Page 24 of Dragon Slayer

It was quiet a few seconds, just the beep of the monitors, and then, softly, hesitantly, “Mia?”

She turned her head – her neck hurt terribly – and saw Val standing against the wall, by the window. He wore his red velvet, the outfit he’d bargained a man for – a man he’d then killed. And really, what was her brain thinking conjuring someone like him as a fantasy? She couldn’t have just imagined a handsome firefighter? Maybe a bookish professorial type? Even one of her favorite fictional characters. No, her dumb, diseased brain wanted her to have pretend conversations with Dracula’s brother, who was chained up in a basement somewhere, for crimes so terrible he’d never explained them.

She’d let this go on way, way too long.

She sighed and turned away from him; her neck hurt too much to keep staring.

“Mia?” he said again, voice almost childlike. He came closer, but she couldn’t hear him; his footfalls made no sound, and his clothes didn’t rustle, because he wasn’t really here.

He never had been.

Slowly, he leaned over the bed, so his face was suspended above hers, his hair a gleaming curtain falling around sharp features. His eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light.

If it was possible, she would have reached up and gathered his hair in her hands, even if she was weak and shaky. Would have pulled him in close by it, to feel the heat of his forehead against her own, the warmth of his breath on her face.

But he wasn’t real.

“Are you alright?” he asked, face pinched. He looked near tears. “You fell, and no one could wake you, and I couldn’t ask anyone–”

“I have another tumor,” she said, and she shut her eyes, not able to look at him anymore. She couldn’t keep clinging to this hallucination – because that’s exactly what he was, what she’d always secretly suspected him to be. A symptom of her illness.

“Mia,” he breathed.

She refused to open her eyes. This had to end. She was ending it. She’d been betrayed by her own brain – by her tumor – and she couldn’t allow that.

“You’re not real,” she said. “You were always just the tumor.”

He made a quiet, hurt sound. “Is that really what you believe?” Just a whisper. Soft and broken.

“Yes.”

When she finally opened her eyes again, he was gone.

~*~

Donna came to visit her the next day during lunch, in the break between lessons. The moment she walked through the door, Mia was hit with conflicting waves of relief and guilt. Relief because her mom had gone to the cafeteria and, unlike Kate, Donna would be pragmatic and unemotional, sympathetic without being tearful. And guilt, because who was teaching Mia’s lessons? Schooling the horses under her care? Who would give Brando his daily handful of Sweet Lumps? He was addicted to those stupid, hard, pink treats.

“No, no, no,” Donna said as she dropped her purse – it was really a small Ariat tote bag, and no doubt full of hair ties, test booklets, protein bars, and horse cookies – and came to fall gracefully into the visitor chair. “I can feel you gearing up for an apology, and just don’t, okay?I’mthe one who’s sorry.”

She was dressed in charcoal breeches and an UnderArmour athletic tank, boots and spurs, her hair back in its usual severe ponytail. With her sunglasses perched on her head, Mia could see that her eyes were dry and clear, but that real apology tweaked her features.

Mia frowned at her. “Why would you be sorry?”

Donna lifted her brows to sayreally?“Mia, my job is to look after the horses in my care,andthe humans. Horses and students. You’ve been acting strange and unwell for weeks. And I saw it. And I ignored it, and let you tell me you were fine. I could see you wobbling out there, and I didn’t–” Her ever-present confidence faltered, for the first time in Mia’s memory. “I caught your head,” she said, cupping her hands around empty air in demonstration. “It didn’t hit the ground. But. I should have gotten there sooner. I never should have even let you get in the saddle yesterday.”

“Donna–”

“I’m sorry, Mia. You’ve been sick. I’m your trainer, and I should have done something about what I noticed.”

Mia swallowed with difficulty, throat tight. “I can’t lose this job,” she said, pleading. “It’s my dream. I can’t–” Something jagged threatened to shake loose in her chest, tear her open. She swallowed, and swallowed, and willed it away until she was just a void again. A black hole of nothingness inside.

“You’re not losing your job,” Donna said. “I promise. We can work out something going forward that will allow you time off for treatment, or surgery, if that’s what happens. Do you know yet?”

“No.” And then she finally felt something, and it was cold dread. “I don’t care about treatment, I can just–”

“Mia,” Donna cut her off, firm. “This isn’t up for negotiation. You’re sick, and you need treatment.”

She thought about last time, about her hair falling out in big clumps on her pillow every night; about throwing up in the middle of class; about the relentless headaches, dizziness, mood swings. The terror of the surgery; the slow, painful recovery.

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