Day 10

Enough of this…wallowing. That's my first thought when I awake. Along with "still thirsty, still hungry, still here". And then, after my customary, pensive glance at my assistant's rising and falling chest..."Andrea is still alive".

Sitting up, I revisit my mind's opening thoughts for the day. I might be only human and sorely lacking in knowledge of wound-care, but I refuse to allow Andrea to simply die. We've come too far and it's simply not acceptable. Not like this.

I drag myself to my feet and allow myself another brief look at the slumbering young woman. She seems paler. Or is it the early morning light? And is her breathing more ragged?

With a small sigh, I begin my morning routine; woeful as it now is. No luscious skin creams and exotic shampoos and conditioners for me. Soft fluffy towels, scented soaps, and silken bathrobes are a distant memory too. Instead, I have a bathroom comprising of three bushes, followed by a beauty regimen that entails running my tongue vigorously over my teeth and combing my fingers through my hair. Is it frizzy at the front? I think I'd rather not know. Must be due for another cleansing ocean dip. If I can manage to walk that far. My legs seem so very shaky today. The energy's draining from me more and more each day. I wonder if retaining energy is more important than cleanliness now? What a frightening thought.

Allowing myself a small sip of water from our remaining supply, I force myself not to gulp at more than we can afford. Then, with reluctance, my mind returns to my idea. A...solution of sorts.

It came to me in a dream last night, sometime just before dawn. Dead skin, cut away, doesn't spread. Does it? I only need a cutting implement. I'm certain I found something earlier that might work. It was barely attached to the wing I dragged up from the beach. If I can just remember where I stashed it, I'll know whether it will be suitable.

On hands and knees, I dig through my pile of supplies in "The Closet".

"What are we looking for?" Nigel asks, suddenly kneeling beside me. "And is he cute? Or she?"

I roll my eyes. "There's a sharp piece of metal somewhere around here. I just…" My eyes dart all over the piles. "I can't remember anything anymore. It's so frustrating."

"Not like you, Miranda," he murmurs. "Didn't you tell me once your mind is like a steel trap?"

It's odd seeing him looking so young. He has hair for a start. Just barely, but still. "Well, now my mind is a fuzzy sieve. Are you planning on helping me or mocking me?"

"I can do both." He smiles then and if I wasn't so focused his joke might have earned a lip twitch.

"Hey, remember when you were pregnant with the girls?" His ghostly elbow nudges me. I feel nothing. "You couldn't remember what day of the week it was half the time. But you never let on. You just faked it till you made it. You terrified anyone into a new reality who might have dared suggest you overlooked something."

"I don't think I can fake surgery, Nigel. If I don't 'make it', Andrea dies."

"Well, true." He strains his neck around the side of the wing to look at her.

I give him a sharp glance. "Not exactly full of support today, are you?"

"Sorry. You wanted lies about Six? I thought you were going for the new-truth order?"

Ah. That. I say nothing for a long moment, as I move to the second pile. "I'm not sure I-I can do this," I admit, just as I finally snag an ugly ragged piece of metal and hold it up to the light. It seems sharp enough to cut skin. But can I…can I do that to her?

"Remember the time Caroline ate all the Halloween candy in one sitting on a dare?" Nigel says quietly. "Remember the disgusting ramifications? Like something from The Exorcist. Did you run screaming into the night? Or did you get down on your hands and knees and clean it up on your own so the girls wouldn't have to face it in the morning."

"Caroline was very sorry she'd done that." I stop. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Want me to remind you of that time the twins were both so sick with a stomach virus that had as a side effect, explosive…"

"Do not finish that sentence." My nose wrinkles. "I have no wish to recall the more disgusting lowlights of motherhood."

"But my point is, terrible as it was at the time, you survived."

"It was hardly life or death, though. One...works it out. And I had doctors and cleaners available."

"After the fact."

"It's not the same."

"So? Act like it is. Fake it. Again."

"I don't see how…"

"Miranda, look at it like this: Six is just another...mess, albeit a complicated one...to be cleaned up. Like that awful yellow Thakoon sundress? We both said it shouldn't have been in that show. You could have fixed his whole line in two minutes. So with Six, just like Thakoon's misstep, you just remove the offending element, make it better, move on."

"I hardly think surgery is anything like a runway show."

"Then pretend. Force it to be like one, so you can get your head around it. Focus on what you know. Act like it's something simple that has to be done and then do what you always do: Blow in and fix it."

"But how will I…" I stare at the jagged monstrosity in my hands. "I'm not sure I can."

"You can." He offers his most impish grin, the one that makes him look boyishly handsome...or it did in the nineties. "Who convinced me to throw away my design dreams on a whim to follow a crazy blonde with fashion-magazine empire plans?"

"That was different. Deep down you wanted to do that. Secretly you didn't want the responsibility of failing in your chosen career. And I just made myself sound like a more exciting option with less risk."

"So that's what this..." he flaps his hand around like a flopping fish... "uncertainty's all about? You don't want the responsibility of operating on Six?"

I bristle at the implication. "I've always stepped up to responsibility."

"So what is it?"

He would demand to know that. I almost despise him for making me say it. "I don't want her to die." There. I eye him closely. "And she will, most probably, under my hands in a few short hours. And, yes, I know if I do nothing then she'll almost certainly die. But even so, it's too much. I don't want her to go."

"You don't want to be left alone?"

"No." And the rest. The other thing that's always there, just at the edges out of reach, like a dandelion on the wind. My nose flares at the unsavory churning in my gut that's not all down to starvation.

"You care about her. Maybe even a little more than that."

"No, I would miss an acceptable assistant. We work well together." I don't know why I bother with such a useless lie. He's just my subconscious anyway.

I gaze at Nigel's face… the man he was before work overtook us along with relationships and life, and we lost a lot of our close friendship. It's so obvious this isn't really him. Real Nigel would never be so bold. He knows exactly where the line is welded between us. He knows what to ask, and most importantly what not to. He never glides into sticky questions about my emotional states or hints at inappropriate thoughts about my assistant. No, this Nigel, with soft eyes and a kind face, is just me in a different form, part sounding board, part delirium. Or maybe just a sign I've already gone mad. Maybe that's closer to the truth. I am after all, sitting alone, murmuring to myself.

So, then, what does it matter if I tell him the rest? I lean into his airless, empty form, and say, "If Andrea dies, I would prefer not to persist with this futile existence any longer." I wave at the world around me. "No, I'm not being defeatist. But, what's the point? If I can't even save Andrea, then I'm done, too."

He gives me a surprised look.

"I might live on hope, but I'm not a fool," I continue. "Our rescue should have occurred days ago. The odds of being found now are non-existent. I'm only going through any of this... these extremes of survival... for her. She needs that. It's in her eyes whenever she looks at me. Andrea needs me to be...to be her. Miranda Priestly. But when I'm no longer required to play that role... when I'm just... just Miriam Princhek, some East End nobody from nothing who no one looks up to or expects to be strong..." I fade out, picturing the shady little spot I've already decided looks like a nice place to stop fighting, lie down, curl up, and go to sleep. "Well." I straighten. "I'm tired. This is... it's all or nothing."

"I see." Nigel nods.

I hate him for his easy acceptance. He doesn't even argue with me and I suddenly wish he would. Clearly part of me isn't yet entirely convinced that I'll...choose not to continue... if she dies. But then that obstinate part of me would likely change its mind if it saw the light fade out of Andrea's eyes. I can just see me sitting there, clutching her limp hand, hating myself more than ever. Choking on all the words I could never say. Sorry. I know I failed you. You were special. Don't leave me.

I push back the horror of that picture and gaze at my art director to distract myself. Did he really ever have that much hair? My subconscious is clearly being kind.

Real Nigel would never accept my death. Sometimes I suspect he thinks I'm immortal. I suppose if you act like a god for long enough, it does stick a little.

A sudden thought occurs. How is Nigel coping with word of my death? Knowing him, he's probably overseeing the search operation personally. "Do a better job," I inform him, wherever he is, offering a small scowl. "Andrea is counting on you. And you know how much I love to be kept waiting."

Ghost Nigel laughs softly. "I'm probably trying my best. Well, other-me. You want a hilarious thought? How do you think Emily's coping?"

I smile, because Emily in a full-blown panic is inherently funny. It's little wonder I set her so many impossible deadlines, just to watch her flap about like a flightless bird. I always hid my amusement at her arch tirades of British disdain unleashed upon unsuspecting, baffled second assistants. I suppose that was evil of me. Right now she's probably wailing in a fury at the airlines, threatening them with all manner of torture. I quite like that picture. I'm sure my girls would also lik…

My heart goes icy cold.

Caroline and Cassidy think I'm dead.

Right now, my darling Bobbseys are grieving for me. Brokenhearted and in pain. Tears prick at my eyes, and I wonder how I'm even capable of it given how dehydrated I am.

"Hey," Nigel whispers. "They'll have Greg. He was a lousy husband, sure, but a loving father. You know that. They'll be protected and safe. It's you we have to get through this."

"Not me," I remind him. "Andrea. Then, if she survives, well then." I square my shoulders. "So will I."

"Then you will."

He's sweet, telling me what I need to hear. I suppose I need that, since I've been refusing to lie to myself.

I return to the fire. Andrea needs to be informed of the situation, well, assuming she hasn't miraculously begun recovering overnight. Which seems unlikely given that awful pallor. Today she will be…fixed. Like a bad Thakoon sundress in an otherwise acceptable showing. And that's all there is to it.

Andrea is sitting up, sort of, in a slouchy, everything hurts sort of way, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. For some reason, today it's increasingly difficult to interact with her. Even knowing these may be the last moments I share with Andrea on earth, I struggle to find any words to explain I'm sorry she's here and I know this will hurt. I'm particularly sorry I may kill her. I would miss her. Far more than she'll ever know. Far more than she'd care, if the situation was reversed.

If she were in my heels right now, if I still wore them, I suspect she'd feel sad for my girls, moreso than over me. She's an empathic soul like that.

Her warm brown eyes keep trying to seek out mine, as I brusquely assist her to the "bathroom" and back. Again, I turn away from that probing expression. I think I need more mental preparation for what's about to occur. I need to be strong. Steady hands, steady focus. And…she keeps looking at me.

What? What do you want from me?

Haven't I done enough to you?

I retreat to behind the plane's wing, mentally stocktaking the items I will need, even though I've done it many times now. I'm too scared to look at her wound just yet, but I know from her deathly shade it's worse. So, I can't lose my nerve now.

When the time's right. When I'm ready, I will look. Then I will do this. And it will be done.

Psyching myself up takes longer than I thought. I hover…and lord how I hate hoverers…but I do exactly that, biting my lip, trying to convince myself I will be fine. That slicing up one's assistant is a perfectly normal thing to do when all other options have been exhausted. And really, it's little different than…than. No, it's not. There are no ready comparisons. As bad as that Thakoon was, it doesn't compare to unsterile stomach surgery by untrained hands.

All right. Maybe I should look at the wound. Maybe its sheer awfulness will press me into action and then I'll get it done. I am not a ditherer any more than a hoverer, so this delaying is driving me mad.

The sun's high and hot now, turning me dizzy when I finally stalk over to her, eyes fixed on the waist of her skirt, determined not to waver for a second. Just unzip, unbutton, peel back. Look. Unzip, unbutton, peel back, look. Unzip…

"Um… yes?" she suddenly squeaks. "What are you…?"

I pluck the skirt down and open the bandage, worried that if I reply, she'll immediately know how bad things are.

Oh hell. It's hideous. I force myself not to look away suddenly because she'll see that too.

"Do you mind asking before you do that?"

What on earth? My head snaps up to Andrea's face. I peer at her, uncertain as to whether this is some form of Mid-West humor. Surely she must know she has an injury that needs constant attention?

Her gaze drifts over me, over my hair, my grim expression. "Also, I'm quitting."

That is…that is so… I glare at her with a ferocity of an ice storm. How could she possibly think that's an acceptable joke to throw at me at such a dire moment? "No, you're not," I grind out.

"I am." She says it like she's asking the day of the week.

Is she…serious? "You… what?" Does she hate me so much that she wants to be rid of me this instant? Even if it's just mentally? I won't have it. Besides, it's…it's mutiny. "You are not quitting."

"I can't work for someone who's seen what you've seen. It's humiliating."

Oh. I look away. Given her hysterics of yesterday, she seems to be fixating on the bathroom situation. Has she finally worked it out? That she needed assistance for however many days while unconscious? Well, that's just ridiculous. I've only done what was needed. And she, too, has endured only what was needed. That's all there is to it. Humiliation is a luxury neither of us can afford. I'm more irritated than ever when I reply. "That is irrelevant. Name an actual reason."

"It's not up to you to decide if my feelings are irrelevant or not," she snaps at me, eyes flinty. "And it's not like I've been very good at assisting you lately, have I?"

That brings me up short. How on earth does she expect to be an assistant while near death? "Are you an idiot?" I inquire. Maybe the sun has dazed her brain because she's acting like one. "I'm going to do you the biggest favor I've ever done anyone and forget what I just heard."

"I'll remind you when we're rescued."

Rescued. Does she say that word just to torment me? Maybe. I suppose it's her only weapon left. It's her right to lash out at me. Guilt, my now faithful companion, returns for a quick and insulting waltz around my head. Shutting my mouth, I nod, and focus on the task at hand. I quickly sneak another peek at the wound. Damn it. Still hideous. Not to mention black and evil-looking. Not even a fashion designer could manufacture a malfunction this grotesque. And I'm including the 2008 Heidi Montag zebra line in that thought.

She must have caught my motion because her neck cranes forward.

"Don't!" My voice cracks like a fifteen-year-old boy's. Well, that was subtle. "Andrea, don't look at it." It's too late of course. She must have seen. Or did she? Well, even if she didn't, my panic would tell her everything there is to know.

"I, um… okay." There's real fear in her shuddering sigh, before she turns her gaze upward at the endless empty blueness. "Is it… um…"

"It's fine," I say fast before I give away anything else. So much for complete honesty.

"Of course it's fine, obviously. As long as I'm not looking at it." 'Sarcastic Andrea' is not one I've encountered before.

With willpower, I refuse to bite.

"What does it look like?" Her voice is once again timid.

Definite fear.

"Worse than yesterday." I touch all around the wound, seeing whether there's any give. But the skin feels stiff and odd, like there's no blood in it. It looks dead.

Andrea squeezes her eyes shut and I wonder if I'm hurting her. I ease up my touch a little, but she doesn't react. Then her mouth falls open, making strange gulping sounds.

"Andrea." I give her shoulders a small shake and lean right over her pinched face. My hands drop back to the edge of her wound. "You're hyperventilating."

Her eyes fly open and she whispers. "I'm sorry." With wide eyes filling with tears and a lip trembling, she asks, "Are you touching me?"

Am I touching her? Fear skitters through me. I dig my fingers in a little harder. No reaction. Frowning, I reply. "Yes."

"I can't, um… I can't feel it."

"Andrea… I… this dead skin, it's spreading. I…" I have to tell her. Or maybe she'll guess and I won't have to? That would be nice. She's smart. Right? I told her that once. So I wait.

And wait.

Okay. She's not guessing. I breathe in and out then finally tell her how it's going to be. "It needs to come off."

"How?"

"I discovered a fragment of debris sharp enough to cut skin. If the black portions are removed from your body, perhaps what is left will heal properly."

Andrea swallows and I wonder if she's picked up on how much all of this is guesswork. But instead of questions and doubts, she sighs and says, "That's…. that's alright then."

It is? Brave girl. Brave, brave Andrea. I give a jerky nod. "I'll fetch it."

"Wait – right now?"

When else? For God's sake. Next week after the spa treatment? "Yes." Firming my voice into sarcasm, and dropping my hands back to her shoulders, I suggest in a dangerous tone, "Forgive me, did you want to call your primary physician for a second opinion? Shall I fetch the remaining shattered pieces of your cell phone and attempt to melt them back together?"

"You're right, you're right okay? Just – just do it."

Sometimes I think Andrea is a lot braver than I am. All I have to do is operate. She has to put her faith, trust, hope, and life into my hands, a woman who has repeatedly shown no medical competence, and appalling judgment.

Yet she said yes.

Part of me wishes she'd just said no. It would have been simpler. But then neither of us is prone to take the path of least resistance, are we? Yes, Andrea's brave. That's one of the things I appreciate about her. I will honor that by not losing my nerve now. Even so, my hand is shaking moments later as I gather everything I need.

"Um, Miranda," she calls out. "Where did this pant leg around my waist come from?"

I shudder. Not now. Not that. "Ask me something else."

"Where did you find the Red Sox cap?"

Could there be a worse question? Right now I can't think of one. I reappear at her side and attempt to be civil as I purse my lips and then say, "Something else."

"When did you find this shrapnel you're talking about? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I found it on the beach while you were unconscious. Monday morning." Do not ask me where I found anything else, I beg her silently.

"Why won't you tell me where you're getting these clothes? It's from a suitcase, right?"

Oh God. She thinks I've been unpacking people's suitcases on the beach? What I wouldn't give for that to be the truth.

Before I can answer, she lifts an eyebrow and adds: "Is there a Gap on the island I'm not aware of?"

Will this be our last conversation? If it is, I hope these aren't her last questions because I'll snap at her. And if I snap at her, and then she dies, I'll regret it. "I'll tell you when you can stand up without gushing blood like a water hose." I return to my little area out of sight behind the wing, and start sharpening the ragged metal against a rock. It makes a sickening scraping noise.

"Do you—"

Her question falls away when I return, holding my "scalpel". It has ragged edges, black scorch marks and a wet edge from where I was sharpening it just now.

Terror floods her face. "You're using that?"

Everything about her body language tells me this will be a fight. I can't back down now, even though her fearful eyes start my stomach churning again. Focus! She needs you to be strong. "Hold still," I tell her with a firm voice, the one that gives clackers meltdowns at Runway.

"You're not… I don't—"

"You are going to do this." Crouching, I give her a firm look, my eye close to hers.

Don't back down now! I wonder if that thought was for her or me.

"Maybe you should, um... tie me up. Or something."

Oh. That's not a terrible idea. "That is an option." Is she saying the pain will be so bad she may run screaming from me? I suppose it's good to have a head's up, if that's the case.

"I don't, um…" she bites her lower lip, "I don't know if I can do this."

That makes two of us. But I can't want this for both of us. Can't she see? If she buckles, I will too? And we're better than this. Or we damned well should be. Especially after what I've gone through to keep her alive. My resolve hardens. "No." My voice is cool and direct. "Yes, you are doing this, and no, you have survived for too long to cede defeat and you have lasted for too long to give up on me, after… everything that's happened."

I stare at her, well glare, more accurately, warning her not to ask me to elaborate.

After an eternity, where she's searched my face, and allowed a multitude of vulnerabilities and emotions to streak across hers, she finally nods. "Tie me up then. I… I need that, at least. Use the scarf. Or something."

"Try to move," I order her. As she wiggles, I decide it will do. It's not bad, even if she does look somewhat hog tied. It's possibly a little overkill. It was my fear doing the knotting, after all. I rattle a white pill bottle I found in an old woman's pocket. Tylenol PM. "I found these." I wait for permission. I wouldn't appreciate the irony of saving her life only for her to die from some unknown allergy to painkillers.

After an approving nod, I examine the bottle closely, scowling, trying to make out the label without my reading glasses. I'm probably long overdue for a check-up. I'll get Andrea to schedule me an optometrist appointment, shall I? Lovely. Now even my own inner voice is mocking me. "Over 12 years… two tablets… motor vehicle…"

"Just give me ten."

Ten? Is she certifiable? "Are you seeking liver damage in addition to your current injuries?"

"It might knock me out."

Hmm. That's not a bad point. I shake the pills out into my hand. Both our gazes fix on the three pathetic blue caplets now in my palm.

"Hurray for my liver."

How she can find humor in any of this is beyond me. I reach for Toby's cap which I've already topped up with water, and wait as she takes the pills and then a sip.

"Thank you," she says.

I mmm, in reply.

"How long should we wait? For the um, pills to take effect?"

Consulting the bottle from three different angles until my eyes focus, I say with authority, "Thirty minutes." It doesn't actually say on the label. But it always took the girls about half an hour to feel anything when I gave them medication. And Andrea seems pleased to have an answer.

Okay, so there's a slight flaw in our scheme. We're sitting here, waiting impatiently, while Andrea's tied up like a rodeo bull. But if I offer to untie her, what if she changes her mind? We can't have that. Best to say nothing.

So. I don't say a thing. We just sit there. While she's tied up. Both saying nothing. At all. Like this is normal.

Why is she twitching her nose like that? Is she a rabbit?

I don't ask. She doesn't tell.

"So what else have you found, besides the man, um…"

Oh lovely. She wishes to rake over the worst wounds to fill in time. I'm back at the wing, out of sight, as I mentally prepare for what's ahead. "Derrick," I respond sharply. "And I do not wish to speak of this with you."

Maybe she'll take a hint?

"Alright," she says.

Hallelujah.

"Later though?"

Christ. Still, if there is a later, I'd probably grant her anything she wants. "Later."

Please let there be a later.

"I was serious about quitting, you know."

I exhale in a whoosh, my eyes popping open. I've been trying to meditate, out of her view, to get my mental strength up for the task ahead. One of my yoga instructors taught me how, years ago, but it isn't working. I can't focus. My head's a mess, my hands keep trembling, I keep hearing Toby's mocking in my head about how I'll kill her with my ignorance. And now my assistant has decided to remind me her mutiny will be forthcoming.

"I know," I inform her. "However, I will not be accepting your resignation until we are on American soil." That should keep her quiet for a while.

"I quit," she announces again, this time sounding triumphant, like she's won her freedom from an overlord.

Charming. Still, I'd quit me too. And long before now. "How is the medication affecting you?"

"I'm not tired at all."

Of course she isn't. That would be too much to hope for. I press my hands down against the dusty, dark cotton pants on my thighs, willing the perspiration covering them to cease at once. And where's that calming strength my yoga instructor promised would fill me? More incompetence.

I'm still waiting fifteen minutes later for a steadying calm, when I finally decide Andrea's had long enough. Besides, my nerves can't take it anymore.

"How do you feel now?"

"Wide awake." Her eyes skitter to the blade I'm holding, if you could call it that, and the fear shines from them like lighthouse beacons.

I hesitate.

"It doesn't matter," she says quickly, as if she can read my mind. "It has to be done."

I suppose so. The trembling in my hands increases, and I force my left hand into a savage fist, before returning it to the implement. I have to be brave now. She's being brave. I search around for something to chase that terror from her pitiful brown eyes. An incentive. "I discovered a box of chips," I tell her. "From the airplane. They're salt and vinegar flavored."

"Huh?" Well the fear's gone but now she just looks confused to the point of baffled. "You've…"

"We ate them all save one bag while you were unconscious."

She squints at me, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Finally she says "You're conserving the last bag?"

"You can have it when this is over with. Tomorrow morning, when you are healing properly." There. Incentive is a powerful tool, is it not? I've used it effectively with my staff over the years. I remind Nigel often that one day he'll be in charge of Runway. I politely promise Irv I won't mention the names of his mistresses to his wife should Runway's CEO become intransigent on my budget. And I give my assistants an occasionally approving look when they please me. Which so far has amounted to three in nineteen years. But still, they live in hope.

So, this should work. Chips in exchange for Andrea's life? Does that sound as pathetic to her as it does to me?

"Right." She nods, as though girding herself, and relief courses through me.

We've made a pact. She has accepted the terms. She will live.

She will.

Andrea glances at me, wiggling her hands against her knots. "We'll split it. Now get this over with."

Her screams are worse than my own during childbirth. The noise is ragged, grating, sharp, and terrible. There's so much blood. Oh God, there's so, so, so much blood. I'm not sure what to do. Panicking, I shoot her a frantic look. "Stop bleeding!"

Blood is all over her blouse, her legs, and mine, and it's … I need bandages. Why didn't I think of this first? All that time waiting, and I could have had a pile of the T-shirts right beside me and…

She screams again as I do my best to both cut the dead skin and contain the bleeding. My headache is back, thundering in my skull, my eyes are watering, and this tool thing was not made for what I'm doing.

She's going to die.

"Told you."

Fuck off. I don't even look up. I'm not sure if Toby's here and that was his voice, or it's my own internal withering critique. Her blood is spilling on the ground, coats my arms and her torso. Her eyes are white with panic.

We need…something. Something to seal the wound, something to stop the flow.

How does flesh stop bleeding? How does…

A steak comes to mind. Oh! I don't even stop to think. Grabbing the cutting tool, I rush over to fire, shoving it in the flames, waiting as it heats up, hot enough to scald my hand at the other end. That has to be enough. There's no more time. She's bleeding too much.

When I rush back to her side, her eyes are shut. Maybe she's passed out? Please let that be all it is. Please. Still, it'll make searing her considerably easier.

"Stop! Stop it! STOP!"

Turns out she wasn't unconscious. I sit on her waist to stop her thrashing, but Andrea's raw power is incredible. She bucks me off once, but I'm back on her in a flash. We need to do this now, before the metal cools off, before I lose my nerve, and before she knocks me out cold with her long, thrashing limbs.

I press down again, sickened by the sight, while simultaneously trying to block out her howls. She's already shredded the scarf tying her up; wrenched it apart like paper. I press down, again and again around the edges of the wound, working my way to the middle.

"Stop! Stop! St – st—" Her words die out, her lips are now crimson from where she's bitten into them.

Now she's mewling like a dog caught in a steel trap. I cannot stop the aching of my heart at the sound. I feel like the lowest person in existence right now. Desperately, I try to drown out the sound with one of my own. Don't die, don't die, don't die.

I swear if she dies now, I'll never forgive her. I'll... I'll fire her for insubordination.

This is torture. It's probably the only thing we agree on right now. I lean in and press again, recoiling inwardly at the stench and sizzle.

She's alive.

And she definitely hates me. Definitely. If I had any doubts about that before, they're erased.

That's fair. I'd hate me too if someone had inflicted agony on me and refused to let up even for a moment, despite me begging them to. I'd also hate them for seeing me like that. At my lowest, my worst. Little better than animalistic in my mewling, shattered brokenness.

When I was finally finished, I flung that twisted piece of metal away, disgusted by the hateful sight of it, wishing I could throw it off a cliff. I'm too weak for that now. My whole body is trembling. Legs, arms, hands. I can't stop shaking. I can barely walk. Her screams fill my head and the look of betrayal and terror in her eyes when she... begged me to stop hurting her, pummels my brain constantly.

She must understand that I had to do it. Right?

That's the thing though, isn't it? I hang my head. I didn't even warn her. I should have at least paused long enough to ask permission first. Or to at least explain what was about to happen, so she could prepare. I flick at my blood-soaked cuff in disgust. But, no. I did what I always do: Just barrel through, caring little for inconvenient things...like permission.

No wonder she wants to quit.

She looks at me now like I've abused her. From the corner of my eye, Andrea's face is swollen and puffy with tears, her lip fat and bloodied, and her expression defeated.

I hate myself for giving her that look. For doing what I had to.

And I had to. I did. I know that. She must too. Somewhere, deep down. Still, guilt claws at me at how I never even hesitated. Never even spoke to her or calmed her or…or anything. I did nothing a decent human would have done. I just shut her out. I was so focused on getting through the hell of it all that I ignored her.

But it was the only way. It was. Well, for me. And..and she's alive. The bleeding stopped, didn't it? Okay then. So the ends justified the means.

I firm my jaw until it aches, forcing aside the doubts. That reminds me. My finger pauses, tracing along my wet, spattered cuff. I'm still a bloodied mess. I should probably look at cleaning up. Both of us.

I will. As soon as I can move again without shaking like a leaf. And as soon as Andrea will allow me near her. However, I wouldn't blame her if she asks me to stay far away for a long, long time.

Andrea sniffs, sort of a choking sob, more accurately, somewhere across from me. She sounds miserable and broken. I don't look at her. She doesn't look at me.

She hates me now.

But Andrea is alive.