I hang you up and then I pull you down.
I don't remember getting shot, but I do remember hitting the asphalt.
My neck is still stiff, and it takes a long effort to open my eyes. And even longer to realize when they actually have – the room is dark, black, and cold. My body is raw and heavy, the upper torso exposed to the air in large patches of goose flesh.
Wiggling toes and fingers, I begin to take stock. My shoulder is hot and pierces with pain on every exhale, causing my left arm to be sluggish and tender to respond. I attempt to explore with my right, fingering a haphazard dressing.
The cloth is rough and torn.
My skull still rings with the whip and crack of impact, turning the world dim and hazy.
Eventually I find the endurance to sit. There's a cot, or the best attempt assembled from multiple seams and textures. It's thin, but comfortable, and laid over grass.
Grass. I comb through the stalks and twist off a piece. Actual grass that's still damp.
The trees appear next as my eyes adjust, walking forward from the darkness straight and tall, thick through the base and narrow through the branches. The closest is a painful reach, but yes, the bark is knotted and rough. Following the length up, I can now distinguish the black shadow of the limbs from the much larger abyss above:
The sky.
My stomach flips. I contort suddenly, rolling to my good side to shield my face. I begin to frantically tear through my makeshift cot, pushing my fingers between the seams and anchoring in the soil beneath. I close my eyes again.
It was so empty.
The grass irritates, but the blades are much more comforting than the disorientation of the open air above. They whisper small nothings behind my eyelids, cooing to me softly.
I have to sit up. It's a slow, painful process (again), but I don't fall off the face of the planet. They cheer for me when I stand, using an adjacent trunk to help. There's another long moment where I simply clutch to the bark, taking curious breaks to peer up its height to the patches of darkness.
Where are the stars?
It strikes me then that I shouldn't be alone, and it's only then that she speaks:
"How are you feeling?"
I jump, a small noise caged in the back of my throat. She's not close to me, whispering to me from the shadows. I squint, carefully picking through the silhouettes.
"Where are you?" I call, my own voice hallowed out and weak. It burns.
"We're in a thicket just East of Kalm. A day of travel at worst. It's safe here."
There's movement, her voice getting closer. I catch her with my eye just as she's next to me. Carefully, long fingers touch my forearm, following the curve over my wrist before gently leading me by the hand. Without any shoes, she's easily taller.
"Hello," she says.
It's one step, maybe three, before I collapse at the knee. Tifa grunts at the sudden shift of weight, catching my balance, put struggling to right me immediately. Her grip is weak on my arm and hip, but the force behind it strong. I can only apologize, trying not to be mindful of her hair when trying to use her shoulder to steady myself.
There's a sharp intake of breath as I adjust my hand.
"You're hurt," I remark, quickly releasing her.
A small laugh between breaths. "Not badly. You got it worse." Tifa's hand slides to the small of my back as she pulls me closer. "Sorry," she adds before lifting me suddenly.
"No, I can walk – really – don't, please." I don't struggle.
"It's no problem if you stay still. You're light."
We begin to make our way through the thicket, Tifa straining through each step and respecting the distance between the trees, carving through the undergrowth. I try several variations with my hands before naturally resting them around her neck.
Silence.
The sky looks down on me in larger sections now. Like a weighted ink, dense in shape, and oppressive in its reach around my vision. I find it uncomfortable to look at, taking short glance periodically.
"Are Jessie and-"
Tifa cuts me off: "I don't know. I'm sure they're fine." The trees start to thin as we ascend a knoll towards a clearing. "You were shot…and hit your head. You've been out for a few days. Scared me."
The opening is cut with a small stream and tall plants. It's a relatively small patch that feeds towards a shallow overlook of rock. We're at the apex of the knoll, it seems. The water rushing loudly with the angle, it causes me to wet my lips.
Tifa takes me right to the edge of the stream, settling down in a shallow end as gracefully as possible; which is to say that we were but a tangle of limbs, splashing about. The water is cold but not uncomfortable, and Tifa is nice enough to pull back my hair when I attempt to drink. I sigh loudly, wetting my face, and washing the back of my neck.
"How do you feel?" she asks again.
Honestly? "I don't know. Weak, I guess. Getting shot wasn't fun – but the bike was better than expected. Would do again, I'd say." She doesn't smile, her expression stoic and heavy. I realize I'm staring, but I don't flinch away this time.
Likewise, Tifa meets my gaze easily, making no attempt to hide the slight shift of her eyes as she examines various parts of my face. I can feel them touch my nose, jaw, and lips.
She must have Western roots with the subtle slant of her eyes – similar to the shape of Yuffie's with the same dark hair, except where Yuffie's was feathered and silk thin, Tifa's is thick and tangled. Likewise, her skin is that even tone of milk with a honey base. She's beautiful, there is no question about that.
But those eyes. In the darkness, they hide red hues in black. But I know they're there, simmering like coals.
How fitting.
"Why did you do it?" I ask suddenly.
She doesn't look away, but focuses on my eyes. "To survive."
I knew a boy growing up, the son of my mother's friend down the road. He had a morbid fascination with catching spiders in jars. Riding the high off quickly scooping them up and screwing the lid tight. He'd then dare me to press to the glass and watch the thing coil in the top corner.
Ready to strike.
Or maybe for the better view to look out the glass sky,
"How many people have you killed?"
That came out wrong. Or maybe not. I don't think you can ever ask something like that politely.
Tifa looks away. "A lot." She taps the surface of the stream. "Some with my hands. Most with explosions. Never expectantly, but never with hesitation." She stops talking but doesn't seal her lips.
"Am I a murderer?"
"No," I say reflexively and without much thought. Perhaps for the best.
This doesn't seem to ease her. She continues to create ripples, taping delicate patterns in the water.
I'd never met a murderer that cried.
Her shoulders begin to shake, her hands collapsing to her face to muffle the noise and hide her shame. Tifa crumples in on herself, sobbing in silent heaves. I think to comfort her, reaching out several times, but never connecting.
"I'm sorry," is all I can manage. "I'm so, so sorry."
The sky turns red watching us as we sit in the mud. She doesn't cry the entire time, but I'm silent with my hands folded across my bare navel. Left with my thoughts and echoes.
Dawn. It's not as unsettling as the night, but it pulls long shadows over her face and neck, illuminating her eyes.
"I wish I was stronger for you," I finally say over the distant song of a sparrow.
"Me too."
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