Restore Me

by Mafi, Tahereh

  My heart is pounding in my chest.

  “They’d discovered Unnaturals—a term The Reestablishment uses to describe those with supernatural abilities—a few years later. You were about five years old,” he says, “when they made their first discovery.” He looks at the wall. “That’s when they started collecting, testing, and using people with abilities to expedite their goals in dominating the world.”

  “This is all really interesting,” I say, “but I’m kind of freaking out right now and I need you to skip ahead to the part where you tell me what any of this has to do with me.”

  “Sweetheart,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “All of this has to do with you.”

  “How?”

  “There was one thing I knew about your life that I never told you,” he says. He swallows. He’s looking into his hands when he says, “You were adopted.”

  The revelation is like a thunderclap.

  I stumble off the bed, clutch the sheet to my body and stand there, staring at him, stunned. I try to stay calm even as my mind catches fire.

  “I was adopted.”

  He nods.

  “So you’re saying that the people who raised me—tortured me—are not my real parents?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Are my biological parents still alive?”

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  “And you never told me this?”

  No, he says quickly

  No, no I didn’t know they were still alive, he says

  I didn’t know anything except that you were adopted, he says, I just found out, just yesterday, that your parents are still alive, because Castle, he says, Castle told me—

  And every subsequent revelation is like a shock wave, a sudden, unforeseen detonation that implodes within me—

  BOOM

  Your life has been an experiment, he says

  BOOM

  You have a sister, he says, she’s still alive

  BOOM

  Your biological parents gave you and your sister to The Reestablishment for scientific research

  and it’s like the world has been knocked off its axis, like I’ve been flung from the earth and I’m headed directly for the sun,

  like I’m being burned alive and somehow, I can still hear him, even as my skin melts inward, as my mind turns inside-out and everything I’ve ever known, everything I ever thought to be true about who I am and where I come from

  v a n i s h e s

  I inch away from him, confused and horrified and unable to form words, unable to speak

  And he says he didn’t know, and his voice breaks when he says it, when he says he didn’t know until recently that my biological parents were still alive, didn’t know until Castle told him, never knew how to tell me that I’d been adopted, didn’t know how I would take it, didn’t know if I needed that pain, but Castle told him that The Reestablishment is coming for me, that they’re coming to take me back

  and your sister, he says

  but I’m crying now, unable to see him through the tears and still I cannot speak and

  your sister, he says, her name is Emmaline, she’s one year older than you, she’s very, very powerful, she’s been the property of The Reestablishment for twelve years

  I can’t stop shaking my head

  “Stop,” I say

  “No,” I say

  Please don’t do this to me—

  But he won’t stop. He says I have to know. He says I have to know this now—that I have to know the truth—

  STOP TELLING ME THIS, I scream

  I didn’t know she was your sister, he’s saying,

  I didn’t know you had a sister

  I swear I didn’t know

  “There were nearly twenty men and women who put together the beginnings of The Reestablishment,” he says, “but there were only six supreme commanders. When the man originally chosen for North America became terminally ill, my father was being considered to replace him. I was sixteen. We lived here, in Sector 45. My father was then CCR. And becoming supreme commander meant he would be moving away, and he wanted to take me with him. My mother,” he says, “was to be left behind.”

  Please don’t say any more

  Please don’t say anything else, I beg him

  “It was the only way I could convince him to give me his job,” he says, desperate now. “To allow me to stay behind, to watch her closely. He was sworn in as supreme commander when I was eighteen. And he made me spend the two years in between—

  “Aaron, please,” I say, feeling hysterical, “I don’t want to know—I didn’t ask you to tell me—I don’t want to know—”

  “I perpetuated your sister’s torture,” he says, his voice raw, broken, “her confinement. I was ordered to oversee her continued imprisonment. I gave the orders that kept her there. Every day. I was never told why she was there or what was wrong with her. I was told to maintain her. That was it. She was allowed only four twenty-minute breaks from the water tank every twenty-four hours and she used to scream—she’d beg me to release her,” he says, his voice catching. “She begged for mercy and I never gave it to her.”

  And I stop

  Head spinning

  I drop the sheet from my body as I run, run away

  I’m shoving clothes on as fast as I can and when I return to the room, half wild, caught in a nightmare, I catch him half dressed, too, no shirt, just pants, and he doesn’t even speak as I stare at him, stunned, one hand covering my mouth as I shake my head, tears spilling fast down my face and I don’t know what to say, I don’t know that I can ever say anything to him, ever again—

  “It’s too much,” I say, choking on the words. “It’s too much—it’s too much—”

  “Juliette—”

  And I shake my head, hands trembling as I reach for the door and

  “Please,” he says, and tears are falling silently down his face, and he’s visibly shaking as he says, “You have to believe me. I was young. And stupid. I was desperate. I thought I had nothing to live for then—nothing mattered to me but saving my mother and I was willing to do anything that would keep me here, close to her—”

  “You lied to me!” I explode, anger squeezing my eyes shut as I back away from him. “You lied to me all this time, you’ve lied to me—about everything—”

  “No,” he says, all terror and desperation. “The only thing I’ve kept from you was the truth about your parents, I swear to you—”

  “How could you keep that from me? All this time, all this—everything—all you did was lie to me—”

  He’s shaking his head when he says No, no, I love you, my love for you has never been a lie—

  “Then why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Why would you keep this from me?”

  “I thought your parents had died a long time ago—I didn’t think it would help you to know about them. I thought it would only hurt you more to know you’d lost them. And I didn’t know,” he says, shaking his head, “I didn’t know anything about your real parents or your sister, please believe me—I swear I didn’t know, not until yesterday—”

  His chest is heaving so hard that his body bows, his hands planted on his knees as he tries to breathe and he’s not looking at me when he says, whispers, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Stop it—stop talking—”

  “Please—”

  “How—h-how can I ever—ever trust you again?” My eyes are wide and terrified and searching him for an answer that will save us both but he doesn’t answer. He can’t. He leaves me with nothing to hold on to. “How can we ever go back?” I say. “How can you expect me to forget all of this? That you lied to me about my parents? That you tortured my sister? There’s so much about you I don’t know,” I say, my voice small and broken, “so much—and I can’t—I can’t do this—”

  And he looks up, frozen in place, staring at me like he’s finally understanding that I won’t pretend this never happened, that I can’t continue to be with someon
e I can’t trust and I can see it, can see the hope go out of his eyes, his hand caught behind his head. His jaw is slack; his face is stunned, suddenly pale and he takes a step toward me, lost, desperate, pleading with his eyes

  but I have to go.

  I’m running down the hall and I don’t know where I’m going until I get there.

  WARNER

  So this—

  This is agony.

  This is what they talk about when they talk about heartbreak. I thought I knew what it was like before. I thought I knew, with perfect clarity, what it felt like to have my heart broken, but now—now I finally understand.

  Before? When Juliette couldn’t decide between myself and Kent? That pain? That was child’s play.

  But this.

  This is suffering. This is full, unadulterated torture. And I have no one to blame for this pain but myself, which makes it impossible to direct my anger anywhere but inward. If I weren’t better informed, I’d think I were having an actual heart attack. It feels as though a truck has run over me, broken every bone in my chest, and now it’s stuck here, the weight of it crushing my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t even see straight.

  My heart is pounding in my ears. Blood is rushing to my head too quickly and it’s making me hot and dizzy. I’m strangled into speechlessness, numb in my bones. I feel nothing but an immense, impossible pressure breaking apart my body. I fall backward, hard. My head is against the wall. I try to calm myself, calm my breathing. I try to be rational.

  This is not a heart attack, I tell myself. Not a heart attack.

  I know better.

  I’m having a panic attack.

  This has happened to me just once before, and then the pain had materialized as if out of a nightmare, out of nowhere, with no warning. I’d woken up in the middle of the night seized by a violent terror I could not articulate, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was dying. Eventually, the episode passed, but the experience never left me.

  And now, this—

  I thought I was prepared. I thought I had steeled myself against the possible outcome of today’s conversation. I was wrong.

  I can feel it devouring me.

  This pain.

  I’ve struggled with occasional anxiety over the course of my life, but I’ve generally been able to manage it. In the past, my experiences had always been associated with this work. With my father. But the older I got, the less powerless I became, and I found ways to manage my triggers; I found the safe spaces in my mind; I educated myself in cognitive behavioral therapies; and with time, I learned to cope. The anxiety came on with far less weight and frequency. But very rarely, it morphs into something else. Sometimes it spirals entirely out of my control.

  And I don’t know how to save myself this time.

  I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fight it now, not when I no longer know what I’m fighting for. And I’ve just collapsed, supine on the floor, my hand pressed against the pain in my chest, when the door suddenly opens.

  I feel my heart restart.

  I lift my head half an inch and wait. Hoping against hope.

  “Hey, man, where the hell are you?”

  I drop my head with a groan. Of all the people.

  “Hello?” Footsteps. “I know you’re in here. And why is this room such a mess? Why are there boxes and bedsheets everywhere?”

  Silence.

  “Bro, where are you? I just saw Juliette and she was freaking out, but she wouldn’t tell me why, and I know your punkass is probably hiding in here like a little—”

  And then there he is.

  His boots right next to my head.

  Staring at me.

  “Hi,” I say. It’s all I can manage at the moment.

  Kenji is looking down at me, stunned.

  “What in the fresh hell are you doing on the ground? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” And then, “Wait—were you crying?”

  I close my eyes, pray to die.

  “What’s going on?” His voice is suddenly closer than it was before, and I realize he must be crouching next to me. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

  “I can’t breathe,” I whisper.

  “What do you mean, you can’t breathe? Did she shoot you again?”

  That reminder spears straight through me. Fresh, searing pain.

  God, I hate him so much.

  I swallow, hard. “Please. Leave.”

  “Uh, no.” I hear the rustle of movement as he sits down beside me. “What is this?” he says, gesturing to my body. “What’s happening to you right now?”

  Finally, I give up. Open my eyes. “I’m having a panic attack, you inconsiderate ass.” I try to take a breath. “And I’d really like some privacy.”

  His eyebrows fly up. “You’re having a what-now?”

  “Panic.” I breathe. “Attack.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I have medicine. In the bathroom. Please.”

  He shoots me a strange look, but does as I ask. He returns in a moment with the right bottle, and I’m relieved.

  “This it?”

  I nod. I’ve never actually taken this medication before, but I’ve kept the prescription current at my medic’s request. In case of emergencies.

  “You want some water with that?”

  I shake my head. Snatch the bottle from him with shaking hands. I can’t remember the right dosage, but as I so rarely have an attack this severe, I take a guess. I pop three of the pills in my mouth and bite down, hard, welcoming the vile, bitter taste on my tongue.

  It’s only several minutes later, after the medicine begins to work its magic, that the metaphorical truck is finally extricated from its position on my chest. My ribs magically restitch themselves. My lungs remember to do their job.

  And I feel suddenly limp. Exhausted.

  Slow.

  I drag myself up, stumble to my feet.

  “Now do you want to tell me what’s going on here?” Kenji is still staring at me, arms crossed against his chest. “Or should I go ahead and assume you did something horrible and just beat the shit out of you?”

  I feel so tired suddenly.

  A laugh builds in my chest and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I manage to fight back the laugh, but fail to hide a stupid, inexplicable smile as I say, “You should probably just beat the shit out of me.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Kenji’s expression changes. His eyes are suddenly, genuinely concerned and I worry I’ve said too much. These drugs are slowing me down, softening my senses. I touch a hand to my lips, beg them to stay closed. I hope I haven’t taken too much of the medicine.

  “Hey,” Kenji says gently. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. Close my eyes. “What happened?” Now I actually laugh. “What happened, what happened.” I open my eyes long enough to say, “Juliette broke up with me.”

  “What?”

  “That is, I think she did?” I stop. Frown. Tap a finger against my chin. “I imagine that’s why she ran out of here screaming.”

  “But—why would she break up with you? Why was she crying?”

  At this, I laugh again. “Because I,” I say, pointing at myself, “am a monster.”

  Kenji looks confused. “And how is that news to anyone?”

  I smile. He’s funny, I think. Funny guy.

  “Where did I leave my shirt?” I mumble, feeling suddenly numb in a whole new way. I cross my arms. Squint. “Hmm? Have you seen it anywhere?”

  “Bro, are you drunk?”

  “What?” I slap at the air. Laugh. “I don’t drink. My father is an alcoholic, didn’t you know? I don’t touch the stuff. No, wait”—I hold up a finger—“was an alcoholic. My father was an alcoholic. He’s dead now. Quite dead.”

  And then I hear Kenji gasp. It’s loud and strange and he whispers, “Holy shit,” and it’s enough to sharpen my senses for a second.

  I turn around to face him.

  He looks terr
ified.

  “What is it?” I say, annoyed.

  “What happened to your back?”

  “Oh.” I look away, newly irritated. “That.” The many, many scars that make up the disfiguration of my entire back. I take a deep breath. Exhale. “Those are just, you know, birthday gifts from dear old dad.”

  “Birthday gifts from your dad?” Kenji blinks, fast. Looks around, speaks to the air. “What the hell kind of soap opera did I just walk into here?” He runs a hand through his hair and says, “Why am I always getting involved in other people’s personal shit? Why can’t I just mind my own business? Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?”

  “You know,” I say to him, tilting my head slightly, “I’ve always wondered the same thing.”

  “Shut up.”

  I smile, big. Lightbulb bright.

  Kenji’s eyes widen, surprised, and he laughs. He nods at my face and says, “Aw, you’ve got dimples. I didn’t know that. That’s cute.”

  “Shut up.” I frown. “Go away.”

  He laughs harder. “I think you took way too many of those medicine thingies,” he says to me, picking up the bottle I left on the floor. He scans the label. “It says you’re only supposed to take one every three hours.” He laughs again. Louder this time. “Shit, man, if I didn’t know you were in a world of pain right now, I’d be filming this.”

  “I’m very tired,” I say to him. “Please go directly to hell.”

  “No way, freak show. I’m not missing this.” He leans against the wall. “Plus, I’m not going anywhere until your drunkass tells me why you and J broke up.”

  I shake my head. Finally manage to find a shirt and put it on.

  “Yeah, you put that on backward,” Kenji says to me.

  I glare at him and fall into bed. Close my eyes.

  “So?” he says, sitting down next to me. “Should I get the popcorn? What’s going on?”

  “It’s classified.”

  Kenji makes a sound of disbelief. “What’s classified? Why you broke up is classified? Or did you break up over classified information?”