Shatter Me sm-1

by Тахера Мафи

  I step forward and close the door.

  I open my mouth to speak.

  “No!”

  My jaw falls off.

  “Wait,” he says with one hand. His lips move but make no sound. I realize in the absence of cameras there might still be microphones in the bathroom. Adam looks around and back and forth and everywhere.

  He stops looking.

  The shower is 4 walls of marbled glass and he’s sliding the glass open before I have any idea what’s happening. He flips the spray on at full power and the sound of water is rushing through, rumbling through the room, muffling everything as it thunders into the emptiness around us. The mirror is already fogging up on account of the steam and just as I think I’m beginning to understand his plan he pulls me into his arms and lifts me into the shower.

  My screams are vapor, wisps of gasps I can’t grasp.

  Hot water is puddling in my clothes. It’s pelting my hair and pouring down my neck but all I feel are his hands around my waist. I want to cry out for all the wrong reasons.

  His eyes pin me in place. His urgency ignites my bones. Rivulets of water snake their way down the polished planes of his face and his fingers press me up against the wall.

  His lips his lips his lips his lips his lips

  My eyes are fighting not to flutter

  My legs have won the right to tremble

  My skin is scorched everywhere he’s not touching me.

  His lips are so close to my ear I’m water and nothing and everything and melting into a wanting so desperate it burns as I swallow it down.

  “I can touch you,” he says, and I wonder why there are hummingbirds in my heart. “I didn’t understand until the other night,” he murmurs, and I’m too drunk to digest the weight of anything but his body hovering so close to mine.

  “Juliette—” His body presses closer and I realize I’m paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs. My eyes snap open and he licks his bottom lip for the smallest second and something in my brain bursts to life.

  I gasp. I gasp. I gasp. “What are you doing—”

  “Juliette, please—” His voice is anxious and he glances behind him like he’s not sure we’re alone. “The other night—” He presses his lips together. He closes his eyes for half of a second and I marvel at the drop drop drops of hot water caught in his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. His fingers inch up the sides of my body like he’s struggling to keep them in one place, like he’s struggling not to touch me everywhere everywhere everywhere and his eyes are drinking in the 63 inches of my frame and I’m so I’m so I’m so caught.

  “I finally get it now,” he says into my ear. “I know— I know why Warner wants you.” His fingertips are 10 points of electricity killing me with something I’ve never known before. Something I’ve always wanted to feel.

  “Then why are you here?” I whisper, broken, dying in his arms. “Why . . .” 1, 2 attempts at inhalation. “Why are you touching me?”

  “Because I can.” He almost cracks a smile and I almost sprout a pair of wings. “I already have.”

  “What?” I blink, suddenly sobered. “What do you mean?”

  “That first night in the cell,” he sighs. He looks down. “You were screaming in your sleep.”

  I wait.

  I wait.

  I wait forever.

  “I touched your face.” He speaks into the shape of my ear. “Your hand. I brushed the length of your arm. . . .” He pulls back and his eyes rest at my shoulder, trail down to my elbow, land on my wrist. I’m suspended in disbelief. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You wouldn’t wake up. So I sat back and watched you. I waited for you to stop screaming.”

  “That’s. Not. Possible.” 3 words are all I manage.

  But his hands become arms around my waist his lips become a cheek pressed against my cheek and his body is flush against mine, his skin touching me touching me touching me and he’s not screaming he’s not dying he’s not running away from me and I’m crying

  I’m choking

  I’m shaking shuddering splintering into teardrops and he’s holding me the way no one has ever held me before.

  Like he wants me.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” he says, and his mouth is moving against my hair and his hands are traveling to my arms and I’m leaning back and he’s looking into my eyes and I must be dreaming.

  “Why—why do you—I don’t—” I’m shaking my head and shaking because this can’t be happening and shaking off the tears glued to my face. This can’t be real.

  His eyes gentle, his smile unhinges my joints and I wish I knew the taste of his lips. I wish I had the courage to touch him. “I have to go,” he says. “You have to be dressed and downstairs by eight o’clock.”

  I’m drowning in his eyes and I don’t know what to say.

  He peels off his shirt and I don’t know where to look.

  I catch myself on the glass panel and press my eyes shut and blink when something flutters too close. His fingers are a moment from my face and I’m dripping burning melting in anticipation.

  “You don’t have to look away,” he says. He says it with a small smile the size of Jupiter.

  I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin I want to savor, at the color in his eyes I’d use to paint a million pictures. I follow the line of his jaw down his neck to the peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and valleys of his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on his chest.

  The bird on his chest.

  A tattoo.

  A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It’s flying.

  “Adam,” I try to tell him. “Adam,” I try to choke out. “Adam,” I try to say so many times and fail.

  I try to find his eyes only to realize he’s been watching me study him. The pieces of his face are pressed into lines of emotion so deep I wonder what I must look like to him. He touches 2 fingers to my chin, tilts my face up just enough and I’m a live wire in water. “I’ll find a way to talk to you,” he says, and his hands are reeling me in and my face is pressed against his chest and the world is suddenly brighter, bigger, beautiful. The world suddenly means something to me, the possibility of humanity means something to me, the entire universe stops in place and spins in the other direction and I’m the bird.

  I’m the bird and I’m flying away.

  TWENTY

  It’s 8:00 in the morning and I’m wearing a dress the color of dead forests and old tin cans.

  The fit is tighter than anything I’ve worn in my life, the cut modern and angular, almost haphazard; the material is stiff and thick but somehow breathable. I stare at my legs and wonder that I own a pair.

  I feel more exposed than I ever have in my life.

  For 17 years I’ve trained myself to cover every inch of exposed skin and Warner is forcing me to peel the layers away. I can only assume he’s doing it on purpose. My body is a carnivorous flower, a poisonous houseplant, a loaded gun with a million triggers and he’s more than ready to fire.

  Touch me and suffer the consequences. There have never been exceptions to this rule.

  Never but Adam.

  He left me standing sopping wet in the shower, soaking up a torrential downpour of hot tears. I watched through the blurred glass as he dried himself off and slipped into his standard uniform.

  I watched as he slipped away, wondering every moment why why why Why can he touch me?

  Why would he help me?

  Does he remember me?

  My skin is still steaming.

  My bones are bandaged in the tight folds of this strange dress, the zipper the only thing holding me together. That, and the prospect of something I’ve always never dared to dream of.

  My lips will stay stitched shut with the secrets of this morning forever but my heart is so full of confidence and wonder and peace and possibility that it’s about to burst and I wonder if it will rip the dress.

&nbs
p; Hope is hugging me, holding me in its arms, wiping away my tears and telling me that today and tomorrow and two days from now I will be just fine and I’m so delirious I actually dare to believe it.

  I am sitting in a blue room.

  The walls are wallpapered in cloth the color of a perfect summer sky, the floor tucked into a carpet 2 inches thick, the entire room empty but for 2 velvet chairs punched out of a constellation. Every varying hue is like a bruise, like a beautiful mistake, like a reminder of what they did to Adam because of me.

  I am sitting all alone in a velvet chair in a blue room wearing a dress made of olives. The weight of the notebook in my pocket feels like I’m balancing a bowling ball on my knee.

  “You look lovely.”

  Warner whisks into the room like he treads air for a living. He’s accompanied by no one.

  My eyes involuntarily peek down at my tennis shoes and I wonder if I’ve broken any rules by avoiding the stilts in my closet I’m sure are not for feet. I look up and he’s standing right in front of me.

  “Green is a great color on you,” he says with a stupid smile. “It really brings out the color of your eyes.”

  “What color are my eyes?” I ask the wall.

  He laughs. “You’re not serious.”

  “How old are you?”

  He stops laughing. “You care to know?”

  “I’m curious.”

  He takes the seat beside me. “I won’t answer your questions if you won’t look at me when I speak to you.”

  “You want me to torture people against my will. You want me to be a weapon in your war. You want me to become a monster for you.” I pause. “Looking at you makes me sick.”

  “You’re far more stubborn than I thought you’d be.”

  “I’m wearing your dress. I ate your food. I’m here.” I lift my eyes to look at him and he’s already staring straight at me. I’m momentarily caught off guard by the power in his gaze.

  “You did none of that for me,” he says quietly.

  I nearly laugh out loud. “Why would I?”

  His eyes are fighting his lips for the right to speak. I look away.

  “What are we doing in this room?”

  “Ah.” He takes a deep breath. “Breakfast. Then I give you your schedule.”

  He presses a button on the arm of his chair and almost instantly, carts and trays are wheeled into the room by men and women who are clearly not soldiers. Their faces are hard and cracked and too thin to be healthy.

  It breaks my heart right in half.

  “I usually eat alone,” Warner continues, his voice like an icicle piercing the flesh of my memories. “But I figured you and I should be more thoroughly acquainted. Especially since we’ll be spending so much time together.”

  The servants maids people-who-are-not-soldiers leave and Warner offers me something on a dish.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “This is not an option.”

  I look up and realize he’s very, very serious.

  “You are not allowed to starve yourself to death. You don’t eat enough and I need you to be healthy. You are not allowed to commit suicide. You are not allowed to harm yourself. You are too valuable to me.”

  “I am not your toy,” I nearly spit.

  He drops his plate onto the rolling cart and I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter into pieces. He clears his throat and I might actually be scared. “This process would be so much easier if you would just cooperate,” he says, enunciating every word.

  Five Five Five Five Five heartbeats.

  “The world is disgusted by you,” he says, his lips twitching with humor. “Everyone you’ve ever known has hated you. Run from you. Abandoned you. Your own parents gave up on you and volunteered your existence to be given up to the authorities. They were so desperate to get rid of you, to make you someone else’s problem, to convince themselves the abomination they raised was not, in fact, their child.”

  My face has been slapped by a hundred hands.

  “And yet—” He laughs openly now. “You insist on making me the bad guy.” He meets my eyes. “I am trying to help you. I’m giving you an opportunity no one would ever offer you. I’m willing to treat you as an equal. I’m willing to give you everything you could ever want, and above all else, I can put power in your hands. I can make them suffer for what they did to you.” He leans in just enough. “I can change your world.”

  He’s wrong he’s so wrong he’s more wrong than an upside-down rainbow.

  But everything he said is right.

  “Don’t dare to hate me so quickly,” he continues. “You might find yourself enjoying this situation a lot more than you anticipated. Lucky for you, I’m willing to be patient.” He grins. Leans back. “Though it certainly doesn’t hurt that you’re so alarmingly beautiful.”

  I’m dripping red paint on the carpet.

  He’s a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being and I don’t know if I care because he’s right, or because it’s so wrong, or because I’m so desperate for some semblance of recognition in this world. No one has ever said anything like that to me before.

  It makes me want to look in the mirror.

  “You and I are not as different as you might hope.” His grin is so cocky I want to twist it with my fist.

  “You and I are not as similar as you might hope.”

  He smiles so wide I’m not sure how to react. “I’m nineteen, by the way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m nineteen years old,” he clarifies. “I’m a fairly impressive specimen for my age, I know.”

  I pick up my spoon and poke at the edible matter on my plate. I don’t know what food really is anymore. “I have no respect for you.”

  “You will change your mind,” he says easily. “Now hurry up and eat. We have a lot of work to do.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Killing time isn’t as difficult as it sounds.

  I can shoot a hundred numbers through the chest and watch them bleed decimal points in the palm of my hand.

  I can rip the numbers off a clock and watch the hour hand tick tick tick its final tock just before I fall asleep. I can suffocate seconds just by holding my breath. I’ve been murdering minutes for hours and no one seems to mind.

  It’s been one week since I’ve spoken a word to Adam.

  I turned to him once. Opened my mouth just once but never had a chance to say anything before Warner intercepted me. “You are not allowed to speak to the soldiers,” he said. “If you have questions, you can find me. I am the only person you need to concern yourself with while you’re here.”

  Possessive is not a strong enough word for Warner.

  He escorts me everywhere. Talks to me too much. My schedule consists of meetings with Warner and eating with Warner and listening to Warner. If he is busy, I am sent to my room. If he is free, he finds me. He tells me about the books they’ve destroyed. The artifacts they’re preparing to burn. The ideas he has for a new world and how I’ll be a great help to him just as soon as I’m ready. Just as soon as I realize how much I want this, how much I want him, how much I want this new, glorious, powerful life. He is waiting for me to harness my potential. He tells me how grateful I should be for his patience. His kindness. His willingness to understand that this transition must be difficult.

  I cannot look at Adam. I cannot speak to him. He sleeps in my room but I never see him. He breathes so close to my body but does not part his lips in my direction. He does not follow me into the bathroom. He does not leave secret messages in my notebook.

  I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined everything he said to me.

  I need to know if something has changed. I need to know if I’m crazy for holding on to this hope blossoming in my heart and I need to know what Adam’s message meant but every day that he treats me like a stranger is another day I begin to doubt myself.

  I need to talk to him but I can’t.

  Because now Warner is watching me.

&nbs
p; The cameras are watching everything.

  “I want you to take the cameras out of my room.”

  Warner stops chewing the food/garbage/breakfast/ nonsense in his mouth. He swallows carefully before leaning back and looking me in the eye. “Absolutely not.”

  “If you treat me like a prisoner,” I tell him, “I’m going to act like one. I don’t like to be watched.”

  “You can’t be trusted on your own.” He picks up his spoon again.

  “Every breath I take is monitored. There are guards stationed in five-foot intervals in all the hallways. I don’t even have access to my own room,” I protest. “Cameras aren’t going to make a difference.”

  A strange kind of amusement dances on his lips. “You’re not exactly stable, you know. You’re liable to kill someone.”

  “No.” I grip my fingers. “No—I wouldn’t—I didn’t kill Jenkins—”

  “I’m not talking about Jenkins.” His smile is a vat of acid seeping into my skin.

  He won’t stop looking at me. Smiling at me. Torturing me with his eyes.

  This is me, screaming silently into my fist.

  “That was an accident.” The words tumble out of my mouth so quietly, so quickly I don’t even know if I’ve actually spoken or if I’m actually still sitting here or if I’m actually 14 years old all over again all over again all over again and I’m screaming and dying and diving into a pool of memories I never ever ever ever ever

  I can’t seem to forget.

  I saw her at the grocery store. Her legs were standing crossed at the ankles, her child was on a leash she thought he thought was a backpack. She thought he was too dumb/ too young/too immature to understand that the rope tying him to her wrist was a device designed to trap him in her uninterested circle of self-sympathy. She’s too young to have a kid, to have these responsibilities, to be buried by a child who has needs that don’t accommodate her own. Her life is so incredibly unbearable so immensely multifaceted too glamorous for the leashed legacy of her loins to understand.

  Children are not stupid, was what I wanted to tell her.

  I wanted to tell her that his seventh scream didn’t mean he was trying to be obnoxious, that her fourteenth admonishment in the form of brat/you’re such a brat/you’re embarrassing me you little brat/don’t make me tell Daddy you were being a brat was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to watch but I couldn’t help myself. His 3-year-old face puckered in pain, his little hands tried to undo the chains she’d strapped across his chest and she tugged so hard he fell down and cried and she told him he deserved it.