainer Maria Rilke.”

She reached for me. Her hand so far away.

I reached for her. My fingers tingling with the need to touch.

She’d started forcing me to remember poetry and affirmations, making me promise to play along so she could be sure my concussion wasn’t killing me.

“And the day before yesterday?” she whispered, tucking her untouched hand beneath her cheek and sighing.

I struggled. Without the sun, it was so fucking hard to follow time. The lingering concussion didn’t help. Fighting back the last dregs of confusion, I whispered, “Love consists of this: two lonely people who meet, protect, and adore each other. Rainer Maria Rilke.”

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