Page 16 of Martyr
I finished counting the cracks in the drop-ceiling tile an hour ago, andsleep, the very idea that keeps tumbling around my brain, still evades me.
It’s better to consider a fairy-tale princess than the image of a very shirtless, shivering Tem.
No.Fuck. She’s Artemis, not Tem.
Why do I keep wanting to call herTem?
But onto a better question—who is Sleeping Beauty? One of the nurses mentioned needing to check on her, but it just seemed weird. So, naturally, I followed her down to the first-floor hallway and watched her disappear into one of the rooms.
Then, I retreated. I wasn’t about to get caught snooping.
And in my mission to avoid Tem—Artemis—I returned to my room and stayed there.
Which is why I’m now awake, burning with energy.
I toss the blankets off my legs and slide my socked feet into the shoes set by my nightstand. By some luck of the draw, I don’t have a roommate. The second bed sits empty, the mattress bare.
Moonlight comes in through the window, illuminating the small space. There’s a desk and chair on my side, and a duplicate for my would-be roommate. My therapist suggested journaling, but so far all I’ve managed are a few letters I’ll never send.
Because I’m apparently in the mood for pain, I open the top drawer and pull out the notebook. I shift closer to the window and flip to the last one I wrote.
Dear Elora,
You’re dead.
The doc said I should say it plainly, because euphemisms won’t help me. Saying you’re gone or passed or that you’ve moved on—she’s right, it’s bullshit.
My tattoos are different. I’ve been trying to relearn them, in a way. Relearn my own body. The worst part is, I don’t know what you’ve seen. The scar in the shape of an hourglass? Did you know that was there? Did you touch it before you died?
It marred some old ink, some tattoos I considered fondly. There were memories attached to those, just like the galaxy over my heart. I know, without any doubt, that the galaxy isyou.
There’s no one here to tell me what we went through. The year gap I’m missing between you being alive and dying, then the gap between then and now.
Okay—there’s one person. But I don’t want to look at her face, because strange things keep happening to me when I do. My body seems to crackle with electricity, like lightning in a bottle. My heart picks up speed.
It’s loathing. Unadulterated hate.
You have nothing to worry about.
Yours forever,
Saint
I gritmy teeth and go to the next one.
Dear Elora,
You’re right. I could practically hear you as I wrote the end of that last letter. I was lying through my teeth. But I need to lie to you about her, Elora. I can’t bear to tell you that I’m experiencing some attraction to your best friend. You didn’t agree to that, which makes it a betrayal.
I could ask Tem all about the time I’m missing, but I don’t think I can stomach her answers. Or the hurt on her face.
Fuck, you should’ve seen her expression when she came into the hospital room and I asked for you.
She was listed as my emergency contact, but no one will tell me why. No one answers any goddamn questions around here. The doc says she doesn’t know, that life beyond the island isn’t written in her file.
And because I don’t remember, I’ve been picturing the worst. I had a dream that your throat was slit, and I woke up crying. I scrubbed myself raw in the shower, washing imaginary blood from my hands.
That’s wrong, right?
