Chapter 15: An Embrace

I could hear the surprise in Jared’s voice, but also a raw, genuine delight that was almost painful to witness. He was truly happy for me, his mind already painting a fantastical future where I, as a physician taught by mysterious whispers, would lift us out of this squalor, where we would never have to worry about food or shelter again. It was the simple, earnest, and utterly impossible dream of a boy from the slums.

A dream, of course, that was a lie. I couldn't truly understand any whispers, and I certainly hadn't been gifted any profound medical knowledge from some benevolent, unseen source. My "wisdom" was nothing more than the basic hygiene and common sense of my past life, a world away from the true art of medicine. And this rumour he believed so fervently—of physicians learning their craft from mysterious whispers—was suspect at best. What kind of entity would whisper medical knowledge into a person's ear? It sounded like another strange, superstitious urban legend, the kind that festered in the dark, ignorant, and desperate corners of a city like this. And Jared, in his desperation for a sliver of hope, had swallowed it whole.

Just then, the water in the pot began to boil, its furious bubbling interrupting our conversation. I didn't correct Jared’s fantastical notion. Right now, I needed him. I couldn't afford to have him doubt me, to have him abandon me. Where else in this wretched world would I find such a useful, willing… pawn? The thought was cold and ugly, but it was honest.

I instructed Jared to use a curved piece of wood as a makeshift ladle, to skim the oily, greasy film from the surface of the boiling water. That should make it a little more palatable, shouldn't it? I took a sip. It was… tolerable. The foul taste was greatly diminished. My mind still recoiled at the thought that this water had likely washed over a corpse not long ago, but my sick body was past caring. I drank the scalding water slowly, letting the heat chase away some of the deep, lingering chill that had settled in my bones. I remember reading that in ancient times, when medicine was still a grim art of guesswork and butchery, the best advice for any ailment was often just to drink plenty of hot water. It couldn't hurt. And so, I forced myself to drink nearly half the pot, the warmth spreading through my aching limbs.

After the ordeal, I finally felt a little better. The tension in my body eased, and the world seemed to stabilize slightly. This time, when I lay down, the profound exhaustion of the illness took me quickly, and I fell into a deep, feverish sleep. And then, as expected, it returned. The indistinct, sibilant whispering slithered back into my consciousness, coiling at the edges of my hearing like a serpent. And with it came the crushing weight of that unseen gaze. It was relentless this time, filled with a palpable malice, a cold and ancient curiosity. The whispers seemed more urgent, as if trying to compel me, to incite me to do something awful, to give in to some terrible impulse. I tried to gasp for air, but my lungs felt tight, useless, as if the very air in the alcove was being pressed out. I couldn't breathe. A violent tremor seized my body, alternating waves of burning heat and icy cold washing over me. The owner of that vast, unseen gaze felt closer now, as if it were pressing in on me, its attention a physical weight, about to stare into my very soul from point-blank range.

Just as I was about to be overwhelmed, to be swallowed by the suffocating, silent dread, a pair of warm arms suddenly wrapped around me, holding me tight. A rough but gentle hand found my own, its grip firm and steady. It was as if I had been drowning in a boundless, black, and silent ocean, and had suddenly seen the light of a lighthouse—a warm and steady beacon promising a safe harbour below. The whispers and the malevolent gaze receded, fading back into the void like a tide going out. A rare, precious, and profound peace finally settled over me. And his embrace… it was so warm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I didn't feel cold. My exhausted mind, finally free from the terror, let go and sank into a deep and dreamless rest.

I slept soundly for the rest of the night, undisturbed. When I next awoke, bright morning sunlight was streaming through the entrance of our little alcove, a startling, brilliant spear of light in the gloom. "Ah?" A small gasp escaped my lips. I wasn't alone on the pile of rags. Someone was holding me. It was Jared. I remembered the sensation from the depths of my nightmare, that feeling of being held, of a sudden, anchoring warmth. So it was Jared who had embraced me? And I had simply fallen asleep in his arms? If a third person, an observer, had peeked into our hovel, they would have seen only a young boy holding a smaller, sick girl, a perfectly normal, perhaps even touching, scene of sibling care in a harsh world. But I felt a prickle of profound awkwardness. From my perspective, trapped inside this girlish frame, another boy—a near stranger—had been holding me tightly all night long. I shifted uncomfortably, the movement slight, but it was enough to wake him.

"Hah…" Jared yawned, stretching his stiff limbs. "Parula, you're awake? Good morning." He sat up, his eyes bleary and shot with red veins. He clearly hadn't slept well at all. 

"Why… why were you holding me?" I asked, unable to keep the question to myself, my voice still raspy from sleep.

 "You started moaning and trembling again after you fell asleep," he explained, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a dirty knuckle. "You seemed to be having a nightmare, and you felt so cold, like a block of ice. The old women say it helps, holding someone close when the shivers take 'em. So I… I just held on to you."