Unravel Me (11 page)

It’s humiliating.

That I thought I could slip into the role of a regular girl with a regular boyfriend;
that I thought I could live out the stories I’d read in so many books as a child.

Me.

Juliette with a dream.

Just the thought of it is enough to fill me with mortification. How embarrassing for
me, that I thought I could change what I’d been dealt. That I looked in the mirror
and actually liked the pale face staring back at me.

How sad.

I always dared to identify with the princess, the one who runs away and finds a fairy
godmother to transform her into a beautiful girl with a bright future. I clung to
something like hope, to a thread of maybes and possiblys and perhapses. But I should’ve
listened when my parents told me that things like me aren’t allowed to have dreams.
Things like me are better off destroyed, is what my mother said to me.

And I’m beginning to think they were right. I’m beginning to wonder if I should just
bury myself in the ground before I remember that technically, I already am. I never
even needed a shovel.

It’s strange.

How hollow I feel.

Like there might be echoes inside of me. Like I’m one of those chocolate rabbits they
used to sell around Easter, the ones that were nothing more than a sweet shell encapsulating
a world of nothing. I’m like that.

I encapsulate a world of nothing.

Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form have now
been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed, angry, even.
I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person who’s ever tried
to see good in me is now paying for it with his life.

The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me.

Well. 1 of 2.

I find myself thinking about Warner too much.

I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating demeanor. I remember
the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the window to escape and I remember
the horror on his face when I pointed his own gun at his heart and then I wonder at
my preoccupation with this person who is nothing like me
and still so similar.

I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how he will
greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially not after
I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old man boy person
into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m lying to myself.
Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who could ever understand him.

And this is what I’ve learned:

I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the warmth of friendship
or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is the leader of The Reestablishment
and applauds his son’s murders instead of condemning them and I know that Warner has
no idea what it’s like to be normal.

Neither do I.

He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global domination
without questioning why, without considering the repercussions, without stopping long
enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a power, a strength, a position
in society that enables him to do too much damage and he owns it with pride. He kills
without remorse or regret and he wants me to join him. He sees me for what I am and
expects me to live up to that potential.

Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else to
contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and taking
control. That’s what he wants from me.

And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything. Lately, I
don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore, and I know
the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my head, telling me
I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I could be so much more
than a scared little girl.

He says I could be power.

But still, I hesitate.

Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no
pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not
want
to hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even
if they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If
I die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred
of dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control.
And I will not allow anyone to take that from me.

So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words.

We are synonyms but not the same.

Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve seen the
world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and forget that though
they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they share a certain set
of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night is not the same as
a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not
the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge themselves into a sentence
changes everything.

They are not the same.

I’ve spent my entire life fighting to be better. Fighting to be stronger. Because
unlike Warner I don’t want to be a terror on this Earth. I don’t want to hurt people.

I don’t want to use my power to cripple anyone.

But then I look at my own 2 hands and I remember exactly what I’m capable of. I remember
exactly what I’ve done and I’m too aware of what I might do. Because it’s so difficult
to fight what you cannot control and right now I can’t even control my own imagination
as it grips my hair and drags me into the dark.

Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.

It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your
hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you almost
can’t breathe. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night, leaches the
light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your hand only to
yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up.

You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep at night
and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt

do I

don’t I

should I

why won’t I

And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re
ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror,
looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it. You can’t find
the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you’re not enough never
enough never ever enough.

Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion.

Sometimes it just won’t let go.

“Helloooooo?”

I blink and gasp and flinch away from the fingers snapping in front of my face as
the familiar stone walls of Omega Point come back into focus. I manage to spin around.

Kenji is staring at me.

“What?” I shoot him a panicked, nervous look as I clasp and unclasp my ungloved hands,
wishing I had something warm to wrap my fingers in. This suit does not come with pockets
and I wasn’t able to salvage the gloves I ruined in the research rooms. I haven’t
received any replacements, either.

“You’re early,” Kenji says to me, cocking his head, watching me with eyes both surprised
and curious.

I shrug and try to hide my face, unwilling to admit that I hardly slept through the
night. I’ve been awake since 3:00 a.m., fully dressed and ready to go by 4:00. I’ve
been dying for an excuse to fill my mind with things that have nothing to do with
my own thoughts. “I’m excited,” I lie. “What are we doing today?”

He shakes his head a bit. Squints at something over my shoulder as he speaks to me.
“You, um”—he clears his throat—“you okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just, you know.” A haphazard gesture toward my face.
“You don’t look so good, princess. You look kind of like you did that first day you
showed up with Warner back on base. All scared and dead-looking and, no offense, but
you look like you could use a shower.”

I smile and pretend I can’t feel my face shaking from the effort. I try to relax my
shoulders, try to look normal, calm, when I say, “I’m fine. Really.” I drop my eyes.
“I’m just—it’s a little cold down here, that’s all. I’m not used to being without
my gloves.”

Kenji is nodding, still not looking at me. “Right. Well. He’s going to be okay, you
know.”

“What?” Breathing. I’m so bad at breathing.

“Kent.” He turns to me. “Your boyfriend.
Adam.
He’s going to be fine.”

1 word, 1 simple, stupid reminder of him startles the butterflies sleeping in my stomach
before I remember that Adam is not my boyfriend anymore. He’s not my anything anymore.
He can’t be.

And the butterflies drop dead.

This.

I can’t do this.

“So,” I say too brightly. “Shouldn’t we get going? We should get going, right?”

Kenji shoots me an odd look but doesn’t comment. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure. Follow
me.”

Kenji leads me to a door I’ve never seen before. A door belonging to a room I’ve never
been in before.

I hear voices inside.

Kenji knocks twice before turning the handle and all at once the cacophony overwhelms
me. We’re walking into a room bursting with people, faces I’ve only ever seen from
far away, people sharing smiles and laughter I’ve never been welcome to. There are
individual desks with individual chairs set up in the vast space so that it resembles
a classroom. There’s a whiteboard built into the wall next to a monitor blinking with
information. I spot Castle. Standing in the corner, looking over a clipboard with
such focus that he doesn’t even notice our entry until Kenji shouts a greeting.

Castle’s entire face lights up.

I’d noticed it before, the connection between them, but it’s now becoming increasingly
apparent to me that Castle harbors a special kind of affection for Kenji. A sweet,
proud sort of affection that’s usually reserved for parents. It makes me wonder about
the nature of their relationship. Where it began, how it began, what must’ve happened
to bring them together. It makes me wonder at how little I know about the people of
Omega Point.

I look around at their eager faces, men and women, youthful and middle-aged, all different
ethnicities, shapes, and sizes. They’re interacting with one another like they’re
part of a family and I feel a strange sort of pain stabbing at my side, poking holes
in me until I deflate.

It’s like my face is pressed up against the glass, watching a scene from far, far
away, wishing and wanting to be a part of something I know I’ll never really be a
part of. I forget, sometimes, that there are people out there who still manage to
smile every day, despite everything.

They haven’t lost hope yet.

Suddenly I feel sheepish, ashamed, even. Daylight makes my thoughts look dark and
sad and I want to pretend I’m still optimistic, I want to believe that I’ll find a
way to live. That maybe, somehow, there’s still a chance for me somewhere.

Someone whistles.

“All right, everyone,” Kenji calls out, hands cupped around his mouth. “Everyone take
a seat, okay? We’re doing another orientation for those of you who’ve never done this
before, and I need all of you to get settled for a bit.” He scans the crowd. “Right.
Yeah. Everyone just take a seat. Wherever is fine. Lily—you don’t have to—okay, fine,
that’s fine. Just settle down. We’re going to get started in five minutes, okay?”
He holds up an open palm, fingers splayed. “Five minutes.”

I slip into the closest empty seat without looking around. I keep my head down, my
eyes focused on the individual grains of wood on the desk as everyone collapses into
chairs around me. Finally, I dare to glance to my right. Bright white hair and snow-white
skin and clear blue eyes blink back at me.

Brendan.
The electricity boy.

He smiles. Offers me a 2-finger wave.

I duck my head.

“Oh—hey,” I hear someone say. “What are you doing here?”

I jerk toward my left to find sandy-blond hair and black plastic glasses sitting on
a crooked nose. An ironic smile twisted onto a pale face.
Winston.
I remember him. He interviewed me when I first arrived at Omega Point. Said he was
some kind of psychologist. But he also happens to be the one who designed the suit
I’m wearing. The gloves I destroyed.

I think he’s some kind of genius. I’m not sure.

Right now, he’s chewing on the cap of his pen, staring at me. He uses an index finger
to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I remember he’s asked me a question
and I make an effort to answer.

“I’m not actually sure,” I tell him. “Kenji brought me here but didn’t tell me why.”

Winston doesn’t seem surprised. He rolls his eyes. “Him with the freaking mysteries
all the time. I don’t know why he thinks it’s such a good idea to keep people in suspense.
It’s like the guy thinks his life is a movie or something. Always so dramatic about
everything. It’s irritating as hell.”

I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.
I can’t help thinking that Adam would agree with him and then I can’t help thinking
about Adam and then I

“Ah, don’t listen to him.” An English accent steps into the conversation. I turn around
to see Brendan still smiling at me. “Winston’s always a bit beastly this early in
the morning.”

“Jesus. How early
is
it?” Winston asks. “I would kick a soldier in the crotch for a cup of coffee right
now.”