Across the Universe - Beth Revis [30]
“Don’twannagosleepagain.” Her words slur together and are hard to understand. “Don’ wan... na,” she says, her voice dropping. A few small tears mixed with eyedrops linger on her lashes. “Not... sleep,” she says, even quieter and slower. “No... no more... sleep.” And her eyes roll back into her head, and her head sinks down amidst her sunset hair, and she loses all consciousness.
I stare at her, and even though her chest is moving up and down in steady breaths, she looks more dead now than she did in the ice.
I wonder if she dreams.
15
AMY
I AM AWAKE. BUT I DO NOT STRETCH, YAWN, OR OPEN MY EYES. I am not used to doing any of that. At least, not anymore. So I lie here, becoming aware of my senses. I smell mustiness. I can hear someone breathing softly, as if asleep. I feel warmth, and it is not until I realize this that I remember I am no longer frozen.
My first thought: how much of the dreams and nightmares was real?
Even now, the dreams I had while frozen are fading, becoming fuzzy memories, like dreams do. Did I really dream for three centuries, or did I dream for the few minutes between fully waking and unfreezing? It felt like centuries, dream upon dream piling up in my head—but dreams are like that, time isn’t real. When my tonsils were taken out, I had dozens of really detailed dreams, but I was only under the anesthesia for an hour or so. Besides, I couldn’t have dreamt when I was frozen—that’s impossible, dreams can’t flit through frozen neurons.
But what about those stories of patients who are awake during surgery, even though the anesthesia is supposed to knock them out?
No. Ignore that. It’s not the same. I could only have dreamt in that small time when my body was melting but my soul hadn’t yet. If I start thinking about time, and how much passed, and how aware I was of it passing, I’ll drive myself crazy.
I force my eyes open. I can’t be haunted by dreams—whether they’re centuries old or not—if I am awake.
The crinkle of my eyelids feels new to me, and I revel in opening my eyes.
And then—oh—I strrrrretch. My muscles burn. I can feel them all tightening, the muscles at the small of my back, the ones running along the sides of my calves, the slender muscles wrapped around my elbows.
The blanket slips down my legs. I sit up, my abdominal muscles pulling me forward with relish. I am bare from the tops of my thighs down, and above that all I am wearing is a blue-green hospital gown, the kind that doesn’t close in the back.
A boy sits beside my bed, breathing in a slow steady way that drifts in and out of snoring. I pull the blanket all the way up to my shoulders. He fell asleep while sitting in the chair and is slouched over in a way that looks uncomfortable. He must have been watching me. I hate the idea that he was there, awake and conscious, while I slept. It creeps me out.
It’s the same boy who was there when I first woke up inside the glass coffin. His face is soft but has an edge to it that belies the innocent appearance he has while sleeping. I’m not sure what race he is—not black, but not white; neither Hispanic nor Asian. It’s a nice color, though—dark in a creamy sort of way that compliments his almost-black hair. The high cut of his cheekbones and the strong curve of his forehead make him look instantly trustworthy, maybe even kind.
“Who are you?” I say loudly. For the first time since I woke from my centuries-long slumber, my voice does not crack. They must have done something to my throat. A dull, throbbing ache fills my body.
The boy jumps, a look of guilt or wariness on his face when his eyes focus on me. He looks around as if he’s surprised I’m talking to him, but he’s the only other person in the room.
“I’m uh... I’m Elder. I’m the future, um, leader. Of the ship. Um.” He stands up, but I don’t, so he sits down again awkwardly.
Future leader of the ship? Why does the ship need a future leader?
“Where am I?”
“You’re