room was freezing now, but his bed was still his. He clenched his eyes shut. He wanted to keep sleeping. He begged himself to keep sleeping. But the pain grew so big it filled the room, turned everything black and shaky.
Tover opened his eyes.
Pain screamed through his body, and he writhed in agony. He was alone, in his cell again. His wrists werenât cuffed to the wall but they didnât need to be.
Toverâs face felt heavy, the skin stretched. He tentatively bent his head to brush his cheek against his shoulder, and felt his jaw was several times its normal size and his left eye swelled shut. His nose felt broken.
But his arms. They hung limp at his sides, swollen and misshapen, pitiful things. The warped shape of them, the blackened bruising, it made him sick, and he nearly vomited again.
When they had first thrown him in this cell, Tover had promised himself he wouldnât cry. But he wept at the sight of his arms, destroyed in front of him. He felt like heâd cried all night but no one came, and no one answered his pleas for water.
He willed himself back asleep, but the pain was too much so he lay there, trying to focus on something else.
Cruzâs face. That little smile he had. It had been so charming. Tover imagined killing him. Dirtbag interrupted his dark fantasy, laughing as Tover tried to pull away from him. He dropped a plate of food beside Tover and a jar of water. Tover tried to sip from the straw but his lips were swollen and it hurt to swallow. He lay there, feeling sorry for himself for a long time, and they left him alone. They didnât bother feeding him again, although another day passed. The small cell stank of his sweat, waste, and blood.
He had to think of pleasant thoughts.
Cruzâs smile, the look in his eyes as he cameâ¦
No . Tover had lost those fond memories too. Cruz could no longer be his fantasy, not when he was the reason Tover lay there.
He thought about his aviary instead. It was the only image he could conjure that brought any sense of peace. He focused on his birds, cataloguing his species: green-cheeked conures and gloster consort canaries, white-bellied caiques and grand eclectus parrots. He drilled himself on their scientific classification. Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Chordata, Class Aves, Order Psittaciformes⦠He detailed their habitats and diets, he thought hard about their colorations and birdsong. Any time his mind wandered, it drifted to his pain, like a moth to flame, so he forced himself back to the beginning. Animalia, Chordata, Aves, Psittaciformes, Psittacidae, Psittacini, Psittacus, P. Erithacus â¦
At some point he fell asleep and was woken abruptly with a kick. He sobbed into the floor, terrified of being moved. Cherko leaned over Toverâs curled body and hauled him up, and Tover cried out as the man cruelly touched his arm.
He was dragged into a bay of shower stalls and hosed off with cold water. He shuddered on the floor, eyes clenched.
Animalia, Chordata, Aves, Piciformes, Ramphastidae, Ramphastos brevisâ¦
Cherko shoved him into a narrow, brightly lit room. The layout of medical beds and equipment suggested he was in the shipâs infirmary, but the place looked stripped of all but essentials. Tover recognized the white plastic box in the corner, the contours of a medical bone knitter, but the realization of what was about to happen didnât sink in until Cherko pushed him inside.
For a moment, Tover felt absolute, pure relief. Bone knitters repaired broken bones, torn ligaments and internal injuries. They were going to heal him.
And then as Cherko strapped him down, and Tover glanced around and saw no anesthetic, he understood they were going to reknit his bones while he was still conscious.
Pure terror seized him, and he tried to break free of the restraints, heedless of his broken limbs.
Savel leaned over the plastic edge of the box, looking displeased as he turned on the scanner.
Tover panted in fear.
Tover opened his eyes.
Pain screamed through his body, and he writhed in agony. He was alone, in his cell again. His wrists werenât cuffed to the wall but they didnât need to be.
Toverâs face felt heavy, the skin stretched. He tentatively bent his head to brush his cheek against his shoulder, and felt his jaw was several times its normal size and his left eye swelled shut. His nose felt broken.
But his arms. They hung limp at his sides, swollen and misshapen, pitiful things. The warped shape of them, the blackened bruising, it made him sick, and he nearly vomited again.
When they had first thrown him in this cell, Tover had promised himself he wouldnât cry. But he wept at the sight of his arms, destroyed in front of him. He felt like heâd cried all night but no one came, and no one answered his pleas for water.
He willed himself back asleep, but the pain was too much so he lay there, trying to focus on something else.
Cruzâs face. That little smile he had. It had been so charming. Tover imagined killing him. Dirtbag interrupted his dark fantasy, laughing as Tover tried to pull away from him. He dropped a plate of food beside Tover and a jar of water. Tover tried to sip from the straw but his lips were swollen and it hurt to swallow. He lay there, feeling sorry for himself for a long time, and they left him alone. They didnât bother feeding him again, although another day passed. The small cell stank of his sweat, waste, and blood.
He had to think of pleasant thoughts.
Cruzâs smile, the look in his eyes as he cameâ¦
No . Tover had lost those fond memories too. Cruz could no longer be his fantasy, not when he was the reason Tover lay there.
He thought about his aviary instead. It was the only image he could conjure that brought any sense of peace. He focused on his birds, cataloguing his species: green-cheeked conures and gloster consort canaries, white-bellied caiques and grand eclectus parrots. He drilled himself on their scientific classification. Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Chordata, Class Aves, Order Psittaciformes⦠He detailed their habitats and diets, he thought hard about their colorations and birdsong. Any time his mind wandered, it drifted to his pain, like a moth to flame, so he forced himself back to the beginning. Animalia, Chordata, Aves, Psittaciformes, Psittacidae, Psittacini, Psittacus, P. Erithacus â¦
At some point he fell asleep and was woken abruptly with a kick. He sobbed into the floor, terrified of being moved. Cherko leaned over Toverâs curled body and hauled him up, and Tover cried out as the man cruelly touched his arm.
He was dragged into a bay of shower stalls and hosed off with cold water. He shuddered on the floor, eyes clenched.
Animalia, Chordata, Aves, Piciformes, Ramphastidae, Ramphastos brevisâ¦
Cherko shoved him into a narrow, brightly lit room. The layout of medical beds and equipment suggested he was in the shipâs infirmary, but the place looked stripped of all but essentials. Tover recognized the white plastic box in the corner, the contours of a medical bone knitter, but the realization of what was about to happen didnât sink in until Cherko pushed him inside.
For a moment, Tover felt absolute, pure relief. Bone knitters repaired broken bones, torn ligaments and internal injuries. They were going to heal him.
And then as Cherko strapped him down, and Tover glanced around and saw no anesthetic, he understood they were going to reknit his bones while he was still conscious.
Pure terror seized him, and he tried to break free of the restraints, heedless of his broken limbs.
Savel leaned over the plastic edge of the box, looking displeased as he turned on the scanner.
Tover panted in fear.
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