Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Page A

good news.
    “He has sustained many injuries. His unconsciousness is due to concussion, but he has suffered severe trauma to his abdomen and there is evidence of internal bleeding; possibly due to a ruptured spleen. There is nothing I can do, even if he were able to be moved.”
    There is a fearful stillness in the room, while we process this. Auntie Marama asks, “His wounds are fatal?”
    “He will die. All you can do is try to make him comfortable, although he may not regain consciousness. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    He takes his leave and the door closes behind him.
    I enter Grandad’s room and sit near the head of his bed. The emptiness I feel inside is stopping me from processing any thoughts properly. The idea of losing Grandad is inconceivable. I just can’t imagine my life without him in it.
    I watch his face, but there is no flicker of movement, no fluttering eyelids or mumbled words. I smooth down the hair away from his forehead and gently stroke his cheek. This man is… my whole world. He’s all the family I have. He’s been my rock and my teacher and my compass. The only reason I’m even half acceptable to the rest of the town is because of Grandad. He’s well respected and many people come to him for advice. Some also come for plant extracts and remedies which are unavailable anywhere else; but not everyone knows about that.
    Medicines are distributed according to status, which means that Firstborn have access to painkillers, antibiotics and other life-saving drugs, plus they get medical attention for accidents such as broken bones. Some lesser drugs are available to regular hubbites, but an Unworthy will not be seen at all. This is why Grandad’s skills and knowledge of plants and natural remedies are so important to us and also to many of the locals.
    I must have been sitting like this for a long while, because Bastian is in the doorway and when I get up my muscles are stiff and sore. I join him in the main room and see that his mother has gone. The curved glass of the pod is now black with nightfall.
    “She had to get back to Chloe and the baby,” Bastian explains. I nod. There isn’t anything she could do to help anyway. “She suggested you might want to have something on hand, in case he wakes.”
    I nod again and stumble over to the corner. There is a nook here, under the floor, where Grandad and I keep certain things. I take out a vial of liquid steeped from poppy seeds, identifiable by the markings on the stopper.
    I put the vial on the bench. I stand there looking at the rough wooden surface under my fingers, and Bastian places his hand on top of mine.
    The scene in the marketplace comes back to me. I whisk my hand out, and turn away from him.
    “Arcadia…” he starts.
    “You did nothing,” I interrupt him.
    “You know that I tried. You know that I did what I could.” He tries to touch my shoulder and I bat his hand away.
    “You did nothing!” I repeat, louder now. “You were right there, Grandad was beaten to a pulp, you were right there, and you did nothing to stop it!” My voice is shrill now, rising with every accusation. I know how I sound, but I don’t care. My Grandad is dying in the next room.
    When I look up at Bastian’s face I can see that his eyes are full of tears. He has known Grandad as long as I have, and loves him too. I can’t forgive him for standing by while the soldiers used my grandfather as a warning for interfering, but I feel the direction of my anger switch when I witness his pain. He’s hurting too.
    “What will I do without him?” I wail, dropping to the floor and propping my forehead on my hand.
    Bastian sits next to me, both of us leaning our backs against the wall. I hug my knees close, feeling small and very much alone.
    “I told you that I had something I wanted to talk to you about, Dia. This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined it happening, but I need you to know – “
    “Now’s not the time, Bastian,” I sigh, into my