Mud Vein(69)

He starts to mumble, his eyelids flickering from the turbulence of his dream. They are just words that drop off before he can finish them. Tormented moans and gasps intermingling with the chattering of his teeth. I lean my ear close to his lips and try to make out what he’s saying, but as soon as I do, he stops. I am scared. I am really f*cking scared. He’s probably calling for his wife. And all he has is me.

“Hush,” I tell him. “Save your pluck.” Though I get the feeling I’m really telling me.



I fall asleep for a bit. When I wake up my body is pressed against Isaac’s. I went looking for his heat while I slept. I’m too afraid to move. If he’s hot, he’s still alive. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Relief floods. I get up and light a fire. I try to gather its heat in my palms as I wiggle my fingers toward the flames. Every few minutes I look over my shoulder to check on the rising and falling of his chest. It’s barely a rise and fall. It’s more of a little flutter.

Then I get an idea. I get up and grab the cup of water from the bedside table. The cup is cool against my hand. I climb onto the bed and throw a leg over his waist until I am straddling him. I keep my weight off his body by suspending myself on my knees. I just need enough leverage to get to his lips. Staring down at his gaunt, skeletal face, I take a deep sip of the water. This is probably a stupid idea, but there is no one to witness it. I bend my head down until my lips are touching Isaac’s. It feels as if I have my mouth pressed against an overheated car engine. His lips part automatically. I push the water into to his mouth and keep my lips firmly pressed to his to keep it from rolling out. I feel his throat move, feel it push the water down, down, down his esophagus. I imagine that I can hear the tinkle as it drops into his empty stomach.

I do it again. The second time doesn’t go as well as the first; water spills down the side of his face and he sputters a little, but I keep trying. When Isaac has swallowed a shot glass worth of the melted ice, I roll off of him and lie staring up at the ceiling. After the hours I’ve spent being helpless this feels like an accomplishment. One of epic proportions. It used to be that if I finished a book I’d feel accomplished. If I landed on the New York Times bestsellers list I’d feel more accomplished. If they made a movie out of the bestseller I’d feel like I was the essence of accomplishment. Now if the man I’m imprisoned with swallows a mouthful of water, I want to sprint around the room in victory.

My limbs and brain are flaccid. I repeat the process every twenty minutes. If I try too often he starts to choke. I’m so terrified that his heart will stop I keep my palm pressed to his chest to feel the lazy thud.

“You keep him alive,” I tell it. “Keep beating.”

Ugh. My tear ducts are burning. I fist my hands and rub my eyes like a child. I need to refill the water in the cup. I could slip around the corner to the bathroom, but the water from the faucet is brown and tastes like copper. Isaac and I usually drink the snow. My mouth is dry and my throat feels coarse. I haven’t wanted to drink the water in the cup. I don’t want to leave him, but the need to drink, to pee, to get more snow moves me off the bed.

I make my way down the stairs, grabbing my sweatshirt from the banister. Isaac’s rubber boots are at the front door. I slip my feet into them and plod to the kitchen to grab a pitcher for the snow. The pitcher is below the sink. I duck down to retrieve it. When I come back up, I glance out the window to assess the snowstorm. That’s when I see him.





The zookeeper calls me into the snowstorm. I knew he’d come eventually. You don’t put on a show like this and not expect applause. I see him outside the kitchen window; a dark shadow against the white snow. He’s facing me, but there is snow and wind and it’s swirling around in cold chaos. It’s like I’m looking at a grainy television picture. He stands there for at least a minute, until he knows I’ve seen him. Then he turns and walks toward the cliff. My hands grip the edge of the sink until my wrists ache from the pressure. I have no choice but to go out there and follow him.

Isaac is unconscious, his body overheating. I leave my pitcher on the counter, pocket an inhaler and then I take the knife. The little one he left me on the first day I woke up in this Hell. It was a gift. I want to thank him for it. I slip it into my pocket and step outside, veering right. Five steps into the swells of snow and my leg is aching. I am shivering and my nose is running. I glance back at the kitchen window, afraid Isaac will wake up and call for me. What if his heart stops while I’m gone? I push away these thoughts and focus on my pain. Pain will carry me through; pain will help me focus.



All I can see is his back; the silhouette of him against the white, white snow. A black coat hugging narrow shoulders and hanging down to the backs of his knees. He’s facing the cliff as I walk toward him. If he’s close enough maybe I can push him off and watch him crack on the bottom. I search for the direction he came from: a car, another person, a break in the fence where he could have slipped through. Nothing. My legs want to stop when I’m a few feet away. This is a heavy thing—meeting your captor. I am afraid. I am afraid the fuse in my bone will snap apart as I struggle to push through the last few yards of snow. I take my last step and I am beside him. I don’t look. My own hood is pulled up around my face so that I can’t see left or right unless I turn my head. It’s snowing into the hole in front of us. The flakes are heavy and dense. They fall quickly. The knife is out of my pocket, the blade pointed toward the body to my left.