8. Paint
If one of us must be taken today, then let it be me. Not Alandi. Me.
She followed me to the hospital with the covered windows, crying all the way. "Please," she begged. "Don't leave me." But I couldn't go inside with her. My legs would not move. I was weak. A coward. I ran.
I am quick to reach the highest accessible point of the tallest dome in our settlement. Cold air burns inside me, a sharp, biting pain like a rope against my chest. Dust blows into my eyes and chest, but I make no move to shield myself.
Coward. I deserve to feel its sting. It mingles with the tears already gathering in my eyes. My fingers ache as one hand clasps the dome's jagged edge. I lean forward, looking down. The ground is a patchwork of textured sand.
How easy it would be, just to let go…
They called me a miracle. Their gift; their hope. The boy who would live. Tears spill all the way down to my chin, but I will not wipe them away. It only takes a single step to back away from the building's edge.
Coward.
My other hand holds a folded cloth scroll, containing every possible hue of powdered flora and stone. I sit on the edge of the farthest beam, with the plain extended before me like a blanket, and unfurl the case so that its colours are arrayed in a row across my knees.
Not Alandi. Me.
The old man at the edge of town once told me how to mix a rainbow of colours, and blend them together to create something beautiful. Green from crushed leaves. Yellow from the dust of the surrounding rocks. Blue, white, orange, black, and red. The powder mixes easily with water from a flask at my waist. My fingers are sticky and trembling as I dip them into the crimson paint and smear it in uneven lines across my face.