Unravel Me (28 page)

“It depends on the size of the cut,” Kenji tells him. “But for a gash like the one
on your hand?” He shakes his head. “I’d need to clean it to make sure it didn’t get
infected. Then I’d have to wrap it up in gauze and some kind of ointment to keep it
from scarring. And then,” he says, “it would take at least a couple days for it to
scab up. And then it would begin to heal.”

James is blinking like he’s never heard of something so absurd in his life.

“Let me see your hand,” Kenji says to him.

James hesitates.

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Really. We’re just curious.”

Slowly, so slowly, James shows us his clenched fist. Even more slowly, he uncurls
his fingers, watching our reactions the whole time. And exactly where just a moment
ago there was a huge gash, now there’s nothing but perfect pink skin and a little
pool of blood.

“Holy shit on a cracker,” Kenji breathes. “Sorry,” he says to me, jumping forward
to grab James’ arm, barely able to rein in his smiles, “but I need to get this guy
over to the medical wing. That okay? We can pick up again tomorrow—”

“But I’m not hurt anymore,” James protests. “I’m okay—”

“I know, kid, but you’re going to want to come with me.”

“But why?”

“How would you like,” he says, leading James out the door, “to start spending some
time with two very pretty girls....”

And they’re gone.

And I’m laughing.

Sitting in the middle of the training room all by myself when I hear 2 familiar knocks
at my door.

I already know who it’s going to be.

“Ms. Ferrars.”

I whip around, not because I’m surprised to hear Castle’s voice, but because I’m surprised
at the intonation. His eyes are narrowed, his lips tight, his eyes sharp and flashing
in this light.

He is very, very angry.

Crap.

“I’m sorry about the hallway,” I tell him, “I didn’t—”

“We can discuss your public and wildly inappropriate displays of affection at a later
time, Ms. Ferrars, but right now I have a very important question to ask you and I
would advise you to be honest, as acutely honest as is physically possible.”

“What”—I can hardly breathe—“what is it?”

Castle narrows his eyes at me. “I have just had a conversation with Warner, who says
he is able to touch you without consequence, and that this information is something
you are well aware of.”

And I think, Wow, I did it. I actually managed to die of a stroke at age 17.

“I need to know,” Castle hurries on, “whether or not this information is true and
I need to know right now.”

There’s glue all over my tongue, stuck to my teeth, my lips, the roof of my mouth,
and I can’t speak, I can’t move, I’m pretty sure I just had a seizure or an aneurysm
or heart failure or something equally as awful but I can’t explain any of this to
Castle because I can’t move my jaw even an inch.

“Ms.
Ferrars.
I don’t think you understand how important this question is. I need an answer from
you, and I need it thirty seconds ago.”

“I … I—”

“Today, I need an answer
today, right now, this very moment
—”

“Yes,” I choke out, blushing through my skull, horribly ashamed, embarrassed, horrified
in every possible way and the only thing I can think of is Adam Adam Adam how will
Adam respond to this information
now
, why does this have to happen
now
, why did Warner say anything at all and I want to kill him for sharing the secret
that was mine to tell, mine to hide, mine to hoard.

Castle looks like he’s a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close
and ruined him forever. “So it’s true, then?”

I drop my eyes. “Yes, it’s true.”

He falls to the floor right across from me, astonished. “How is it even possible,
do you think?”

Because Warner is Adam’s brother, I don’t tell him.

And I don’t tell him because it is
Adam’s
secret to tell and I will not talk about it until he does, even though I desperately
want to tell Castle that the connection must be in their blood, that they both must
share a similar kind of gift or Energy, or oh oh
oh

Oh God.

Oh no.

Warner is one of us.

“It changes everything.”

Castle isn’t even looking at me. “This—I mean—this means so many things,” he says.
“We’ll have to tell him everything and we’ll have to test him to be sure, but I’m
fairly positive it’s the only explanation. And he would be welcome to take refuge
here if he wanted it—I would have to give him a regular room, allow him to live among
us as an equal. I cannot keep him here as a prisoner, at the very least—”

“
What
—but, Castle—why? He’s the one who almost killed Adam! And Kenji!”

“You have to understand—this news might change his entire outlook on life.” Castle
is shaking his head, one hand almost covering his mouth, his eyes wide. “He might
not take it well—he might be thrilled—he might lose his mind completely—he might wake
up a new man in the morning. You would be surprised what these kinds of revelations
will do to people.

“Omega Point will always be a place of refuge for our kind,” he continues. “It’s an
oath I made to myself many years ago. I cannot deny him food and shelter if, for example,
his father were to cast him out entirely.”

This can’t be happening.

“But I don’t understand,” Castle says suddenly, looking up at me. “Why didn’t you
say anything? Why not report this information? This is important for us to know and
it doesn’t condemn you in any way—”

“I didn’t want Adam to know,” I admit out loud for the first time, my voice 6 broken
bits of shame strung together. “I just …” I shake my head. “I didn’t want him to know.”

Castle actually looks sad for me. He says, “I wish I could help you keep your secret,
Ms. Ferrars, but even if I wanted to, I’m not sure Warner will.”

I focus on the mats laid out on the floor. My voice sounds tiny when I ask, “Why did
he even tell you? How did that even come up in conversation?”

Castle rubs his chin, thoughtful. “He told me of his own accord. I volunteered to
take him on his daily rounds—walking him to the restroom, et cetera—because I wanted
to follow up and ask him questions about his father and see what he knew about the
state of our hostages. He seemed perfectly fine. In fact, he looked much better than
he was when he first showed up. He was compliant, almost polite. But his attitude
changed rather dramatically after we stumbled upon you and Adam in the hall....” His
voice trails off, his eyes snap up, his mind working quickly to fit all the pieces
together and he’s gaping at me, staring at me in a way that is entirely foreign to
Castle, in a way that says he is utterly, absolutely baffled.

I’m not sure if I should be offended.

“He’s in love with you,” Castle whispers, a dawning, groundbreaking realization in
his voice. He laughs, once, hard, fast. Shakes his head. “He held you captive and
managed to fall in love with you in the process.”

I’m staring at the mats like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen in
my life.

“Oh, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I do not envy you your predicament. I can see
now why this situation must be uncomfortable for you.”

I want to say to him, You have no idea, Castle. You have no idea because you don’t
even know the entire story. You don’t know that they’re
brothers
, brothers who
hate
each other, brothers who only seem to agree on one thing, and that one thing happens
to be killing their own father.

But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t say anything, in fact.

I sit on these mats with my head in my hands and I’m trying to figure out what else
could possibly go wrong. I’m wondering how many more mistakes I’ll have to make before
things finally fall into place.

If they ever will.

I’m so humiliated.

I’ve been thinking about this all night and I came to a realization this morning.
Warner must’ve told Castle on purpose. Because he’s playing games with me, because
he hasn’t changed, because he’s still trying to get me to do his bidding. He’s still
trying to get me to be his project and he’s trying to hurt me.

I won’t allow it.

I will not allow Warner to lie to me, to manipulate my emotions to get what he wants.
I can’t believe I felt pity for him—that I felt weakness, tenderness for him when
I saw him with his father—that I believed him when he told me his thoughts about my
journal. I’m such a gullible fool.

I was an idiot to ever think he might be capable of human emotion.

I told Castle that maybe he should put someone else on this assignment now that he
knows Warner can touch me; I told him it might be dangerous now. But he laughed and
he laughed and he laughed and he said, “Oh, Ms. Ferrars, I’m quite,
quite
certain you will be able to defend yourself. In fact, you’re probably much better
equipped against him than any of us. Besides,” he added, “this is an ideal situation.
If he truly is in love with you, you must be able to use that to our advantage somehow.
We need your help,” he said to me, serious again. “We need all the help we can find,
and right now you’re the one person who might be able to get the answers we need.
Please,” he said. “Try to find out anything you can. Anything at all. Winston and
Brendan’s lives are at risk.”

And he’s right.

So I’m shoving my own concerns aside because Winston and Brendan are out there, hurting
somewhere, and we need to find them. And I’m going to do whatever I can to help.

Which means I have to talk to Warner again.

I have to treat him just like the prisoner that he is. No more side conversations.
No falling for his efforts to confuse me. Not again and again and again. I’m going
to be better. Smarter.

And I want my notebook back.

The guards are unlocking his room for me and I’m marching in, I’m sealing the door
shut behind me and I’m getting ready to give him the speech I’ve already prepared
when I stop in place.

I don’t know what I was expecting.

Maybe I thought I’d catch him trying to break a hole in the wall or maybe he’d be
plotting the demise of every person at Omega Point or I don’t know I don’t know I
don’t know anything because I only know how to fight an angry body, an insolent creature,
an arrogant monster, and I do not know what to do with this.

He’s sleeping.

Someone put a mattress in here, a simple rectangle of average quality, thin and worn
but better than the ground, at least, and he’s lying on top of it in nothing but a
pair of black boxer briefs.

His clothes are on the floor.

His pants, his shirts, his socks are slightly damp, wrinkled, obviously hand-washed
and laid out to dry; his coat is folded neatly over his boots, and his gloves are
resting right next to each other on top of his coat.

He hasn’t moved an inch since I stepped into this room.

He’s resting on his side, his back to the wall, his left arm tucked under his face,
his right arm against his torso, his entire body
perfect
bare, strong, smooth, and smelling faintly of soap. I don’t know why I can’t stop
staring at him. I don’t know what it is about sleep that makes our faces appear so
soft and innocent, so peaceful and vulnerable, but I’m trying to look away and I can’t.
I’m losing sight of my own purpose, forgetting all the brave things I said to myself
before I stepped in here. Because there’s something about him—there’s
always
been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I wish I
could ignore it but I can’t.

Because I look at him and wonder if maybe it’s just me? Maybe I’m naive?

But I see layers, shades of gold and green and a person who’s never been given a chance
to be human and I wonder if I’m just as cruel as my own oppressors if I decide that
society is right, that some people are too far gone, that sometimes you can’t turn
back, that there are people in this world who don’t deserve a second chance and I
can’t I can’t I can’t

I can’t help but disagree.

I can’t help but think that 19 is too young to give up on someone, that 19 years old
is just the beginning, that it’s too soon to tell anyone they will never amount to
anything but evil in this world.

I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if someone had taken a chance
on me.

So I back away. I turn to leave.

I let him sleep.

I stop in place.

I catch a glimpse of my notebook lying on the mattress next to his outstretched hand,
his fingers looking as if they’ve only just let go. It’s the perfect opportunity to
steal it back if I can be stealthy enough.

I tiptoe forward, forever grateful that these boots I wear are designed to make no
sound at all. But the closer I inch toward his body, the more my attention is caught
by something on his back.

A little rectangular blur of black.

I creep closer.

Blink.

Squint.

Lean in.

It’s a tattoo.

No pictures. Just 1 word. 1 word, typed into the very center of his upper back. In
ink.

And his skin is shredded with scars.

Blood is rushing to my head so quickly I’m beginning to feel faint. I feel sick. Like
I might actually, truly upturn the contents of my stomach right now. I want to panic,
I want to shake someone, I want to know how to understand the emotions choking me
because I can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine, can’t even
imagine
what he must’ve endured to carry such suffering on his skin.

His entire back is a map of pain.

Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere. They’re
gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never could have expected.
They’re the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding
secrets of their own.