Michelle 31

I stare out the window at the clouds as they roll back through the sky. The menacing grey gloom hanging over head moves back further and further. In just an hour, I'll probably be able to brave the storm.

I scan the building around me. There are Cranks in here; I can hear them running around on the floor above me. As long as I stay quiet, they shouldn't bother me. It's got to be closer to a dozen up there, and I doubt I could take them all at once. Death is creaking against the ceiling above my head.

I mean, they could be nowhere near the Gone. It's not likely, given the likes of the ones I've already encountered. People keep talking about the Gone, but I've never met a Crank who wasn't already there.

I lift my shoulders up, cracking them behind my back. Then, I crack my neck, twisting my head to the side. My chest moves up and down, slow breaths moving in and out of my body. I shake my arms, trying to get the feeling of the storm out of me. I don't let myself blink. Instead, I choose to stare at my blank reflection in the glass.

I have a split lip, and a cut on my forehead. Not quite sure how I got those. Not quite sure that it's really my reflection, in that mirror. My hair is so messy, sticking up in so many directions from countless nights of tossing and turning. Slept on, or my best attempt at sleeping, has created knots that I doubt will ever escape my head.

The cuts on my left cheek are familiar though. They have scabbed over, and finally seem to be disappearing into my skin. My left eye seems fine, but I see nothing through it.

David wouldn't want me to look like this.

I place my hands against the cool glass window. Burning up. Sweating. My forehead sticks against it, my breath fogs it, until I can no longer see myself. When I close my eyes, I picture the cold room, the night they got Dave.

My eyes fly open, and I take a step back. Quickly, I rip my hammer out of my pocket and throw it at the glass. It shatters, passing through it. I move to the door, stepping outside into the air. My feet drag through the sand until I get to the glass window. The hammer is heavier in my hand now. It's stained with blood. So are my hands.

I kick at the glass shards, looking back up at the sky. It isn't quite safe to keep walking, but I've got nothing better to do. I'd rather risk death than stay inside. Besides, I can almost guarantee those Cranks are more than aware of my presence.

I begin walking away, tucking my hammer back in my belt. There is a chance I'm going to go insane, from the absence of people to talk with. That can happen to people, you know. You isolate them, and then they go crazy.

Maybe I shouldn't have left Rose behind. I am not entirely sure why I did anyway. Probably because she was annoying, and nothing else.

I rub my hands together. My skin is coarse. I try to scratch at the dried blood on my hands, but none of it comes off. I can't entirely say I'm surprised, especially since I'm not supposed to be.

The sky rumbles above me, and I duck against the building next to me. For a second, I think it might rain again. This desert could use it. If it rained everyday here, it would still be dry. My skin would still be cracking off in flakes. Sometimes, the sky needs to come crashing down for everything to be washed anew. That's something Dave would probably say anyway.

The wind begins to pick up, pulling sand off the ground. It blows around my feet, further and further up. It swells in the air, before settling back down. Another gust sends the sand flying off into the wind.

A hand wraps around the corner of the building. Just a few feet away, Gally pulls himself forward. He glances over, out of the corner of one eye. I see his lips move, muttering something to himself. With the wind whipping around me, it's impossible to hear his whispers.

I tuck my hair into my hoodie, attempting to control the beast that surrounds me. It's hard to make me way closer to him, but I manage to do so. His back is rigid against the wall. He looks at me carefully, before facing forward once more, braving the wind.

Thunder roars above us again. My back is next to his on the wall. Our bodies are only an inch apart. Neither of us say anything. I wouldn't know what to say if I wanted to. It's familiar to have him silently brooding next to me.

His thoughts are probably as empty as mine. I look back out into the wind, trying to find anything amongst the brown blurs. I end up closing my eyes to avoid the sting of sand in my eyes.

Gally's arm brushes past mine. I look over, watching him walk past me. He enters the building, the doorknob busted completely off. After a second, I follow after him. Entering the building beside him.

He leans against the wall behind him. I don't hear any Cranks, but I pull the hammer out of my pocket anyway. This building is dimly lit, not due to lack of windows, but to the lack of sun. The Cranks past the Gone like to hang out in darker spots, so I doubt there would be many in this building anyway.

Still, anything is possible.

Gally is leaning against the wall opposite the door. He continues to stare out the long windows. You can't see a foot past them, but he is fascinated by the shimmering sand. The small grey pebbles in it. It's constant swirling off the ground.

I join him on the wall, staring forward. I hear his wind breaker scratch as he turns to stare at me. Every time I see him, he is wearing new clothes. Today, it's khakis, this dark-blue-almost-purple windbreaker, and God knows what underneath. The pants are already ripped out in the knee, and his windbreaker torn down his side.

He turns away; I assume to look back outside. His breath is steadier, and his chest moves up and down, up and down, up and down. A steady motion.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Gally offers. He exhales rapidly, which is the closest he can get to a laugh.

"You're around far too often for me to be surprised," I answer.

He nods his head, digesting the words carefully. His skin is tinged red, and I can't tell if it's from the heat or just his nature. The colour is familiar, and I imagine his skin is warm. Though we are in the Scorch, the warmth is welcome. It wouldn't be dull, if I were to take his face in my hands. He would be explosive.

"I don't mean to be," he grumbles. "Not that I don't like to be. I just... don't mean to be."

I don't think I understand. So, instead of answering, I face the sand outside. I'm not actually paying any attention to it. All of my focus lies on Gally. He has a way of filling any space he is in. I remember what it was like to know him once. To recognize the boy next to me, who always sounds angry, with these wild opinions. Things are different between us, but he seems calm.

"I've caught it," he tells me. "The Flare."

I noticed. He is sick. The boy who was angry at me. The boy who punched me in the face the first day we met. The boy who fought with me that same night. Who was forced to work with me. Who built with me. Who integrated himself into my life. Who I kissed. Who I screwed over. Who I screwed.

He is going to become one of the creatures I've been killing left and right.

"I know," I tell him.

He doesn't answer for some time. As if the silence speaks more for itself. I watch him close his eyes, relaxing his body. His fingers do not twitch at his side, and his cheeks lose their flush. Gally has never been this still. Perhaps, he is dying. Perhaps he is already dead.

The sand continues to storm outside. The room is filled with light though, since it is the middle of the day. If I walked out there, I would be trapped in a storm. It would swirl around me, until I lost him. Until I wouldn't be able to see my own hands. Perhaps I would be killed. Perhaps I would live. Both options seem so similar. I keep on surviving, just like Gally. I haven't forgotten what it means to breathe fresh air. It has been so long since I breathed in his skin.

"They sent me back to mess with you one finally time," Gally admits, sighing. "I don't know what is watching me, but I know something is. After this, I am to much of a contamination risk. They are going to let me go into a city."

"When?" I ask.

"As soon as I leave," he says. "They won't pick me up until I snap at you. Start screaming, or scratching, or I don't know what. Something I'd rather shucking not do."

"Maybe it won't happen," I offer.

He rolls his eyes. "It always happens."

He is so sure of it. I hope we at least have an hour together. If this is going to be the last time I see him, I'm not going to waste it. We've already lost so much time together. Anything more is more than I deserve, and more than I am expecting.

"I love you too," I whisper, since I think I know what it is now. It's surviving without him, not living. It's missing even the things about him I don't like. It's wanting him to stay for more time than WICKED will allow.

He turns over to look into my eyes. "Really?"

I nod, my head moving without my body knowing it does. This feeling stuff doesn't commute in my head. The numbers don't make sense. I can't understand anything.

"I love you," he responds, turning to face me.

Then, like I've done too few times, I kiss him. His lips are chapped, and so are mine, and our skins are hard and red, and I can't live without him. My hands are in his messy hair, trying to get him closer to me. It feels impossible. We fit so well together, but nothing is enough. Not hard enough, or close enough, or tight enough. It's desperate.

He is kissing me too. He slams me into the wall behind us. Digging his hands into me. Feeding into me in a way I don't begin to understand, but desperately want to.

"I want you, Michelle," he manages, pulling his head back and resting it against mine. "I need you."

"I don't know how to exist without you," I admit, shaking my head back and forth. "I need you unlike anything else. Unlike anything I've ever known."

"I will find you again," he tells me, pulling me in tightly to his chest. "I don't care what it takes."

I kiss him once more, pulling his lips against mine. One final time, sadly, I let myself go to him.