Apollon tells the tale of our excitement, embellishing it with words that should probably have stayed in the poems he read them in. Miranda is horrified, Neveah listens with a creased brow, but Oscar responds exactly, I think, as Apollon had hoped. He only seems disappointed that he missed being there first-hand. I thought it would worry him, but apparently since it is over, and we are victorious, it doesn't faze him at all.
I wish I could say the same for myself. During the actual fight I didn't have time to think about dying, about being knifed where I sat. Now, it's all I can think about. I try to stop shaking. It's no use. My fingers clutch my knees. No matter how stiff I make myself, I can't seem to stop. So I chew uncontrollably on my lower lip, trying to focus on the pain. The feel of my teeth sinking in, crushing the flesh into a small bulge between my upper and lower incisors. The tip of my tongue pressed against the smooth skin inside my mouth. The first sharp, salty flow of metallic-tasting liquid.
The problem is, no matter what I think of, I end up back at the same place. I don't want to die. I can't die yet. There's something important that needs my attention, first. That same restlessness. I take slow, measured breaths, but I want to scream. To run.
Neveah's hand touches my shoulder, then pets my arm. So gentle. So soothing. I meet her sorrowful eyes, manage to flick the corners of my mouth into a smile of thanks. She squeezes my arm. I lean against her. Her arm goes around my shoulders, her hands clasping each other just below my throat. I sink back and close my eyes, wondering again if I have a mother somewhere. If she ever held me like this. If I will ever know.
I snuggle against Neveah while Miranda and Oscar cook dinner. When I finally open my eyes, Jonas is sitting across from us looking at me with a blank expression. He's thinking hard about something, but about what I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be able to read him. He sees me looking and unhurriedly turns his gaze to the others— to the dinner of hot corn porridge oozing slowly out of the mouth of Oscar's pan onto our plates.
After dinner, I decide to take a bath, an attempt at self-soothing. This time I run water into every pan we have and place them all across the stove top. A warm bath. It sounds heavenly.
Neveah helps me carry my pans of water to the tub and pour them in. She leaves a packet of herbs for me as well— probably another of her ongoing ministrations to ensure my foot heals up properly.
By the time I've finished my bath, I'm no longer shaking. I dry myself with the frayed towel, and dress. Looking in the mirror, combing through my dark, wet hair with my fingers, I almost recognize the person staring back at me. At least, I've seen her before. My tongue traces the lumpiness where I've chewed my lip, still tasting blood. I pull it down to examine the injury and freeze.
Staring back at me, the girl's eyes go wide. She holds her lip down, pinched between two fingers. A speckling of blood reveals where she's chewed her mouth. I hardly notice that. It's the black letters, clearly printed across the inside of her lower lip. One word. One name. "Jason."
I shiver, taking a step back. I eye the girl warily. She gazes back at me. We're at a sort of impasse. Her eyes are alarmed, questioning. But this is my lip. Not hers. It's my secret. Even now, the word is inside my mouth. It has to be upside down and backward, or I wouldn't be able to read it like this in the mirror. That means it's not for someone else. It's for me. Just for me.
I close my eyes and sit down on the toilet, letting out a long breath through my lips. My head swirls. My brain spins. Ideas are screaming so loud I can't hear any of them. I need a moment. Just a moment. Breathing. I'm OK.
At last I’m able to open my eyes and start to think. A jumble of emotion jostles around inside me, but I can approach it from a distance, halfway logical. The first question is, why? Why would someone risk their life to write a name permanently on their skin? It is hidden, yes. The Sentries missed it. Or is this why I was erased in the first place?
The idea brings bile and anger rising from my stomach. Would I have risked my whole existence for a name? For whose name? Jason. I repeat it over and over in my mind, trying to feel, to suck any meaning out of it. Jason. Jason. Jason. But the name floats far away from me. A stranger. Who was he?
Then it dawns on me, suddenly. This mark proclaims me someone else’s property. Of course I would never have done this to myself. But a slave owner? Why not? The mark is hidden to protect the owner’s property interests, but permanent, final. A mark of ownership. A reminder for those who might stray. No wonder slavery repulsed me so. I've been a slave before. But why, then, do I feel the need to be… somewhere? Confusion and emotion overwhelm me.