So even though it’s unconventional, the good outweighs the bad, according to the government.
I switch off the radio, too exhausted to be angry.
My head hurts from hunger, and I scarf down the potato chips and stolen candy for sustenance, tossing the crumpled wrapper on the other side of the room.
What I wouldn’t give for a steak…
But that’s irrelevant now. I may never see a good meal again.
What’s important issurvival.
Come on, Olive, you can do this.
But as the minutes tick by, the throbbing in my foot worsens and tears of frustration fill my eyes.
I could check myself into a hospital, sure—and I would receive the best care, then be detoxed of the suppressants in my blood.
That would be the day my freedom ends.
That’s when they would transfer me toEden.
It’s a last resort.
I would let infection spread through my veins before I willingly ask for help.
Not after I’ve made it this far.
I glare at the offending piece of glass that sits on the windowsill and scowl.
“This is all your fault,” I snap.
Great, Olive, and now you’re talking to no one.
Spending the last several weeks in solitude, hiding in this tiny apartment with boarded windows, has wreaked havoc on my mental state.
And this injury might be the last straw.
After the executive orders, when the dust was still settling after California’s decision, I snuck into a burned-down bookstore and grabbed a few titles that only had smoke damage. The pages stink, but the words are still legible, and they’re my source of entertainment as I distract my mind from the absolute shit-show around me. During the daytime, tiny splinters of light filter in through the grimy window, and it’s my time to squint my eyes and adjust to the shadows as I try to escape my surroundings, if only for a few minutes.
The books work for the next few days, and I doze off in my dirtied pile of blankets, dreaming about the times when I wasn’t hiding from the government. When I didn’t have to wash myself with wipes and douse myself in sanitizer to mask my scent.
I miss normalcy.
I miss working from home, logging on to my computer and working with my team of engineers, working on software recognized throughout the world.
If I could just log onto a computer…
But no. The next time I’m near electronics, they’ll snitch on me the moment I try to turn them on.
I’m in a haze of sleep when a fiery sensation runs up my foot, spreading to the bottom of my leg.
“Fuck,” I hiss, sitting up and reaching for my flashlight, frustrated that I must use some of its precious power supply. The batteries won’t last forever, and every trip outside I make for supplies is incredibly dangerous.
But my stomach twists when I shine the beam on my foot.
The cut is inflamed. A yellow film mixes with the dried blood, and my foot is hot to the touch.
What. The. Fuck.