“They don’t survive our births.”

Wait. What?! Mom. I’ve always ridden the blame bus. Now, it’s an indisputable fact. Unfortunately, understanding why increases my guilt. I’m why she’s in the hospital on a permanent vacation from consciousness. The doctors were right but, alas, for the wrong reason. Somehow, during my birth, I stole the life from her I needed to survive, and in my infantile need, I drained her to dregs. Only the empty shell of a creature remains.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I demand.

Tally sighs. “Would it have helped?”

I clamp my jaw, refusing the comfort of her Narcissus and Sage scent. No, it wouldn’t have helped. “Did she suffer?”

“She wouldn’t have suffered long,” Declan says quietly.

Tally shrugs. “It’s a reasonable assumption that she felt the same thing we do when we transition.”

“Well, you survived that.”

“No, we didn’t,” she contends, “and we only had to endure it once. Every time a Sumair’s energy tanks are emptied, they have to rinse and repeat. They refill, things go back to normal, then when they use their fuel up, they have to do it all over. It’s a painful, persistent cycle. Each time is like Russian roulette. They never know if they’re going berserk.”

My eyes fill up for Connor. To age, to fight the conversion, he has to tolerate the worst part of the withdrawal. He has to ride it out for as long as possible before finally caving, and he’s not done suffering. He’ll do this over and over until he gets to the age he wants. Staying in the body of a fourteen-year-old with the mind of a fifty-year-old isn’t an ideal solution, but losing his mind by continuously overloading it with pain isn’t a healthy alternative, either.

“Can’t you just make sure they have enough? You said you choose to give energy to them. All you have to do is give.”

“This drains, immobilizes, and requires us to replenish using human blood,” Declan counters.

“Which is fine since you use donated blood to draw the energy.”

“Are you naïve enough to believe every one of our kind uses our method?” he chastises.

“They’d only need you.”

“Unless they accidentally take too much,” he claps back. “There’s no valve to stop the flow of an open channel. They can take what they want.”

“You’d just need to train them to stop.” My arguments are getting weak, and what they say makes perfect sense, but I’ll bleed out on this hill before I give it up. “Stop them before it’s too much.”

“Impossible,” he refutes me. “We’re in our weakest state in the transfer. The giver has no power to do anything except give.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Then you’ll just have to deal with supervision.” My anger is stronger than my logic at this point.

“Look.” He leans forward to gently pat my shoulder, his Delphinium and Allspice scent caressing me. “No one’s saying you can’t enjoy Derry, just like I’m enjoying Kiley, but this is temporary. It’s a limited time option.”

“I’m staying human.” My last ditch effort to save my hill. “We can live a human life together, a temporary, human life.”

He smiles, squeezes my shoulder, and leans back in the seat. “You’re that confident your spark won’t ignite?”

I grind my teeth. “I’ll politely decline any advice on offer based on my answer to that offensive question.”

“We’ll be here to help you set right the pieces, whatever happens,” he assures me.

Tally’s been uncharacteristically quiet for a while. When I take an extra moment to fully register what she’s experiencing, it almost floors me. Her heart’s breaking. It could be over Barry, what happened prior to her transition, or all the trials we’ve yet to face. Whatever it is, it’s brutal, and not even I can strip her of the emotion.

I sit and stew on my options. No, I don’t want Derry to suffer the Sumair fate, and I can’t allow him to choose it. I’ve already unwittingly inflicted that curse. As prevalent as Derry is on my mind, my guilt replaces my thoughts of him with someone closer to home. Mom. Her physical response to the lack of energy wasn’t painful, not openly agonizing, anyway. She suffered differently. Having no food source, she starved to death.

We pull up to a dark house. Dad’s gone to bed, which is a definite change in routine. Lately, he stays up waiting for me or falls asleep in his recliner. I turn on the kitchen light and see the pile of papers still on the table. He didn’t put them away. Did he leave them out so I could react privately to whatever they are?

Don’t look, Superego warns. Just go upstairs and figure out what you’re doing about Derry.

Whatever this is, it’s serious. I sensed that earlier from Dad. I need the distraction. Surely, it can’t be as terrible as deciding whether or not to give up my spark suppressor. Can it?

I stand frozen for a few moments before I can control the progression of my feet. My knees won’t cooperate, so I slide-shuffle across the linoleum to the table, a strange weight developing in my chest and getting heavier the nearer I get to the source of my angst.

Taking a deep breath, I stop in front of the table, staring straight ahead while I steel my resolve. It’s just some papers. One quick peek will absolve the dread rousing the slumbering spark inside me.

Looking down, I instantly wish I hadn’t. What’s written on the papers is why my father wants me to go to the hospital tomorrow. He’s finally pulling the plug.

I concluded my mother doesn’t really exist, not in a mental capacity, quite some time ago, but the finality of the words cuts me like a dull knife—slow, jagged, and irreparable. I’m not ready to let her go, especially knowing what she is, what I’ve made her. A Sumair converted by me.

I numbly pull my vibrating phone from my pocket to see who’s texting me in the middle of my emotional turmoil.

Need 2 talk ASAP. 911!—Derry

Do I have to respond right now? Whatever emergency he has can’t be more important than what I’m handling.

No, I don’t have to respond. I can wimp out, pretending to be asleep. I won’t actually sleep. There’s no way. I’ll just lie in my bed waiting for the end to come, an end I started at the very beginning. Once Dad submits the papers, how long will it be until they follow through? A week? A few days? Tomorrow?

Can I respond with the truth? No, it’s too dangerous. I’m too dangerous. What I did to my mother proves that. I need to cut him off completely. The trick will be to resist explaining why. He’ll want total honesty. There are no half-truths with Derry. If I break down and give him full disclosure, I’ll also have to admit I’m hopelessly screwed up to the point even his electronic prowess can’t rewire my defective robot. I was wrong to defend that hill. Telling him the truth about anything will lead to telling him the truth about everything, guaranteeing his ultimate demise. If something happens to him, I won’t forgive myself. I’ve hurt too many people as it is.

My options are garbage, so I choose none of them. I text Brody.

Save me—Sheyla