Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

 I lay on the sofa and soak into the cushions. I do not sleep; enough nightmares fill my waking vision. Once upon a time, my worst blood had been my mother's, then Mason's, then that of the person in the field. I am building a hierarchy of deaths and near deaths. I put my own at the bottom. I still can't kick myself out of my complacency. I don't try to flee while the men in the house sleep, though I could get away and stop building this pyramid of traumas. Are they even mine if I'm still kicking? How small my mountain of 'bad' experiences is; I should compress it into a molehill.

The sofa jolts. My gaze drifts toward the disturbance, slow like a lizard's blink. Masky leers down at me.

"As much I'm enjoying you wax poetic," he sneers, "it's time to get ready to go, sunshine."

Was I muttering aloud? Embarrassing. Not feeling that embarrassment, even more embarrassing.

"Which friend?" I ask through a dry throat and around a swollen tongue.

The mocking curl to his lips drops. "Does it matter?"

I stare up at him dumbly, waiting for an answer to my question without bothering to answer his. Does it matter? I don't know. I'm waiting for one name to rip out my throat, the other to stab my gut. Does it matter? I suck in a deep breath and hold it until the room begins to swim and the edges go from hazy and colorful to solid black. Masky shakes his head.

"I don't know their fucking names." He huffs and rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Tiny. Latina?"

Sadie. I don't say her name aloud. He doesn't deserve it. Instead, I curl my upper lip into my mouth and chew her name against the loose skin.

Masky is walking away by the time I gather the guts to ask, "Are you going to kill her?"

He pauses, shoulders tensing, hiking up. The body language is in direct contrast to the rumbling, short laughter that spills from him.

"Nah," he says in a tone that does not relax me. He waits a beat for dramatic effect before finishing, "Toby has dibs."

I spring to my feet, the rage sudden and red through the entire room. Cold as stone because I will not associate this feeling with those fires. Unfortunately, all I can do is stand there tight and shaking as my veins are flooded. My anger and hate run so deep that they are made in my bones alongside my erythrocytes.

I blink and moments disappear. The room changes, people rearrange. They get ready while I am a statue. At some point my clothes change, thicker, heavier, body shape obscuring. I don't recall doing it, but I am numb from the eyes down. Below me is hardly me right now. It's just the anger with no brain to guide it. It is just the numbness I cannot enjoy. I blink and I am outside. It's dark and cold, too late in the year for the space filling calls of cicadas or crickets, so it is also empty. I blink and I am in the car. Hoodie and Toby on either side of me.

Toby is giddy. Toby is buzzing. I see the shiny, sticky sheen of blood across his palms already, a premonition or memory. He reaches out to knot his fingers with mine and the leather feels slick and warm. I jerk back, but it's too late, my own palm is scarlet. My lips peel back in disgust. I am sick. I am frozen.

I want to continue to drift. Hoodie sets an arm around me. Heavy and warm, soft fabric against the back of my neck. It forces me down into my body and the scratchy seat. It limits my contact with the man who is going to try to kill my friend. Try. I won't let him.

Realization hits hard, just how much of a game Hoodie's offer had been the night of the run. I get them out that night and they get to live, but not forever. It wasn't immunity, it was an extension. A way to build up hope and complacency. Hoodie's arm feels heavier the more I think about it. The energy in the back of the car is sickening. Toby bounces and chatters. Hoodie relaxes into the seat, but he squeezes and releases and re-squeezes my shoulder in anticipation. Thick like cough syrup. I picture the air a dark green, glossy and hard to see through.