I, Cassandra

35 | CASSANDRA VALLIS

My throat closes over. Tears find me. I close my eyes and fight to hold them back. The tightness in my throat escalates. The image of Miro turning to ash in my arms, her little cry unheard savages me. A sob escapes, it's a shuddering, broken thing, born of defeat, sorrow, regret. My tears melt from their prison, salt Miro's fur. I wipe them away, tender. I can't bear it. Three months.

The door opens and closes again. For a beat, I am afraid Ryan will turn the light on. He doesn't. Gratitude floods me. He stops in front of where I am huddled against Miro. The scent of strawberries reaches me.

His weight comes down onto the foot of the bed. I can see nothing at all, but I can feel him there, a mountain sheltering my valley of sorrow.

'I heard you cry,' he murmurs. His voice is still rough with sleep. I wonder if this a fault in his programming or if they left something human to him, either out of kindness, or cruelty. I suspect it is cruelty. He waits. Uncertainty seeps from him.

I don't reply. I leave him out there, alone, to finish what he has begun. My fingers return to stroking Miro's nose. She trills in her sleep and snuggles deeper into the blanket. Contentment surrounds her. Guilt destroys me. I ease away from her, plagued by dark thoughts.

It would have been better for us to die in London, I would have believed I would have found Ryan on the other side. I would have felt hope even when faced with none. But even this has been taken from me. He's a machine, both dead and alive. I wonder what happens when he shuts down, does his consciousness flee, freed from its chains, or die with him, locked forever in the maze of his circuitry?

His hand touches mine. Dissonance shatters me. His hand is wrong, but his touch is his own—reverent, tender. He turns my hand around and places the handle of the tea cup against my fingers. They curl around it automatically. Warmth seeps from its ceramic walls. I wrap my other hand around it and let its presence comfort me. I inhale. It is beautiful. Perfect. Like the meadow they had where I grew up filled with flowers, bees, and butterflies. Only this is better. Because he made it. I sip. Swallow. Somehow, I feel less shit.

I take my time drinking the tea. He waits. Every now and again I hear him running his hands against his thighs, the material rasping against his rough hands. His insecurity impales me. I relent.

'I had a vision.'

He catches his breath. Silence cocoons us. I feel like I cannot say it, but I must. I reach out to him, blind, and find his arm. His biceps are enormous. He hauls me towards him. With my free hand, I find his jaw and turn his head to the side. I place my lips against his ear. I don't want them to hear. This is only for him. For us.

'In three months,' I whisper, 'everything will be destroyed.'

'How,' he asks, so low I wonder if I have imagined it.

I shrug, knowing he can see me, despite the tomb of the night. 'Everything will burn,' I breathe. 'Everything.'

He falls completely still. The air circulation system clicks on again. Cool air slides between us.

He turns and his arms find me. I let him hold me. I want him to kiss me. I don't want him to kiss me.

He kisses me.

I let him.