Chapter 258: You Know I Love You

"You know I love you, right?" the woman asked.

Sophia’s mouth made the shape of the answer as if trained—a simple, immediate echo. "Yes. I know." She forced the words into her throat, stated them like doctrine. She pressed the truth into her chest until it sat heavy and convincing.

She loves me, Sophia told herself. She’s only doing this because I was stubborn. She is only doing this because I got myself sick.

"Good," the woman said, and placed a kiss on the crown of Sophia’s head.

The kiss felt cool, perfunctory. It made Sophia’s breath catch, and somewhere in the muddle of fever and fear, a small part of her believed it, because the body wants what it cannot have: warmth, belonging, absolution. Sophia repeated the phrase in her head, over and over: The woman loves me. The woman loves me. She let the mantra snag on the raw places until the phantom warmth of the lie pulsed like a heartbeat inside her.

The woman stepped back with a motion as cold and final as a verdict. "I will send a nurse to you," she told Sophia.

"Yes, ma," Sophia said, even as her cheeks stung from pain.

"You will behave for the nurse," the woman said firmly. "You will not speak to her. She will see to it that you get a bit better so that you can continue getting better yourself. She will only stay for two hours, and mind you, remember that anything you do will get back to me. Any trouble you cause...I will find out."

"Yes, ma."

"You don’t want a repeat of what happened last time, right? Do well, or else you’ll kill someone else again. And don’t speak a word to her. She doesn’t need to know who you are after all," the woman told Sophia.

Sophia felt the old, familiar spike of guilt the sentence delivered. The previous nurse had died because of her—because she couldn’t control her tongue and told the woman something she shouldn’t have said...but she had no idea what she had told the woman. She couldn’t remember, but she knew it was something, and that was why the woman died. Just like her friends. It was all because of her. It was all her fault.

Sophia nodded, throat tight. "I understand."

As soon as the door closed behind the woman, the shape of her absence struck Sophia with a force that unspooled what little composure she had held.

Her breath came with a sob, one she had tried to control and hold in when the woman was there. She dragged a blanket over her shoulders, fingers numb and clumsy, and sank down where the mattress came low beneath her.

The sobs came hard and raw, a pouring out of the pressure that had kept them contained for the woman’s presence. She clutched the blanket to her face and allowed the tears to fall at last, no longer attempting to style them into anything noble. She whispered the apology as she cried.

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," she cried out. "I’m not going to get sick again. I’m not going to go under the rain again. Please don’t hate me. I’m not going to make friends again. I’ll do only what you tell me to do. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry."

Each word was said with a heart-wrenching sob. Each word spoken out of the depths of her heart. It was all her fault, after all. If only she could control herself.

All she had to do was listen to the woman, nothing more. She only had to listen to the woman. If she had done so, then nothing would have happened. The tears made her head pound more, the headache increasing, but she couldn’t stop.

The room held her small sounds like a patient thing willing to keep her secret.

She rocked on the floor, pressing her forehead into her knees, trying to breathe through the hot scrape in her chest. The ragged rhythm of her sobbing bled into a low mutter of repeated promises. The woman couldn’t hear her, but it didn’t matter.

She repeated the lines continuously. "I will get better. I will not be ill again. I’m not going to fall sick. She is only doing this because she loves me. She loves me, she loves me..."

Sophia had no idea how long she cried—minutes, maybe hours, she wasn’t sure. She only felt the weight of someone carrying her to bed. She opened her eyes and saw a man, but then closed her eyes, knowing that wasn’t possible; the woman wouldn’t send a man to her. His face was blurry, and she couldn’t make out his features, but his touch was relaxing. She wanted to stay in his arms forever, but she knew he wasn’t real.

She opened her eyes again, and the man was no more. Instead, the nurse was present. She placed a wet cloth over Sophia’s head as she muttered words about how Sophia was burning up.

"I’m...sorry," Sophia muttered.

The nurse shook her head. "There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, dear," she told her.

The nurse looked at Sophia with pity in her eyes. She took in Sophia’s frame, and Sophia buried herself beneath the blankets. The nurse gave her something to drink; it was bitter, but Sophia drank it. She had to get better, after all.

The nurse spoke quietly as she worked, not prying beyond the boundary the woman had given, but offering the small human mercies of hands that knew what to do. She checked Sophia’s pulse, pressed the cool cloth to the fevered brow, and watched the girl, quietly, shakily steady in compliance.

"You are going to get better, okay?" the nurse asked Sophia.

Sophia only stared at the nurse. She didn’t say a word, especially for fear that the woman would find out.

The nurse was extremely kind—even kinder than the other nurse who had taken care of her before. This nurse felt motherly, and she smelled of herbs. There was another smell too, one that tickled Sophia’s senses, one that called to her, but she couldn’t place it.

She decided not to pay it any mind, thinking that the sickness was taking over her senses.

After the nurse was done, she left the room quietly.

Sophia was left alone. She rested her cheek on the blanket and repeated the phrases in her head until her breathing smoothed into the thin rhythm that passed for sleep. The night would come, the nurse would watch the clock. For two hours, she would be observed, and after that, she would try to get better by herself, because the woman had done her best for Sophia after all.