by Marie Lu
Let him live.
Please don’t take him away from this world. Please don’t let him die here in my arms, not after everything we’ve been through together, not after You’ve taken so many others. Please, I beg You, let him live. I am willing to sacrifice anything to make this happen—I’m willing to do anything You ask. Maybe You’ll laugh at me for such a naïve promise, but I mean it in earnest, and I don’t care if it makes no sense or seems impossible. Let him live. Please. I can’t bear this a second time.
I look desperately around us, my vision blurred with tears, and everything is a smear of blood and smoke, light and ash, and all I can hear is screaming and gunfire and hatred, and I am so tired of the fighting, so frustrated, angry, helpless.
Tell me there is still good in the world. Tell me there is still hope for all of us.
Through an underwater veil, I feel hands on my arms pull me away from Day. I struggle stubbornly against them. Pain lances up my injured shoulder. Medics bend down over his body. His eyes are closed now, and I can’t see him breathing. Images of Metias’s body flash back to me. When the medics try again to pull me from Day, I shove them roughly away and scream. I scream for everything that has gone wrong. I scream for everything broken in our lives.
I THINK JUNE IS LEANING OVER ME, BUT I HAVE TROUBLE making out the details of her face. When I try too hard, the edges of my vision filter out into blinding white. The pain, at first excruciating, is nothing now. Memories fade in and out—memories of my first days frightened and alone on the streets, with my bleeding knee and hollow stomach; of young Tess, and then of John when he first learned that I was still alive; of my mother’s home, my father’s smile, of Eden as a baby. I remember the first time I met June on the streets. Her defiant stance, her fierce eyes. Then, gradually, I have trouble remembering anything.
I always knew, on some level, that I wouldn’t live long. It’s simply not written in my stars.
Something bright hovering behind June’s shoulder catches my attention. I turn my head as much as I can to see it. At first it looks like some glowing orb of light. As I keep staring, though, I realize that it’s my mother.
Mom, I whisper. I stand and take a step toward her. My feet feel so light.
My mother smiles at me. She looks young and healthy and whole, her hands no longer wrapped in bandages, her hair the color of wheat and snow. When I reach her, she gently cups my face between her smooth, uninjured palms. My heart stops beating; it fills with warmth and light and I want to stay here forever, locked in this moment. I falter in my steps. Mom catches me before I can fall, and we kneel there, together again. “My little lost boy,” she murmurs.
My voice comes out as a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hush, my baby.” I bow my head as she kneels over me. She kisses my forehead, and I am a child again, helpless and hopeful, bursting with love. Past the blurry, golden line of her arm, I can look down at my pale, broken body lying on the ground. There’s a girl crouched over me, her hands on my face, her long dark hair draped over her shoulder. She’s crying.
“Are John and Dad . . . ?” I begin to say.
Mom just smiles. Her eyes are so incredibly blue, like I can see the entire world inside them—the sky and the clouds and everything beyond.
“Don’t worry,” she replies. “They are well, and they love you very much.”
I feel an overwhelming need to follow my mother wherever she’s going, wherever that might take us. “I miss you guys,” I finally say to her. “It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.”
Mom combs a gentle hand through my hair, the way she used to when I was little. “My darling, there’s no need to miss us. We never left.” She lifts her head and nods at the street, past the crowds of people who have gathered around my body. Now a team of medics is lifting me onto a stretcher. “Go back to Eden. He’s waiting for you.”
“I know,” I whisper. I crane my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of my brother in the crowds, but I don’t see him there.
Mom rises; her hands leave my face, and I find myself struggling to breathe. No. Please don’t leave me. I reach out a hand to her, but some invisible barrier stops it. The light grows brighter. “Where are you going? Can I come with you?”
Mom smiles, but shakes her head. “You still belong on the other side of the looking glass. Someday, when you’re ready to take the step over to our side, I’ll come see you again. Live well, Daniel. Make that final step count.”
FOR THE FIRST THREE WEEKS THAT DAY IS IN THE HOSPITAL, I never leave. The same people come and go—Tess, of course, who’s in the waiting room as much as I am, waiting for Day to come out of his coma; Eden, who stays as long as Lucy allows him to; the other remaining Patriots, especially Pascao; an endless assortment of doctors and medics who I begin to recognize and know by name after the first week; and Anden, who has returned from the warfront with his own scars. Hordes of people continue to stay camped out around the hospital, but Anden doesn’t have the heart to tell them to disperse, even when they continue to stake out the grounds for weeks and then months. Many of them have the familiar scarlet streaks painted into their hair. For the most part, they stay silent. Sometimes they chant. I’ve grown used to their presence now, to the point where it’s comforting. They remind me that Day is still alive. Still fighting.
The war between the Republic and the Colonies, at least for now, is over. The Antarcticans finally came to our rescue, bringing with them their fearsome technology and weapons that intimidated Africa and the Colonies into returning to our ceasefire agreement, bringing both Anden and the Chancellor before the international court, imposing the proper sanctions against us and them and finally, finally beginning the process for a permanent peace treaty. The ashes of our battlegrounds are still here, though, along with a lingering hostility. I know it will take time to close the wounds. I have no idea how long this ceasefire will last, or when the Republic and the Colonies will find true peace. Maybe we never will. But for now, this is good enough.
One of the first things the doctors had to do for Day, after stitching up the horrific bullet wounds, was to operate on his brain. The trauma he’d suffered meant he couldn’t receive the full course of medications needed to properly prep him for the surgery . . . but they went ahead with it. Whether or not he was ready was irrelevant at that point; if they didn’t, he would’ve died anyway. Yet, still. This keeps me awake nights. No one really knows whether he’ll wake up at all, or whether he’ll be an altogether different person if he does.
Two months pass, and then three.
Gradually, we all start to do our waiting at home. The hospital’s crowds finally begin to thin.
Five months. Winter passes.
At 0728 hours on an early spring Thursday in March, I arrive at the hospital’s waiting room for my usual check-in. As expected at this hour, I’m the only one here. Eden’s at home with Lucy, getting some needed sleep. He continues to grow, and if Day were awake to see him now, I know he’d comment on how his brother is starting to lean out, losing the baby fat on his face and taking the early steps into adulthood.
Even Tess isn’t here yet. She tends to come in the late morning to work as a medic assistant, shadowing the doctors, and when I catch her on her breaks, we huddle together and exchange conversation in hushed voices. Sometimes she even makes me laugh. “He loves you, really he does,” she told me yesterday. “He’d love you even if it destroyed him. He matches you. I guess it’s kind of cute.” She said this with a shy, grudging smile on her face. Somehow, she had managed to return to the place where I’d first known her, but now as someone older, taller, and wiser.
I nudged her affectionately. “You guys have a bond I could never touch,” I replied. “Even when we’re at our worst.”
She blushed at that, and I couldn’t help opening my heart to her. A loving Tess is one of the sweetest sights in the world. “Just be good to him,” she whispered. “Promise?”
&nb
sp; Now I greet the nurse at the waiting room’s window, then settle down into my usual chair and look around. So empty this morning. I find myself missing Tess’s companionship. I try to distract myself with the news headlines running on the monitor.
ANTARCTICAN PRESIDENT IKARI, UNITED NATIONS, SHOW APPROVAL FOR NEW PEACE TREATY BETWEEN REPUBLIC AND COLONIES
ELECTOR PRIMO ANNOUNCES START OF NEW
RANKING SYSTEM TO REPLACE FORMER TRIALS
NEW BORDER CITIES BETWEEN REPUBLIC AND COLONIES TO BE RENAMED THE UNITED CITIES, TO BEGIN ALLOWING IMMIGRATION FROM BOTH NATIONS STARTING LATE NEXT YEAR
SENATOR MARIANA DUPREE OFFICIALLY INDUCTED AS PRINCEPS OF THE SENATE
The news headlines bring a faint smile to my face. Last night, Anden had stopped by my apartment to tell me in person about Mariana. I’d told him that I would extend my congratulations to her directly. “She’s very good at what she does,” I said. “More so than I was. I’m happy for her.”
Anden bowed his head. “You would have been better in the long run, I think,” he replied with a gentle smile. “You understand the people. But I’m happy that you’re back where you feel the most comfortable. Our troops are lucky to have you.” He hesitated then, and for a moment he took my hand in his. I remember the soft neoprene lining of his gloves, the silver shine of his cufflinks. “I might not get to see much of you now. Maybe it’s best that way, isn’t it? Still, please do drop by now and then. It’ll be nice to hear from you.”
“Likewise,” I replied, squeezing his hand in return.
My thoughts snap back to the present. One of the doctors has emerged from the hallway near Day’s room. He catches sight of me, takes a deep breath, and approaches. I straighten, tensing. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard any real updates on Day’s condition from Dr. Kann. A part of me wants to jump up in excitement, because perhaps the news is good; another part of me cringes in fear, in case the news is bad. My eyes scan the doctor’s face, searching for clues. (Pupils slightly dilated, face anxious, but not in the manner of one who is about to break the worst news. There are hints of joy on his face.) My pulse quickens. What is he going to tell me? Or perhaps it’s no news at all—perhaps he’s simply going to tell me what he usually does. Not much change today, I’m afraid, but at least he’s still stable. I’ve grown so used to hearing that.
Dr. Kann pauses before me. He adjusts his glasses and scratches unconsciously at his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. “Good morning, Ms. Iparis,” he says.
“How is he?” I ask, my usual greeting.
Dr. Kann smiles, but hesitates (another oddity; the news must be significant). “Wonderful news.” My heart stops for a second. “Day has woken up. Less than an hour ago.”
“He’s awake?” I breathe. He’s awake. Suddenly the news is too overwhelming, and I’m not sure whether I can bear it. I study his face carefully. “There’s more to it than that, though. Isn’t there?”
Dr. Kann puts both hands on my shoulders. “I don’t want to worry you, Ms. Iparis, not at all. Day has pulled through his surgery remarkably well—when he woke up, he asked for water and then for his brother. He seems quite alert and coherent. We ran a quick scan of his brain.” His voice turns more excited. “We’ll need to do a more thorough check, of course, but upon first glance it seems everything has normalized. His hippocampus looks healthy, and signals seem to be firing normally. In almost every aspect, the Day that we know is back.”
Tears prickle at the edges of my eyes. The Day that we know is back. After five months of waiting, the news is so sudden. One minute he was lying unconscious in bed, hanging on to life night by night, and now he’s awake. Just like that. I break into a smile with the doctor, and before I can stop myself, I hug him. He laughs, patting my head awkwardly, but I don’t care. I want to see Day. “Can he have visitors?” I ask. Then, abruptly, I realize what the doctor actually said. “Why do you say ‘almost’?”
The doctor’s smile wavers. He adjusts his glasses again. “It’s nothing we can’t fix over the course of extended therapy. You see, the hippocampus region affects memories, both short- and long-term. It seems that Day’s long-term memories—his family, his brother Eden, his friend Tess, and so on—are intact. After a few questions, however, it seems like he has very little recollection of both people and events from the last year or two. We call it retrograde amnesia. He remembers his family’s deaths, for instance . . .” Dr. Kann’s voice trails off uncomfortably here. “But he does not seem familiar with Commander Jameson’s name, or the recent Colonies’ invasion. He also doesn’t seem to recall you.”
My smile fades. “He . . . doesn’t remember me?”
“Of course, this is something that can heal over time, with proper therapy,” Dr. Kann again reassures me. “His short-term memory abilities are working well. He remembers most things I tell him, and forms new memories without too much issue. I just wanted to warn you before you see him. Don’t be startled that he might not remember you. Take your time and reintroduce yourself to him. Gradually, perhaps in a few years’ time, his old memories might come back.”
I nod at the doctor as if in a dream. “Okay,” I whisper.
“You can see him now, if you’d like.” He smiles at me, as if he’s delivering the greatest news in the world. And he is.
But when he leaves me, I just stand there for a moment. My mind in a haze. Thinking. Lost. Then I take slow steps toward the hallway where Day’s hospital room is, the corridor closing in around me like a foggy, blurry tunnel. The only thing running through my head is the memory of my desperate prayer over Day’s wounded body, the promise I had offered up to the heavens in exchange for his life.
Let him live. I am willing to sacrifice anything to make this happen.
My heart sinks, turns gray. I understand now. I know that something has answered my prayer, and at the same time has also told me what my sacrifice must be. I have been offered a chance to never hurt Day again.
I step into the hospital room. Day is alert, propped up on pillows and startlingly healthier than the times I’ve seen him lying unconscious and wan over the past few months. But something is different now. Day’s eyes follow me without a hint of familiarity in them; he’s watching me with the polite, wary distance of a stranger, the way he looked at me when we first met.
He doesn’t know who I am.
My heart aches, pulling at me as I draw closer to his bedside. I know what I have to do.
“Hi,” he says when I sit on his bed. His eyes wander curiously across my face.
“Hi,” I reply softly. “Do you know who I am?”
Day looks guilty, which only digs the knife in deeper. “Should I?”
It takes all of my effort not to cry, to bear the thought that Day has forgotten everything between us—our night together, the ordeals we’ve been through, all that we’ve shared and lost. We have been erased from his memory, leaving nothing behind. The Day that I knew is not here.
I could tell him right now, of course. I could remind him of who I am, that I’m June Iparis, the girl he had once saved on the streets and fallen in love with. I could tell him everything, just like Dr. Kann said, and it could possibly trigger his old memories. Tell him, June. Just tell him. You’ll be so happy. It’d be so easy.
But I open my mouth and no sound comes out. I can’t do it.
Be good to him, Tess had told me. Promise.
So long as I remain in Day’s life, I will hurt him. Any other alternative is impossible. I think of the way he had crouched, sobbing, at his family’s kitchen table, mourning what I had taken away from him. Now fate has handed the solution to me on a silver platter—Day survived his ordeal, and in return, I need to step out of his life. Even though he looks at me now like a stranger, he no longer has the look of pain and tragedy that always seemed to come with the passion and love he gazed at me with. Now he is free.
He is free of us, leaving me as the only bearer of our past’s burden.
So I swallow hard, smile, and
bow my head to him. “Day,” I force myself to say, “it’s good to meet you. I was sent by the Republic to see how you’re doing. It’s wonderful to see you awake again. The country is going to rejoice when they hear the good news.”
Day nods politely in return, his tenseness unmistakable. “Thank you,” he says warily. “The doctors tell me that I’ve been out for five months. What happened?”
“You were injured during a battle between the Republic and the Colonies,” I reply. Everything I’m saying sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “You saved your brother Eden.”
“Is Eden here?” Day’s eyes light up with recognition, and a beautiful smile blossoms on his face. The sight of it brings me pain even as I am happy that he remembers his brother. I want so much to see that look of familiarity on his face when he’s talking about me.
“Eden will be so happy to see you. The doctors are sending for him, so he’ll arrive shortly.” I return his smile, and this time it’s a genuine one, if bittersweet. When Day studies my face again, I close my eyes and bow slightly to him.
It’s time to let go.
“Day,” I say, carefully choosing what my final words to him should be. “It has been such a privilege and honor to fight by your side. You’ve saved many more of us than you’ll ever know.” For a small moment, I fix my eyes on his, telling him silently everything that I’ll never say to him aloud. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”
Day looks puzzled by the emotion in my voice, but he bows his head in return. “The honor’s mine,” he replies. My heart breaks in sorrow at the lack of warmth in his voice, the warmth I know I would have heard had he remembered everything. I feel the absence of the aching love that I’ve come to yearn for, that I wanted so much to earn. It is gone now.
If he knew who I was, I would say something else to him now, something I should’ve said to him more often when I had the chance. Now I am sure of my feelings, and it’s too late. So I fold the three words back into my heart, for his sake, and rise from his bed. I soak in every last, wonderful detail of his face and store it in my memory, hoping I can take him with me wherever I go. We exchange quiet salutes.
