Page 66 of This Vicious Hunger
“Get off me,” she snaps. In one swift movement she shoves me backwards and I stumble upright. “Don’ttouchme. Are you insane? You think I want you now, after all you’ve done? You think I want the guilt of your touch, of your death? Fuck you, Thora.”
“After allI’vedone?” I scoff bitterly. The anger that rises inside me is unexpected, but hot and bright. Strong. Everything is sostrong. “You are a liar! Since the moment I met you, all you’ve done is tell a story—and I’m sick of hearing it. You’ve twisted me round your finger since the beginning.
“Everything I have done is because of you. When I came here all I wanted was freedom, my own life and my own future—and then I found you. You lured me in, you—”
“You can’t blame me for that either,” Olea snarls. “You were so eager to come into my garden you’d have eaten out of the palm of my hand when we first met if I’d let you. Don’t you recall the way you begged, night after night?”
“Because ofyou,” I hiss. “You’re poison, Olea. Addictive, yes, but deadly. You take and you take from people, and the worst thing is, I don’t even think you know you’re doing it. What about your friends beyond the gate? How many of them knew what they were signing up for when they tried to befriend you?”
“I never meant to hurt any of them.” Olea’s voice is stone-cold, her eyes like liquid darkness.
“What about Clara?” I push. “You never meant to hurt her either? Even though she hurt you? Even though her death was an obvious punishment for what she stole from you?”
“She took everything from me!” Olea roars. “What should Ihave done? I have nothing. Nobody to help me, to look out for me. How else am I supposed to protect myself?”
“Protect yourself,” I spit. “And now you’re going to just die? Tell me, Olea: What is your life worth? Is it worth Clara’s? Is it worth mine? What about Leo, who’s still mourning his goddamn wife because of you? How many more people have to sacrifice themselves to your cause before you realise that none of this is just going to go away? It doesn’t matter how badly you want that.”
Olea goes very, very still. “Do you think I wanted any of this?” she whispers. “I told you I was a monster and you said I wasn’t. Do you feel differently now, Thora?” Her voice grows, steel edging her words. “Or are you too busy working with the woman who has kept me in this goddamn cagemy entire lifeto see you’re just as bad as we are?”
“You didn’t tell me about her,” I argue. “How was I supposed to know? Iaskedyou if you needed my help—”
“What, I was just supposed to trust you?”
“You dragged me in!” I cry. “I never said you had to trust me, but you chose to be my friend. You chose to come to the wall, night after night. And now I’m trapped in this nightmare because of you, and all you do is lie. And, yes, Olea, lying by omission is still lying. You lied about Petaccia, you lied about Clara—and you’re a—a killer—”
Olea’s laughter is unhinged, throaty and so deep it sounds born out of hell itself. It echoes. She climbs to her feet, limbs gangly and gait uneven as she staggers towards me.
“I’m a killer,” she repeats. “I’ma killer. Are you joking right now? That’s your vindication for your behaviour? You left me. After all your talk of trust. I did trust you, the garden trusted you and welcomed you inside, and you fucking abandoned me, just like everybody else.”
“Fine,” I seethe. “You don’t deserve it anyway. I was going to use this as a bargaining chip for your freedom, but since you don’t trust me I guess I’ll just focus on getting myself out, shall I?”
I don’t know if I mean it. In the moment, perhaps I do. I turn away from Olea easily, anger burning away the regret, and I storm down the stairs. I don’t stop until I’m standing panting outside in the waning light of the moon. I grip the vial, holding it up to the moonlight. Is anything worth this pain? It feels as if my heart is cracking inside my chest. If Olea won’t drink the antidote, then I’ll just give it to Petaccia as is. She’ll have to let me leave the university. Then… where would I go? Anywhere would be better than here. Even if it means being alone. Part of me wants to smash the bottle.
Dawn is just beginning to purple the edges of the sky. Dark clouds gather and the air stinks of impending rain. I suck it down, filling my belly with it, the electricity of it zinging through me like the tartness of lime juice.Fuck Olea, I think. I crumple to my knees, great racking sobs crushing my lungs.
And then I hear her. She is slow, shuffling her way down the stairs and through the tower door like an old crone, her nightgown bunching as she carries it around her knees.
“Wait,” she rasps. She stumbles as her damaged feet make contact with the earth. A zap of lightning forks through the trees. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment I can’t stop the sobs. They smash through me like gunfire, each breath a bullet.
“Me too,” I say eventually. “I didn’t mean to say any of it. I just want… I thought this was the life I had dreamt of and it’s not. I need to get out of here, Olea. I want to be free. With you, if that’s possible.”
The truth is, no matter the lies that have spooled between us like thread, no matter the histories that have driven us to this dark place, I don’t want to do any of this alone. Olea isn’t much of an ally, but she’s all I’ve got.
She kneels beside me. With a tentative hand she reaches for my knee, waiting to touch it.
“It won’t hurt you?” she asks. I shake my head. “The…That.” She gestures to the vial. “Does it really work?”
“I think it does.”
“Can I see it?”
I hold the vial out to her. Gingerly she takes it, holding the glass up to the pale light of the coming dawn. How long has it been since Olea was able to enjoy the warmth of day without having to dress like the wrapped-up dead? I rock back on my heels. She pops the waxy seal and it tumbles into her lap.
I expect her to sniff it. To dip her little finger in and test the liquid on the tip of her tongue, as I have often seen her do out in the garden with nectars and fruits she isn’t so familiar with. I half expect her to throw the vial away. I wonder if she can smell the bread-and-honey scent, if the flaring of her nostrils is intrigue or disgust. The liquid surges inside the glass, but Olea doesn’t react.
“I trust you,” she says.
