"What are you afraid of?" The voice I immediately recognized was edgy and a tad freaked out. "So she'll look different. She's still Taylor."
"But..." the girl he was talking to faltered.
"Jessie..."
There was a loud sigh. Actually, it was a very soft sigh, and it was further softened by the fact that it was at the other end of the hallway. But an eagle waiting outside a cracked window misses nothing.
I'd finally figured out that fly morph was not going to be a winner. Perching outside Taylor's hospital room in a tree was much more attractive. Plus, I could hear and see better. I really had no idea why I was there -- perhaps because I felt guilty, perhaps because I wanted the joy of seeing her humiliated. Probably the latter.
Or maybe it was neither of those. Maybe it was just a rabid curiosity that kept drawing me back to this reflection of myself. I wanted to see who I would have been if there had been no war. Looking at Taylor was like staring at a time machine -- a machine that made me two years older, but two years ago.
I could hear footsteps. I tried to remember where I'd heard the name Jessie, and it clicked -- one of Taylor's locker-friends, as I thought of them. Jessie hadn't impressed me much. Neither had Brent. He'd lost it in the face of danger, he'd run away, and I don't have patience with people who do that. I don't have the privilege of doing that. Maybe I resent the people that do.
Brent cleared his throat. "Knock, knock," he called softly, stepping into the room. Jessie was just behind him, probably wanting to see his reaction before she herself progressed further.
She got a reaction. Brent stopped dead and she, very smoothly, careened into his back. As Brent stared in shock, a muffled "Ow" was audible behind him.
"Erc... hao..." the monster that had been Taylor tried to greet him.
I abruptly decided that there was no joy of humiliation in this. For a moment I wanted to cry.
"Taylor," Brent muttered. Slowly, forcing himself, he stepped forward and sank into the chair by her bed. His eyes were wide and horrified, but to his credit he kept his tone calm and even. "Hello."
Unfortunately, moving like that exposed Jessie -- and the look on Jessie's face. It was twisted, eyes bulging, mouth open, lips wrenched downward in a hideous look of horror that distorted her face and exposed the gums of her lower jaw.
I expected a moan or a cry from the beast in the bed. There was none; Taylor, ruined Taylor, had her pride.
"How are you doing...?" asked Brent, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. Immediately he looked remorseful -- Taylor couldn't talk, wasn't about to try again.
"T--Taylor," Jessie stammered. "You... are you going to be... okay?"
"Eh... eh... ooh..." she attempted, and it was pitiful to see a creature almost without lips try to form the simple word "No." I looked away, and then, like a paper clip to a magnet, looked back at the horrible scene.
Then, only then, did my full guilt hit me: I could have grabbed her and aided her in escape; I could have wrenched her along with me; I could have saved her. But I didn't. And there she lay.
Taylor's good eye flitted from person to person. Brent understood. "Yeah. We're... together."
There were about five minutes of tortured silence before Jessie sprang up. "I need to get back," she blurted, the personification of tact. "I hope you get better, Taylor."
I saw the request in Taylor's one eye -- don't tell them, don't tell them what I am. But I knew there was next to no chance Jessie saw it and even less that she'd obey it if she had. This was good gossip. The beauty queen was Frankenstein's creation. And I was Dr. Frankenstein.
"Yeah," Brent acquiesced, slowly standing up. "I... Taylor..."
Taylor looked panicked, and her good eye blinked rapidly. Her lips twisted. "Hacric!" she cried. "Hacric!"
For a moment he looked blank, then he snapped his fingers. "Patrick. Right. Patrick's... Patrick's back. He seems fine. Nothing wrong. They let him out once they talked to his parents and got it cleared up that he didn't do anything wrong. One night in jail. Just like I told you."
Then he winced, as if remembering her last night as a human was painful.
I looked away again. Patrick... I'm sorry. Maybe I could have saved you too.
I was lost in thought for a moment, and when I glanced back in, Brent and Jessie had left, and harsh animal sounds were coming from the girl I had destroyed. Sobs, or something like them.
Footsteps? More footsteps? Were they coming back? No, I knew human youth too well -- they would never come back. I ruffled my feathers and adjusted my position, staring inside but trying not to be noticed.
Nothing could have really prepared me for the person who walked in that room.
A boy Taylor's age strode in with quick, purposeful steps. He stood a few feet back from the bed, just within the doorway. He showed no surprise at her appearance. I got the feeling that, without disgust, he could have easily shook her hand, if she'd had a hand left.
But that made sense. He wasn't human.
He inclined his head respectfully in place of a handshake. "Taylor Gregor," he greeted her. "I hope it doesn't seem forward, but I and the organization I represent would like to help you."
She was watching him with interested eyes -- with one interested eye. I felt sick.
"First, I'll introduce myself." The young man smiled. "My name is Tom Berenson."