The Wounded

Orry moved around the edges of the room with his hands flat to the stone wall. He had tested standing on his own a few times, but crawling was still his preferred way to get around. I encouraged him to walk because the sooner he could get off the filthy floor, the better.

I crouched down near him and opened my arms. He frowned at me like he knew what I was going to say. “Can you come to me?” I asked, beckoning with my fingers. He smiled and collapsed to the floor, dragging his bum along the hard ground, like he was a human mop. He made it to me and pulled himself up to standing, holding onto my shoulders while he wobbled like the ground was rocking under him.

“You’re so stubborn,” I said, smiling.

A laugh grabbed our attention, and Orry’s eyes lit up. “Just like his mother.” Joseph stood in the entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, that a

I swung Orry onto my hip and passed Joseph in the doorway. He leaned down and kissed my cheek, then switched to Orry, brushing his nose with his lips. “I’ll see you up there in about an hour, ok?”

“Yep!” I said, anxious to get out and up. “Look how pale he is,” I said, patting his soft skin. “The boy needs some sun.”

*****

We bounded out, barely stopping to acknowledge people as we ran through the various tu

When we reached the ground level, it was like breaking the surface of an aching lake. I breathed in deeply, quickly pulling out a wool hat for Orry’s cold head. The deep red cap made him look paler still, his eyes a little tired and yellow. I put my hand to his forehead, squinting in the cold sunlight. He felt cold, but then it was freezing out here. I shrugged and kept moving.

The light was stark, pale shadows dancing over the cobblestones. The shadow lines of the lampposts seemed brown rather than black. We crossed the old iron bridge, stopping to hang over the edge, watching patches of ice float across the water, colliding with others and breaking like crumbling puzzle pieces. Orry gurgled, gasped, and giggled. I let my teeth show, and let my hair get tangled in his wet fingertips.

“Soon, you’ll be a one year old,” I whispered. He frowned at me again, one cheek pushing into a dimple. “Don’t worry. It’s a good thing,” I said, adding, “You know, most one year olds walk.” I gazed at him bouncing on my hip with every step. I swear, I thought I saw him rolling his eyes at me.

We reached the edge of the city. I adjusted the pack on my back, the gun they’d forced me to bring sitting heavily in the bottom. I’d already removed the bullets, but it still made me uneasy. Grass waved around us at waist height, gently beckoning, come closer, closer. I moved quickly through it, grabbing at the first tree trunk I could, and pulling myself into the forest like I was pulling myself over the edge of a cliff.

We didn’t go too far in, hanging close to the edge so we could run back if we needed, but hunters had swept this area yesterday. It was deemed safe for at least today.

I put Orry on the ground and sat on my pack. He did his usual thing of thudding to the ground and sliding over to me. I shook my head. “Come over here,” I said. I grabbed his feet and removed his shoes, doing the same myself. He squealed in delight at the feel of the mud squishing between his toes.

We played for a while, sticking our hands in the mud, smearing it on the tree trunks, and making a fantastic mess.

I stood, leaving him in his pool of dirt and leaves. “I’ve got to go to the toilet. You stay right there,” I said sternly, waving my finger at him. He looked up at me, blinking, mud smeared on one cheek, and held out a blob he expected me to take from him. “Save it for when I get back.” I moved backwards, bobbing between trees until I could find a bush to squat behind. I knew he’d cry, but I’d be as quick as I could.

As soon as he lost sight of me, he screamed.

I finished quickly and jumped up so he could see my face. He stood in the mud with a stick in one hand and, when he saw me, he took a step forward. And then another. I covered my mouth with my hand, ridiculously proud of him. He was walking. One step, two steps, his hand out in front of him, searching for my legs, which were just a bit too far away. I moved towards him slowly. He stumbled the last step, and I caught his hands to steady him. I kneeled down, pulled him into my lap, and clapped our hands together. “You did it!” I exclaimed, clapping some more.

The child in my lap stiffened, his legs flying out straight and his arms board-like at his sides. The stick still gripped tightly in his hand began to pulse mechanically. My heart stopped. It didn’t beat fast or erratically, it just stopped, as did my breath.

I held him tightly, trying to stop the jerky movements. He didn’t seem to be breathing, his mouth hard and clamped down, his head banging hard against my chest telling my heart to beat, my blood to move. I wrapped my arms around him like a bandage as he convulsed over and over, his beautiful eyes nothing but white framed by blond eyelashes.

Blood trickled down my arm. I looked to his clenched fist, red pushing through the gaps between each of his fingers. “Let go,” I screamed, fear gripping me like a hand around my throat. But I knew he couldn’t hear me.

The air thi

“Baby, wake up, wake up,” I whispered, stroking his cheek gently, so afraid he might cave in, or start convulsing again. I put my head to his chest. His little heart was beating so fast, but at least it was beating. The stick fell from his slack hand, coated in red like we had been stirring paint. His palm was indented with tiny holes from each bump of the bark. He’d held on so tightly that it was imprinted in his skin.

I stared down at the blood-covered stick, standing out against the mud and the dirt for one brutal second. It spun like a compass in my vision. Then I gathered him up, rocking him slowly. He felt empty, light. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I didn’t know how I spoke. I hadn’t breathed in minutes.

The inhalation was sharp and daunting, all the panic pushing through me on that one breath.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

Not him.

Me.

Hurt me.

I pulled him close, tight, stood up, and ran.

My feet didn’t touch the ground. The cold air would have burned if I could feel anything, anything except this down-to-the-bone panic. Not him, I kept saying as I ran. Not him, not him, not him.

I shielded his head, with one hand squeezing him as close to me as I could, like if I could hide him, I could outrun this. I could turn back the clock. He flopped limply in my arms as we passed the rotted buildings being torn apart by vines. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but I didn’t know what that seizure had done to him, how it might have felt in his little body as happened. The thought made me sick. I closed my eyes. Maybe it would be ok, just a weird thing, a one-off. I prayed hard, but I knew. I knew the truth like it was etched under my skin. Something was terribly wrong.

I glanced up at the clock as we clambered up the stairs. It read 2:25. Orry, you’re one now. Tears wanted to stream down my face, but I dammed them. I wouldn’t let Orry see how scared I was.

We flew inside, the great hall cutting triangles of cold, white light across my back. I jumped from one to another, barely registering.