Across the Universe

13 AMY

PAIN.

Cold so cold it burns, but not with a burning that cauterizes, no, a burning that razes, decimates.

Pain.

My stomach muscles seize. Can’t vomit empty.

Eyes see only blobs. Some bright. Some not. No focus.

Mucus slips down my nostrils, down the back of my throat. Choke. Gag. Cough.

Water sloshes in my ears, muffling the intonations of deep, male-voiced speech around me.

Hands lift me from the slush of my glass coffin, and it feels as if they are rescuing me from quicksand. The cryo liquid clings to me, pulling me back into my watery grave, dragging cold fingers across my skin.

They lay me on something cold, hard, and flat. A funnel-like mask is fitted over my nose, and air so warm it hurts blows into my nostrils, reminding my lungs to work. Hands press something sticky onto my skin, and shortly thereafter, my muscles cramp painfully.

Two gentle hands hold the sides of my head still, while two rough fingers rip open my eyelids. No, I think, I don’t want more eyedrops. But plop! plop! The cold liquid falls onto my eyes. I blink painfully, my tears mixing with the goo they’ve put there.

The rough hands go for my mouth next. At first, I don’t know what’s happening, and I let my lips part easily. Then I realize that the person is doing something, and cold liquid drips down my throat, but I don’t know what it is, so I clench my teeth and shake my head, but my neck isn’t used to moving, so my head just sort of rolls around for a bit.

The gentle hands steady my head again. A face peers into mine. A boy — about Jason’s age, but taller and broader and more muscly than Jason had been. Dark olive skin; milk-chocolate eyes with flecks of cinnamon that are narrow at the ends, almond-shaped. It’s a handsome face, one I want to trust. As I stare at him, a sharp pain pierces my head; I am not used to focusing my eyes on anything.

The boy speaks, and while my ears are still too blocked to hear anything clearly, his tone is kind and reassuring as he taps my jaw. I let my chin drop — a nod, yes — and then part my lips for him. A warm, viscous syrup that tastes almost like peaches, but with an alcoholic bite, drips down my tongue, coating my throat. Some of the soreness fades.

The boy peers down into my face.

“Mmgnna gedyup,” he says. I find that I can’t understand him. He nods at me, like he’s trying to tell me it’ll all be okay, but that’s not true — it won’t be okay, how could anything ever be okay again?

The boy grabs my right hand; the rough hands grab my left. And before I can make my neck move — no! — they jerk me up into a sitting position.

I feel as if I am breaking in half.

Once, I was ice.

Now, I am pain.