Through Glass(63)

“Yeah,” she said, the sympathy in her voice making my skin crawl. “We found a family once who woke up at nine p.m. on a Monday, like a silent alarm had woken them. After months of sleeping, they just woke up, ready to go about their day.”

I tried to keep my face blank as I listened, even though my body was tense, my nerves flared as the familiarity of what she was saying ran over me.

“We found a hotter a few years ago who slept for eight months before he woke up, thinking it had only been a day.”

My head turned toward her. Whether I wanted to or not, my eyes widened in a panic. The shadow of Bridget’s eyes met mine, the apology behind them clearer than I had ever seen. I wanted to yell and tell her how wrong she was, but I couldn’t find the words. Nothing came because deep down I knew she was right. I had brushed off the clock winding down and the dust on the floor as being coincidences.

Eight years had passed.

Everything felt numb as I accepted it, my own fear growing as I nodded my head in understanding. I could still feel my logical side fight the knowledge, although it was half-hearted. You can’t fight something when everything that you know points toward it being right.

“What’s in the food?” My voice was soft, the fear of knowing weighing down my ability to ask the question.

Bridget hesitated, her hands kneading into her thighs as her eyes darted around before they came back to rest on me, the lids hooded and sad.

“We think it’s their blood. It’s hard to tell. As far as we have been able to see, they slowly poison those that are left behind with their own blood.”

I had thought the eight years thing was bad enough. My stomach tightened uncomfortably as I thought of the droplets of black that rained over me as I attacked it, the slick oil like substance, the moldy, greasy texture of the food. The tension in my body grew at the thought, my stomach tightening in warning.

“Their blood?” I shrieked, the strain in my abdomen making my voice sound more out of control than normal.

“Yeah, we don’t know why they put it in the food or how it makes you sleep more, but it’s the only theory we have.”

I nodded once, letting her words flow over me. I wanted them to sink in and then wash right off me like the grit that had covered my skin. I wanted them to go away, but it was just like the eight years thing. I had lived out there, I had seen everything, or so I had thought, and even with all of that, I couldn’t think of any logical reason why what she said would not be true.

I clamped my eyes shut tightly as I attempted to control the turbulence that was raging through my veins, however it didn’t seem to be working, and my panic was quite content to continue its hostile takeover.

“Why their blood…” I asked, not able to bring myself to finish the question.

“There is a reason we call them the Tar,” she began, the tension in her voice sending me on high alert. I clamped my eyes shut more, already regretting asking the question, everything swam inside of me in fear of what was coming.

“Someone placed something inside of them and they mutated, making them into what they are.”

“What was it?” I asked, my voice airy as I fought my confusion, my need to know.

“I’m not sure you would understand if I told you, but the easiest explanation would be a combination of Tar and standard motor oil. They call themselves the Ulama, but it is Tar that flows through their veins like blood, it’s how they make others like them. It’s what makes them Tar.”

My eyes snapped back open to look at her. The fear was thankfully gone from her face, having been replaced by what… pity? Pity for me? I clenched my jaw at her, willing her to say what I knew she was thinking. Make it real. However she didn’t. She only looked at me with those brown eyes and my anger boiled. The truth hurt like razor blades.

“Is that why you took my blood?” I asked, my eyes opening just enough to bring the red dot on the back of my hand into focus. “To see if I am one of them?” I tried to keep my voice level, but I could tell it wasn’t working. The panic that raged through me had already seeped in.

“Yes. We have to make sure you haven’t changed too much. If you are too hot than…”

“Too hot?” I asked. She had used the phrase before, each time with a touch of disgust on her tongue. It had made me uncomfortable the first time, but using the word about me made me absolutely jittery.

“Hot. A hotter… it’s what we call people who have been living in the darkness. The longer you live in darkness, the longer you eat the food, the more you change. The one’s that are close to changing seem to run a bit hotter than everyone else, both in body temperature and in temper.”

I just stared at her, letting her admission seep in slowly. I repeated the words over in my head, my mind slowing down as the real meaning cemented itself against my stress. Those who are close to changing. Is that what they thought? That I was changing, that I could become a Tar? Part of me fought that, but I knew better. I had seen the truth. I sat still waiting for the anger to come and surge through me, waiting for the sadness to wash through me. Nothing came; nothing except a deep panic that seeped through my lips in a displaced laugh.

“So, if I have too much of their blood in me, I can turn into one of them…” I said, letting the maniacal, desperate laugh slip from my lips.

She flinched a bit at the sound, but I didn’t care. The panic had taken over, wound its way around my spine and seeped in. I was writhing my hands together in my lap, fighting the need to cry, to yell, to destroy something, knowing it wouldn’t do me any good. She had just told me she thought I had their blood in me, that I wasn’t myself anymore.