A yawn tugs at my mouth. The effects of the vampire blood are wearing off. And for the first time in four months, I have no reason to fight the exhaustion, to hold off on the sleep I’ve been craving for so, so long.
Well, I guess there’s one reason.
Something tells me I’ll face my own trauma loop.
I yawn again. The weight of the world presses on my eyelids with a titanic foot. Without the vampire blood, fighting a four-month sleep debt is like holding my breath beyond a couple of minutes. Failure is guaranteed.
Fine. So be it.
I get as comfortable as I can on the stone floor, close my eyes, and instantly fall asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I’m in the apartment I’ve been sharing with Mom on Gomorrah. She’s looking at me, her pretty brown eyes sad as always. I know for a fact she’s had at least a week of poor sleep, yet she’s as beautiful as ever. Whatever pleasant facial features I have, I undoubtedly inherited from her. In fact, out of the two of us, she’s the one who looks like Halle Berry.
“Not this again,” she says, sounding tired.
“Your symptoms are worsening.” My voice rises an octave; I can’t help it. “I heard you screaming at night.”
Her face turns ashen. “Did you walk into my bedroom?”
I glare at her. “No. More importantly, I didn’t break my promise. I didn’t invade your precious dreams.”
She exhales in relief. “I just had a nightmare, that’s all.”
“About what?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.
“Can’t remember. Can we talk about something else now?”
“Was it something to do with my father?” I watch for her reaction.
Some emotion flashes in Mom’s eyes, but so fleetingly I can’t be sure I really saw it, let alone figure out what it was. “How many times do I have to tell you?” she snaps. “I don’t remember him, nor is it a topic I like to talk about.”
“If you don’t remember, how do you know you don’t want to talk about it?”
She shrugs and looks away.
“Fine. You haven’t been eating much, either. And haven’t left the house in forever. In fact, this is the first time this week I’ve seen you in real life.” I pointedly glance at the last-generation VR goggles on the end table.
Her jaw juts out mulishly. “Maybe it’s because no one pesters me in VR. I’m the parent and you’re the child, remember?”
I reach deep for my patience. “Look, Mom. I see your symptoms all the time. If you would just let me into—”
“No!” She beelines for the door, throwing over her shoulder, “Don’t ever suggest that again.”
“If your symptoms keep worsening, I might not have a choice,” I yell at her back. “If your life’s on the line, I’ll break my stupid oath!”
She freezes and turns to look at me, her expression so full of betrayal I regret my words instantly.
“You wouldn’t,” she says hollowly, backing up toward the door. “Please say you wouldn’t.”
“Fine.” She’s been making me swear not to dreamwalk in her since I was a kid—and I’ve kept my promise, despite the overwhelming temptation. “But you have to see someone. A conventional shrink, perhaps? Maybe make a friend and talk to them? Or—”
“You don’t understand! I’ve tried everything.”
“Not everything.”
With a growl, she turns on her heel and storms out, slamming the door behind her.
“Well, good!” I shout to the closed door. “At least you’ll get some fresh air.”
I’m in the emergency room. Mom’s unconscious body is hooked up to an array of machines that do everything for her, from breathing to eating. Her brain activity is completely flat.
“She got hit by a car,” the elf social worker says, as if from a distance. “We’re figuring out what to do…”
I tune out the rest of it, my guilt and grief so overwhelming I can barely stand straight, let alone think. She went out because of my nagging. She went out angry and didn’t see that pucking car coming at her.
“…don’t have a lot of experience with this,” the elf’s voice reaches me again. “Self-driving car algorithms prevent pretty much all accidents. The last time—”
“Who gives a puck?” I bite out. “You think it makes me feel better that my mom is a one-in-a-million victim?”
The social worker backs away from me, mumbling platitudes—and I realize why she was telling me this.
Money.
Gomorrah has free universal healthcare, but on occasion, the free hospitals can’t handle something, so they defer to paid establishments, ones usually patronized only by the rich. Like this place. And given the extreme rarity of what happened to Mom, there’s no insurance that would cover it, just like there’s no insurance for getting hit by a meteorite.
“I’ll pay whatever’s necessary to continue her care,” I say to the elf. “Let me know what I need to sign.”
She looks relieved. “I’ll have a doctor speak with you shortly.”