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Rose
“LET ME GO!”
Rose’s scream echoed in the empty room and fell back on her, pinning her
limbs like heavy blankets, useless weight making it harder to breathe. All the cots
belonging to the Wives had been pulled out except for hers, where she lay
strapped to the metal frame. “THIS IS SERIOUSLY MESSED UP!”
She struggled against the leather restraints until her skin was rubbed raw
and pinched. After she and Derrick had been caught talking, the women had
grabbed Rose. One at a time, she could have taken them, but all at once? It was
like fighting a giant, pale spider. At some point, the Chief had put the same rag
he’d used to drug Derrick over her face, and the rest was gone. They must have
carried her up here, made their renovations, and left her to wake up alone. The
sky outside the window was grey. It was hard to tell how long she’d been out.
Minutes? Days? She finally settled down, banging the back of her head into the
thin pillow until a wave of nausea overtook her. She felt terrible.
What now? Derrick was sure to be tied up downstairs, and she was locked
away up here. There was nothing nearby that she could use to free herself, and
she was starting to panic.
“Nam,” she called out. “Nam, please. I…I need some water!”
The room was so much bigger than she remembered now that it was
empty. The wallpaper hung down in long strips, and the ceiling was spotted with
brown rings and sagging so that the entire space felt like being inside a rotting
ribcage. She moved her joints at different angles and pulled, trying to slip them
through the loops that held them. They tightened and refused her movements.
Long minutes passed before she heard someone on the stairs. Minutes
during which she imagined what might be happening to French, to Derrick, to
herself, scenarios that ended with them dried out like corn husk dolls, discarded
in different desolate rooms on different stained mattresses. When the footsteps
echoed down the hallway, she lay perfectly still, trying to quiet her hysteria, trying
to look like she still had a mind to lose.
The door opened, and Nam entered with a red plastic cup. “Brought you
water.” They wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She licked her lips. They were starting to chap and peel. “Nam, listen, I…I’m
scared. I’m really, really scared. And I need your help.”
Rose talked so fast the words tumbled into one another. She didn’t know
how long Nam would stay, and she had to get through to them. Plus, her voice
felt smaller by the minute. She was weak, and that made her even more frantic.
“This is not fair. It’s not fair. And it’s not right.”
“I can’t help you,” they said after a moment of pause, standing just inside
the door. “You have to! You’re the only one here.”
“But I’m not. I’m not the only one, and the others…”
“Those women have the Plague,” Rose hissed, cutting them off.
Nam was across the room in a flash, clamping their fine-boned hand over
Rose’s mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. Don’t say that word. It’s forbidden.”
Rose shook them off. “Drinking our blood is not going to give anyone
dreams! That’s just madness!”
“Jesus, I’m not stupid. It’s not the blood. He knows that, I think.” Nam
separated themself from the Chief in one sentence. “It’s not about that, anyway.
It’s about hope.”
“Hope?”
They placed the cup on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress.
“People can’t dream because their way of life is gone and they can’t accept it.
They lived through pandemics, but they didn’t, not really. He wants to give them
hope that there is a different way.”
“I’m not sure there’s enough blood in one skin for that.” They rubbed their
chin in a thoughtful gesture. “It’s enough just so they’ll wait around for the
dreams to start.”
“Why doesn’t he give them his own blood, his own dreams?”
“What? But he’s always going on about his visions—all colorful and sacred
and Indian-y.”
Nam laughed. “You’ve obviously never read much. Those are stories.
Stories I remember from Maria Campbell and Waub Rice…and some are just my
dreams.”
They nodded.
“Why doesn’t he have more?” “Before he was the Chief, he was just plain
old corrupt Chief Henry Williams, a stereotype. He had the biggest house on the
rez and two brandnew boats. He was in tight with the oil dudes, living a good life
with the consultation money meant for the Band.”
Rose’s head started to spin, and she had to close her eyes. She felt the cup
at her lips and tried to drink. A thought occurred to her.
“Nam, did they already take some?” She kept her eyes closed. “My blood?
Did they take it?”
There was no answer. There didn’t need to be. Rose twisted in her starfish
position to see her arm. There was a bandage on the inside of her elbow. If she’d
had anything other than a mouthful of water in her stomach, she’d have thrown it
up.
Пташка, що несе смерть
Роуз
"ВІДПУСТИ!"
«Надія?»
"Що? Але він завжди розповідає про свої сновидіння — всі барвисті,
священні та індійські».
Вона кивнула.
«Чому він не має більше?» «До того, як він став шефом, він був просто
стереотипним старим корумпованим начальником Генрі Вільямсом. У нього
був найбільший будинок в окрузі і два новенькі човни. Він був у тісних
стосунках з нафтовими чуваками, живучи добре, маючи гроші на
консультації, призначені для гурту».
«Нем, невже вони вже взяли?» Вона заплющила очі. «Моя кров? Вони
взяли її?»