Free Split Infinity by Thalia Kalkipsakis Page B

for attention that suddenly it’s too much. The world tilts and spins.
    I only just make it to the bench before I puke into the sink. My guts contract, spewing out of me.
    I’m clutching the bench, panting, when it’s over. I wipe the spit from my chin and examine the remnants of my stomach now splodged around the drain. The stench of it seeps into my nostrils. I’m breathless and sweaty. Brown lumps and soft jellylike bits. That looks kind of like lentil and veg soup …
    Weird. The last thing I ate was a ration bar.
    It’s only as I turn on the grey-water tap to rinse the mess that I get a memory-flash of blood dripping into a hole in a dismantled sink. The crunch of a glass blade against my chip, digging hard into my flesh.
    It’s like the remnants of a dream, raw with emotion but difficult to hold in my mind. I lift my arm and peer at it in the dull light. There’s no wound anymore, just the faded line I drew on with make-up. And I remember drawing it on. The moment is clear in me, as if it were days ago. The pencil pressing against my skin and the hope that it would help me pass as any other citizen …
    I rub my wrist, wiping away the make-up. Trying to understand. But all I see is clean, clear skin. There’s no wound, no scar. My wrist is as smooth as the day I was born.
    It’s only now that I look around properly, registering where I am. Our sink. Our room.
    Our bed. And …
    ‘Mum?’ I only make it a couple of steps when I pull back and gasp, a hand pressed against my mouth. She’s here . One arm is draped across her face, the way she always sleeps.
    A sob escapes from somewhere deep and I fall onto the bed, scrambling across the bedclothes.
    She lifts her arm from her face and her eyelids flicker open for a moment before squinting closed again. ‘What is it, Coutlyn?’
    Tears brim in my eyes as I sink into her, hooking my arms around her neck, burying my face in her hair, holding onto the truth of her. ‘You’re here. You’re really here .’
    Wherever this is. Or when ever.
    She’s holding me tight, returning the hug. Her head tilts towards me, half-smiling as if I’ve gone mad. ‘Of course, Coutlyn. I haven’t gone anywhere.’
    Even before she speaks I know this; she’s been here this whole time. It’s me who’s been gone. It’s me who was lost. I pull away, transfixed by every detail. She’s thinner than I remember, her cheeks still sunken from a lifetime of sharing her rations with me.
    I wipe my face. ‘What’s the date?’
    She hitches herself up on one elbow and flicks on the bedside lamp. ‘Scout, it’s the middle of the night. I don’t know. Thursday, I think.’
    As if that’s any help. But I can see her properly now. I cup her face in my hands, drinking her in.
    The way I need to hold onto her reminds me of the way she held me the first time I showed her I could skip. If only I’d taught her how to do it too, she would have been able to escape the fire. She would have survived.
    I pull back and run a hand over the back of my neck. My head hurts. It makes no sense, being here with Mum. Our room back the way it used to be. But there’s no denying the sensation that I’ve been here before.
    I think back. I was lost in the tunnel and somehow I found a way out, but it’s not where I should have returned. It’s as if I’ve fallen into an old return, an earlier point in my timeline, and reconnected with the person I used to be. But I’m not exactly the same, now I have two sets of memories to sort through: one from here and another that’s fading, like a dream.
    ‘Sweetheart, are you all right?’ Mum reaches for my forehead. ‘Are you sick?’
    ‘Sort of … I threw up. But I’m okay now.’ I think.
    Mum’s hand slides down to my cheek. ‘Are you hot? You had a nightshirt on when we went to bed …’
    I glance down vaguely, and reach for a loose sheet at the end of the bed, tucking it under my arms like a strapless dress and tying it tight. I’m so used to being