My Pleasure, Darling

37: It's Not My Fault that People are Bad People

I feel guilty, spending so much time in and out of sleep, leaving Felix to his own devices. He's not at all worried, or at least, doesn't let me think he's bored chained up in this room with me. Sometimes the naps are short – ten, fifteen minutes here and there – and sometimes it stretches on for hours. I stray out of time, no rhyme or reason to my days and nights.

The set up the hospital have is one, apparently, standard for plague patients: Outside our door is a small room that is vacuum sealed, and on the other side of that, is the rest of the hospital. When they bring trays of food for meal times, they are slid through a glass box into the between space, Felix goes to pick it up, and when he closes the door behind him, the between space is doused with mists of pure alcohol from a sprinkler system to leave no trace of plague behind. It does the same when he sends our trays back.

My fever doesn't let up. It bothers him. Even though I feel stronger, just a tiny bit stronger, every few hours, and he can tell I'm feeling better, the fever doesn't let up.

Felix has been given a phone for the express purpose of communicating with doctors on the outside, keeping them updated on how I'm doing, asking questions when he feels it's necessary. I'd try not to eavesdrop, except that I'm the patient and I think I deserve to know.

I wonder how much they trust Felix to tell them when I'm doing better, rather than lying to them and telling them that I'm fine and we can go now. He would never, of course – too much pride in himself, I think – but it still makes me wonder how often that kind of thing must happen.

He has also managed to sneak a pack of cards into the room for us. Felix teaches me how to play poker. Felix attempts to teach me how to play poker. My heart isn't in it – the mental exertion is a lot to handle – or else my bluffs would thrash him, every time. I let him think I play terribly. It's not an entire lie, I think.

Meals are simple food, but big portions. Something makes me wonder whether these Metran people just have a different diet from us. Felix wolfs food down gleefully next to his Bablets, and has to fill in a little report on how much I eat every day. Rarely can I ever get through the massive heaps of mashed potatoes on my tray. And I love mashed potatoes.

I poke the pile with my fork. I'm so full. He's still shovelling food into his gob, mostly cause he finished his Bablet and still wanted something different, and I am so full but the potatoes are so buttery. This feels like some kind of torture.

"Felix?"

"Yeah?"

I pretend not to notice a slice of carrot fall out of his over-filled mouth. My fork makes little grooves in the mash. "Back in nomad territory." Stop. Don't. Stop talking. Don't ask. Why would you ask? There is nothing to be gained here.

"Yes?" He swallows and waits.

Shut up, you fool. Why would you ask him? There is no answer that will ever satisfy you. Best not to know. Shut up, you idiot, shut up. "Do... did you... when I..." Yes. Just like that. Make a fool of yourself and never get to the point. Please. "Did it change how you saw me?"

Aaaand this is why sometimes I am my own worst enemy.

I look up, half-hoping he doesn't understand what I'm referencing, but he does – of course he does. How could he not? What I did was a crime. A sin. Blood which will never wash from my hands, blood so tainted I will never be clear of the guilt. He puts down his fork for a moment.

"Yeah." He's more reverent about it than I had imagined. "Yeah, it did change how I see you."

I want to ask, and I want to not know. I want to apologise – he shouldn't have had to witness that. I should never have done it. Children. Literal children. Slaughtered, like animals. Why? Because I could.