Page 238 of Because I Killed Him
I head to the hospital anyway. The drive field spikes, the stabilizers screaming as I lift off the sand and vector toward Belvoir Infirmary. Sirens wail through the streets behind us. My hands shake on the control stick, my whole body thrumming with adrenaline and the echo of Edmund’s face, his voice, the shield still burning between us.
I land in a hospital docking bay, where Pinkie medics are waiting outside, already alerted to other injured students coming from the beach. One robot sprints to the passenger side, yanks open the door, and catches Charlotte as she slumps against the dashboard.
Her legs are shredded, torn in five places from thigh to shin, blood winding in oily ropes that are already beginning to congeal. Her shoes make a sick squelch as the Pinkies lie her on a gurney. A robot injects a sedative into her neck, and Charlotte goes limp immediately. I trail after them, feeling helpless as the Pinkies rush her into surgery.
I wait in the corridor, still numb, holding the wrong Fraternity cap. I thought it was mine when I grabbed it from the hovercar, but under theharsh hospital fluorescents, I see the small tear in the green band. It’s Vincent’s. I clutch the cap tighter than I mean to, knuckles whitening around the brim.
Two hours pass before the Pinkies wheel Charlotte into a recovery room. Both legs are bound in layers of bio-bandage mesh. The surgeon says Rosamund’s saber missed the tendons, but a few inches in any direction, and Charlotte would be relearning how to walk like I did. A Pinkie administers another sedative, something strong enough to knock out a bull, and I keep waiting. One hour. Then another. The day fades away, and the outside light dies. The monitors beep softly, as if the machines are breathing for Charlotte, and she continues sleeping.
While I wait, I send her two hundred civil credits as a cushion for what’s coming. Jerome warned me against handing out civil credits, but when it comes to Charlotte, everyone knows she’s my best friend, so I’m sure the transfer won’t raise suspicion. She’ll need the boost after what she did, especially with all the eyes that saw her challenge a Prew. My civil credits aren’t permanently linked to hers since she was above the arrest threshold when I sent them, but even if they were, I wouldn’t care.
With William dead, my civil credits are no longer connected to him. I stare at the notification on my Bond, which confirms the penalty is lifted, and feel nothing at all.
Close to midnight, Charlotte’s fingers finally twitch against the blanket. She opens her eyes, and when she sees me, she flinches with shame, as if no time has passed since the death duel on the beach.
“I’m sorry, Lore,” she rasps. “I had to stand up to Rosamund.”
“I know.” I brush her damp curls behind her ear, afraid of my next words. “But Char, why a saber duel? Did you… want to die?”
Charlotte nods stiffly, then forces the words out through clamped teeth. “Yes. But only until I almost did.” Her lips tremble as she wipes away a tear. “Thank you for helping me, Lore. And for—”
“You don’t have to thank me, Char. I did it for both of us.”
She tightens her grip on my hand, her fingers warm in mine, and we sit in silence as the visiting hour clock creeps toward its end.
After a long pause, Charlotte murmurs, “Rosamund sent a request to dissolve the death duel.”
I wonder if Rosamund did it because Edmund made her or because she’s afraid that I’ll come finish her off. “Did you accept it?” I ask.
“Yes.” Charlotte’s voice thins as she begins to doze. “Even if she beat me, at least she knows I’m not afraid of her anymore.”
I keep holding Charlotte’s hand until her eyes close. I stand to leave, but when I reach the door, she calls out to me, “Lore.”
I turn.
“You love him, don’t you? Edmund?”
There’s no point denying it. Charlotte isn’t the only one who witnessed what happened on the beach.
“Yes. I love him.”
She exhales, and the sadness on her face folds inward. “I’m… so sorry.”
I’m sorry too, because Charlotte’s expression seems to convey the same anxious warning Mom gave me only days ago, that loving Edmund means suffering in pursuit of an ending that can never be bright.
The soil of her love was rich enough that her heart bloomed flowers, so beautiful I didn’t dare pick one. While I hesitated, the buds began to wither and close. And when at last I reached for what was offered, I found the flowers bowed in death.
—AN ORANGE WHO LOVED A PURPLE
CHAPTER 59
It’s nearly 1:00 a.m. when I finally return to the Green Dormitory. Before heading to my suite, I stop at the info center, still clutching Vincent’s fraternity cap, which is stiff with dry blood. At the counter, a Pinkie blinks out of standby mode. I hand over the cap and ask that it be sent to Vincent’s parents. They’ve lost both their sons, all their children. My chest aches at the thought of that grief, but I can mourn only one loss.
Vincent died for something. For someone. He died trying to give his brother a second chance at life, and in a single day, William threw it away. He turned Vincent’s gift into something shameful when he attacked an unarmed Edmund, driven by vengeance, grief, and blind fury. The act was caught on at least a dozen Bonds, likely replaying across campus already.
Now that shame will stain Vincent’s memory. Vincent died so William could live, and William used that life to destroy all the honor his family had left.
I ride the elevator to my floor, so tired I let my head rest against the wall as the car ascends. I smell like blood, wet sand, and yesterday’s sweat. I want to shower, then sleep away the confusion and pain that cling to me like dead skin. But when I push open my suite door and shuffle into the salon, I find I’m not alone.
