Loïs Bolton Danse Macabre
You ’ ve been immortal for four-hundred days , seven hours and thirty-six minutes , and you are running out of ways to die .
It ’ s a luridly bright day . When it hits your eyelids , it burns through them . You see the blurring lines of veins inside , throbbing unevenly . It means you ’ re breathing again , and with awareness comes feeling ; a weight on your chest , a pressure tight around your heart which is , against all odds , beating . You gasp in pain , fingers clawing the carpet around you . Toes cracking as they curl , your back arching , burning the skin between your shoulder blades . Then , there is the sound of a curtain scraping along its metal pole , passing through you with a jolt of electricity .
‘ Fuck ’ s sake ,’ grunts Elodie . You flinch . She ’ s marching around your room with purpose , forcing open mouldy windows , retching as she goes .
Hearing is the last thing to go when you ’ re dying , is what they say . It ’ s why we talk to people in comas , dragging out the final miracle of our sentient sacks of flesh .
‘ If you ’ re gonna make this a habit , do it when I ’ m not going to come back to your nasty rotting corpse , you selfish sod . You stink the whole fucking building out .’
You wish it were true in the other direction . Hearing , apparently , comes back from the grave with a speed that can only be described as cruel .
*** When you were ten , visiting family in Barbados , your dad threw you beneath a wave on a trip to Oistins . You remember the grit of salt in your mouth , the toothache more startling than the world seen upside-down , the water filling you in , filling you up , but you struggle to bring forward any sense of real panic . It felt natural to drown , to die in that way , swimsuit straps burned into your shoulders , jelly-sandals filled with shards of seashells . There was an inexorable tether between you and the sea , an abundant thrill pulling you down . You were going to take a breath long before your lungs gave out , long before your skull would have been smashed against the rocks .
But Dad yanked you up by your ankle with a timeliness that might have been preordained . Your mouth had already opened ; you watched the bubbles glide up over your face , and then you were in his arms . Gulping big breaths , belly expanding , little fingers digging into the back of his neck .
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