Page 17 of Creatures Like Us
“Don’t you have a job, by the way?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “I did. But I quit.”
“Why? Don’t you need money?”
I shrug, unwilling to tell the truth. The truth is, I quit after Auntie died, as I saw no reason to go on, and in the weeks since her passing, all I’ve done is work up the courage to take the final step toward the abyss.
“Never mind,” Asher sighs. “I don’t even want to know. I don’t want to know anything about you. I just want you to leave me alone.”
My chest twists uncomfortably. If he doesn’t want to look at me any longer, I won’t force him.
I turn to leave, but during our conversation, he grew pale, his brow dewy with sweat, so I stay put to ask, “Are you okay?”
“No,” he mumbles. “I feel sick.”
“Is it the cigarette?”
“Yeah. I think it made it worse.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Just some water.”
I bring him a bottle, and he sips it quietly, frowning, hand shaking so badly he spills it onto his chin. It trickles down his clavicle and disappears under his shirt.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“No. I told you to leave.” He crawls up into a ball, shivering and shaking. The room stinks of his cold sweat and the sharp tang of his expulsions.
When I turn to go, his breathing grows louder, and just as I’m about to take the first step upstairs, he calls behind me.
“Wait!”
I turn back around, eager to bring him anything he needs to ease his pain. “Yes?”
“I’m bored down here. Can you at least give me something to do?”
We could talk. We could get to know each other.But I know he doesn’t want that, and right now, he’s not even capable of such a thing, so instead, I go upstairs and fetch a handful of books from the shelf.
When we didn’t bake bread or smoke cigarettes on the porch, Auntie and I used to spend hours in the living room with the fire crackling, reading our books. Aside from Auntie, books have been my only trusted companion in life.
When I bring them downstairs, Asher wrinkles his nose. I can tell he’s recently thrown up again from the way he wipes his wet chin. Either that, or he’s been crying. Maybe both.
“What’s this?” He holds up a worn hardcover.
“Crime and Punishment.”
He smiles cruelly. “I knew you were a nerd.”
The slur doesn’t hit me as hard as he probably intended. I shrug, and my nonreaction makes him drop the smile for a glare.
“Is this what you do all day long? Readbooks?”
I shrug again.
“Well, it’s boring.”
“Okay.”
