Her Vi
From the moment she’d been forced to her knees, to the moment she’d heard the gun load Caitlyn knew she was going to die. A bullet to the head, or perhaps the neck if Maddie were feeling cruel— and Caitlyn was inclined to believe she was— in broad daylight for all to see. Perhaps she deserved it, perhaps this was just some sort of grand karmic justice for al the mistakes she’d made. And all those she’d hurt. But that didn’t make her any less afraid.
She didn’t want to die. But, rarely did anyone get what they want.
And as she counted down the seconds to what she anticipated to be her final breath, her fresh wound oozing a thick, sticky crimson down her aching form, the only thought she had was of Vi.
Her Vi.
She combed through her memories over and over, noting each and every detail with precision and care. Her eyes and how beautiful they looked in the light. Her hair and its surprising softness. Her hands, her fingers, her lips— and the way they all felt on her skin. The way even her briefest and most fleeting of touches left her warm.
Vi was electric. And being with her made her feel whole; complete.
Caitlyn clung to that moment in the bunker, combing through the memories over and over again
It was Vi. It was always Vi. And as Maddie’s voice drifted its way into her head, a hammer to the final nail in her coffin—
I did appreciate your warmth.
—Caitlyn clung to Vi. She clung to her with a vice grip. And though her heart throbbed in her chest, her body rooted with a trembling fear she did her best to mask, she couldn’t help but feel just a little less afraid. A little less alone. Because as far as final moments go, thinking of Vi and the love they shared, is certainly not the worst.
But even when death didn’t come from that bullet, and she’d managed to stagger to her feet for one final push, she kept Vi right there in the forefront of her mind. She kept the memories playing on a loop, allowing them to spur her every movement.
Vi kept her alive. She kept her fighting. Her name resting always just on the tip of her tongue.
Vi. Her Vi.
But then it was all over, and it all went dark, and she dreamed of nothing at all.
****
The first time Caitlyn woke up, there was screaming, but her mind was far too detached from her body to realise that the screaming was her own.
The world was a blurry haze of colour and light. Faces bleeding in and out of focus, voices yelling incoherent jargon as hands wielded scalpels and towels and needles. Her body knew only pain. Hot and agonising pain. The sort she should not have been conscious to feel. Unfamiliar hands prodded and sliced and stitched, fixing her up as she fell apart on the table.
It was too much. Far too much. And her body reacted as such.
She lay on a makeshift surgery table, drenched in the cold clinical harshness of a limply hanging light bulb, in one of the hundreds of medical tents erected near the scene. Her clothes had been sliced through, hacked at messily by rushed hands, with no time to think of modesty or dignity.
Neither of those things were important. Survival was all that mattered.
Consciousness came to her in waves, her eyes opening and closing, her body jumping through time, until finally it settled on awake.
Awake and pain.
But as her body suffered, her mind drifted. Like her spirit was somewhere else entirely. Like her mind was blank and barely able to string together a thought or a sentence. Hell, she could hardly even recount her own name or where she was. She was separate. Completely cut off. Like she existed in two places; her physicality split between suffering and nothing.
Her body burned and she screamed. Her mind drifted and she wondered what that noise was. It was a conflicting state of being.
One humans are not designed for.
Her screams were short lived, the sharpness of which they sliced through the tensely working surgeons spurred a nurse to up the dose of whatever drugs they’d been pumping her with. The pain subsided, and her mind slowly drifted back.
And with it returned darkness. Until the second time she woke up.
The second time was much less traumatic. Much less messy. She came to slowly, the darkness ebbing away from her vision so subtly she’d hardly even felt herself wake. She just suddenly was.
She lay flat, with two thick cushions flush with her shoulders, neck and head, and her body anchored down by a thin blanket, a scratchy paper hospital gown and a tangling of tubes and wires embedded in her arm. She was in a small tent about the size of a broom closet, and everything was lit by gentle candlelight as opposed to harsh overhead bulbs. It was barebones, but evidently, did the job well enough.
And unlike last time, there was no pain, no split in her being, her mind separate from her corporeality, and there was no need for screaming. Everything around her seemed still, the world settling in weighty silence.
A silence that might’ve been relaxing if not for the way it clung to tension.
Caitlyn shifted, or at least she tried to, but her limbs remained flush with the mattress, like they’d been pumped full of lead as well as drugs, and so instead settled on trying to look around. Everything was hazy and bizarrely flat. Like the world had been skewed, shifted ever so slightly along. She turned her head, slowly, her body flooding with a cloud-like numbness, and sat beside her, with his head slumped down onto his chest, was her father.
Her fingers twitched as she tried to command her arm to reach out, but it was futile. She swallowed, her mouth burning dry, “Fa—” was all she could croak out, her face twisting into a grimace as a cough worked its way up from her chest to her throat. But it was enough to startle him awake.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he said gently, moving swiftly out the chair to her side. He manoeuvred her with expert care, his hand rubbing her back as she coughed, “It’s okay, you’re okay…”
He repeated it over and over until her coughs subsided and she could lie back. And had Caitlyn not been so out of it, and her mind not so scrambled, she might’ve wondered who he was trying to reassure with his words. Her or himself. He brought a cup of water to her mouth and helped her drink.
“Not too fast,” he warned softly, moving the cup away once she’d had enough. He placed his hand on hers, and held it tight, “And try not to move, you’ve been through—”
“Vi,” she interrupted, her voice, although finally functioning, was so hoarse it cut through the air like a jagged, rusted knife, “Is she—”
Her breath hitched, her jaw tightening with with the premonition of a sob she would not allow herself to feel. She couldn’t bring herself to finish her question. Not when the answer could break her. Crush her. Destroy her. And so she didn’t. She let her silence finish it for her.
Tobias tightened his grip on her hand.
“I haven’t seen her, but that doesn’t mean you should assume the worst,” he said, his voice low but steady, “It’s still chaos out there, and this tent is one of hundreds, I’m sure she’ll find her way, it might just take time.”
That is, if she’s still alive.
He never said it. But Caitlyn heard it anyway. And the prospect of her just laying there, waiting endlessly with no agency, as tubes pump her body numb and stupid, is a fate worse than death. Worse than anything.
She has to find her. Vi. Her Vi. She needs to know she’s okay.
Caitlyn shakes her head.
“I have to—” she started, her throat aching with every forced syllable, “I can’t just…”
Tobias tightens his grip on her hand, placing another on her shoulder, trying to keep her down as gently as he could.
But that only made her fight more.
“Caitlyn, relax, stop, you need to—”
“Vi, I have to find Vi,” she insisted, putting as much authority as she could behind her hoarse whisper of a voice. She pulls out one of the many tubes embedded in her skin, ignoring her father’s protests and attempts to put it back in.
“I have to find her,” she repeated, ignoring the slight tinge in her stomach as she shuffles, “I have to—” Her vision blurs as her hands clumsily fumble to push herself up. And for a second, darkness threatens to return. She paused, allowing the feeling to wash over her. Hoping it won’t be enough to overwhelm her completely. The tinge in her stomach started to edge its way into pain, like there was something heavy settling in her core.
Get a grip Caitlyn, she admonishes herself, you’re fine nowget up and move.
She takes a deep breath, squashing down the unsettling feeling for later, “I have to go,” she said firmly.
“Caitlyn, sweetheart, you are in no condition to—”
His voice was cut off by a stirring of chaos from just outside the tent. Footsteps and rattling and yelling.
“—is she in there? Caitlyn— the commander; commander Kiramman— Caitlyn. Is she in there?”
Caitlyn registered the familiarity of the voice, instantly placing it to the face before she’d even comprehended the actual words.
Vi. Her Vi.
Another voice responded, the tone a meshwork of stress, confusion and hostility, but any protestations were short lived.
“—yeah I’d like to see you try,” and with that the tent flap opened, and there she was.
Vi. Alive and breathing and here and—
Alive.
For a second, she was frozen. Standing midway through the entrance, the tent flap lying limp on her outstretched arm, as the other hung a little too low on her other side. And then a beat passed, neither moving or speaking. And quickly. Vi’s face, bloody, tear stained and hardened with both focus and fear, softened into that of relief.
“Cait…” she whispered, “Oh Cait.”
And just like that, she was at her side. Her hand gently grazed her cheek, her touch that of pure tenderness, before finding its way into hers. She locked their fingers, and leaned down, pressing her lips gently onto her forehead.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispered, her lips still pressed on her skin. Caitlyn leaned into it, relishing the feel of her breath, her lips, her touch.
Relishing her.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Vi said again, before finally pulling back. Vi gazed over every inch of her face, her eyes tinged with both compassion and concern and complete amazement. Like she was face to face with the very last thing left on the planet.
“Vi…” Caitlyn whispered, “I was so—”
Her stomach clenched, and she felt herself double over. The world ebbing away once again as the twinge in her stomach twisted and twisted, turning into something hot and sharp and unbearable.
Vi tightened her grip, leaning close, “Hey, Caitlyn what’s—”
Caitlyn didn’t give Vi a chance to finish before her stomach twisted once more, and she was coughing. And then she was vomitting.
Blood spilled out of her mouth, thick and sticky and way too dark. It burned up her throat and her tongue. She tried to speak, to swallow, to breathe— but as her vision blurred once again, and as blood ran down her chin, pooling in her lap, she found herself helpless.
Vi was speaking, her father was shouting, but she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear a thing.
Not properly. Not now.
Vi’s hand, her tight and anchoring touch, was the last thing she felt before the darkness returned.