by Tahereh Mafi
I push open the shower door.
“Come inside,” I say.
But now he won’t look at me.
“Aaron—”
“You’re not feeling well,” he says.
“I feel fine.”
“Sweetheart, please, you just drank your weight in whisky—”
“I just want to touch you,” I say. “Come here.”
He finally turns to face me, his eyes moving slowly up my body and I see it, I see it happen when something inside of him seems to break. He looks pained and vulnerable and he swallows hard as he steps toward me, steam filling the room now, hot drops of water breaking on my bare hips and his lips part as he looks at me, as he reaches forward, and I think he might actually come inside when
instead
he closes the door between us and says
“I’ll be waiting for you in the living room, love.”
WARNER
Juliette is asleep.
She emerged from the shower, climbed into my lap and promptly fell asleep against my neck, all the while mumbling things I know for certain she’ll regret having said in the morning. It took every bit of my self-control to unhook her soft, warm figure from around me, but somehow I managed it. I tucked her into bed and left, the pain of peeling myself away from her not unlike what I imagine it’d be like to peel the skin off my own body. She begged me to stay and I pretended not to hear her. She told me she loved me and I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
She cried, even with her eyes closed.
But I can’t trust that she knows what she’s doing or saying in this compromised state; no, I know better. She has no experience with alcohol, but I can only imagine that when her good sense is returned to her in the daylight, she will not want to see my face. She won’t want to know that she made herself so vulnerable in front of me. I wonder whether she’ll even remember what happened.
As for me, I am beyond despair.
It’s past three in the morning and I feel as though I’ve not slept in days. I can hardly bear to close my eyes; I can’t be left alone with my mind or the many frailties of my person. I feel shattered, held together by nothing but necessity.
I have tried in vain to articulate the mess of emotion cluttering my mind—to Kenji, who wanted to know what happened after he left; to Castle, who cornered me not three hours ago, demanding to know what I’d said to her; even to Kent, who managed to look only a little pleased upon discovering that my brand-new relationship had already imploded.
I want to sink into the earth.
I can’t go back to our bedroom—my bedroom—where the proof of her is still fresh, too alive; and I can no longer escape to the simulation chambers, as the soldiers are still stationed there, relocated in all the aftermath of the new construction.
I’ve no reprieve from the consequences of my actions.
Nowhere to rest my head for longer than a moment before I’m discovered and duly chastened.
Lena, laughing loudly in my face as I walked past her in the hall.
Nazeera shaking her head as I bid good night to her brother.
Sonya and Sara shooting me mournful looks upon discovering me crouched in a corner of the unfinished medical wing. Brendan, Winston, Lily, Alia, and Ian popping their heads out of their brand-new bedrooms, stopping me as I tried to get away, asking so many questions—so loudly and forcefully—that even a groggy James came to find me, tugging at my sleeve and asking me over and over again whether or not Juliette was okay.
Where did this life come from?
Who are all these people to whom I’m suddenly beholden?
Everyone is so justifiably concerned about Juliette—about the well-being of our new supreme commander—that I, because I am complicit in her suffering, am safe nowhere from prying eyes, questioning looks, and pitying faces. It’s alarming, having so many people privy to my private life. When things were good between us I had to answer fewer questions; I was a subject of lesser interest. Juliette was the one who maintained these relationships; they were not for me. I never wanted any of this. I didn’t want this accountability. I don’t care for the responsibility of friendships. I only wanted Juliette. I wanted her love, her heart, her arms around me. And this was part of the price I paid for her affection: these people. Their questions. Their unvarnished scorn for my existence.
So. I’ve become a wraith.
I stalk these quiet halls. I stand in the shadows and hold myself still in the darkness and wait for something. For what, I don’t know.
Danger.
Oblivion.
Anything at all to inform my next steps.
I want renewed purpose, a focus, a job to do. And then all at once I’m reminded that I am the chief commander and regent of Sector 45, that I have an infinite number of things to oversee and negotiate—and somehow that’s no longer enough for me. My daily tasks are not enough to distract my mind; my deeply regimented routines have been dismantled; Delalieu is struggling under the weight of my emotional erosion and I cannot help but think of my father again and again—
How right he was about me.
He’s always been right.
I’ve been undone by emotion, over and over. It was emotion that prompted me to take any job—at any cost—to be nearer to my mother. It was emotion that led me to find Juliette, to seek her out in search of a cure for my mother. It was emotion that prompted me to fall in love, to get shot and lose my mind, to become a broken boy all over again—one who’d fall to his knees and beg his worthless, monstrous father to spare the girl he loved. It was emotion, my flimsy emotions that cost me everything.
I have no peace. No purpose.
How I wish I’d ripped this heart from my chest long ago.
Still, there is work to be done.
The symposium is now less than twelve hours away and I never had a chance to go over the details with Juliette. I didn’t think things would turn out like this. I never thought that business would go on as usual after the death of my father. I thought a greater war was imminent; I thought for certain the other supreme commanders would come for us before we’d had even a chance to pretend we had true control of Sector 45. It hadn’t occurred to me that they’d have more sinister plans in mind. It hadn’t occurred to me to spend more time prepping her for the tedious formalities—these monotonous routines—embedded in the structure of The Reestablishment. But I should have known better. I should have expected this. I could have prevented this.
I thought The Reestablishment would fall.
I was wrong.
Our supreme commander has hours to prepare before having to address a room of the 554 other chief commanders and regents in North America. She will be expected to lead. To negotiate the many intricacies of domestic and international diplomacy. Haider, Nazeera, and Lena will all be waiting to send word back to their murderous parents. And I should be by her side, helping and guiding and protecting her. Instead, I have no idea what kind of Juliette will emerge from my father’s rooms in the morning. I have no idea what to expect from her, how she will treat me, or where her mind will go.
I have no idea what’s going to happen.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
JULIETTE
I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am no
t insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane.
—AN EXCERPT FROM JULIETTE’S JOURNALS IN THE ASYLUM
When I open my eyes, everything comes rushing back to me.
The evidence is here, in this drumming, pounding headache, in this sour taste in my mouth and stomach—in this unbearable thirst, like every cell in my body is dehydrated. It’s the strangest feeling. It’s horrible.
But worse, worse than all that are the memories. Gauzy but intact, I remember everything. Drinking Anderson’s bourbon. Lying in my underwear in front of Kenji. And then, with a sudden, painful gasp—
Stripping in the shower. Asking Warner to join me.
I close my eyes as a wave of nausea overtakes me, threatens to upend the meager contents of my stomach. Mortification floods through me with an almost breathtaking efficiency, manufacturing within me a feeling of absolute self-loathing I’m unable to shake. Finally, reluctantly, I squint open my eyes again and notice someone has left me three bottles of water and two small white pills.
Gratefully, I inhale everything.
It’s still dark in this room, but somehow I know the day has broken. I sit up too fast and my brain swings, rocking in my skull like a weighted pendulum and I feel myself sway even as I remain motionless, planting my hands against the mattress.
Never, I think. Never again. Anderson was an idiot. This is a terrible feeling. And it’s not until I make my way to the bathroom that I remember, with a sudden, piercing clarity, that I shaved my head.
I stand frozen in front of the mirror, remnants of my long, brown waves still littering the floor underfoot, and stare at my reflection in awe. Horror. Fascination.
I hit the light switch and flinch, the fluorescent bulbs triggering something painful in my newly stupid brain, and it takes me a minute to adjust to the light. I turn on the shower, letting the water warm while I study my new self.
Gingerly, I touch the soft buzz of what little hair I have left. Seconds pass and I get braver, stepping so close to the mirror my nose bumps the glass. So strange, so strange but soon my apprehension dulls. No matter how long I look at myself I’m unable to drum up appropriate feelings of regret. Shock, yes, but—
I don’t know.
I really, really like it.
My eyes have always been big and blue-green, miniatures of the globe we inhabit, but I’ve never before found them particularly interesting. But now—for the first time—I find my own face interesting. Like I’ve stepped out of the shadows of my own self; like the curtain I used to hide behind has been, finally, pushed back.
I’m here. Right here.
Look at me, I seem to scream without speaking.
Steam fills the room in slow, careful exhalations that cloud my reflection and eventually, I’m forced to look away. But when I do, I’m smiling.
Because for the first time in my life, I actually like the way I look.
I asked Delalieu to arrange to have my armoire moved into Anderson’s quarters before I arrived yesterday—and I find myself standing before it now, examining its depths with new eyes. These are the same clothes I’ve seen every time I’ve opened these doors; but suddenly I’m seeing them differently.
But then, I feel differently.
Clothes used to perplex me. I could never understand how to piece together an outfit the way Warner did. I thought it was a science I’d never crack; a skill beyond my grasp. But I’m realizing now that my problem was that I never knew who I was; I didn’t understand how to dress the imposter living in my skin.
What did I like?
How did I want to be perceived?
For years my goal was to minimize myself—to fold and refold myself into a polygon of nothingness, to be too insignificant to be remembered. I wanted to appear innocent; I wanted to be thought of as quiet and harmless; I was worried always about how my very existence was terrifying to others and I did everything in my power to diminish myself, my light, my soul.
I wanted so desperately to placate the ignorant. I wanted so badly to appease the assholes who judged me without knowing me that I lost myself in the process.
But now?
Now, I laugh. Out loud.
Now, I don’t give a shit.
WARNER
When Juliette joins us in the morning, she is almost unrecognizable.
I was forced, despite every inclination to bury myself in other duties, to rejoin our group today on account of what seems now to have been the inevitable arrival of our three final guests. The twin children of the South American supreme and the son of the supreme commander of Africa all arrived early this morning. The supreme commander of Oceania has no children, so I have to assume this is the last of our visitors. And all of them have arrived in time to accompany us to the symposium. Very convenient.
I should have realized.
I had just been in the middle of introducing the three of them to Castle and Kenji, who came down to greet our new visitors, when Juliette made her first appearance of the day. It’s been less than thirty seconds since she walked in, and I’m still trying and failing to take her in.
She’s stunning.
She’s wearing a simple, fitted black sweater; slim, dark gray jeans; and a pair of flat, black, ankle-length boots. Her hair is both gone and not; it’s like a soft, dark crown that suits her in a way I never could’ve expected. Without the distraction of her long hair my eyes have nowhere to focus but directly on her face. And she has the most incredible face—large, captivating eyes—and a bone structure that’s never been more pronounced.
She looks shockingly different.
Raw.
Still beautiful, but sharper. Harder. She’s not a girl with a ponytail in a pink sweater anymore, no. She looks a great deal more like the young woman who murdered my father and then drank four fingers of his most expensive Scotch.
She’s looking from me to the stunned expressions of Kenji and Castle to the quietly confused faces of our three new guests, and all of us appear unable to speak.
“Good morning,” she finally says, but she doesn’t smile when she says it. There’s no warmth, no kindness in her eyes as she looks around, and I falter.
“Damn, princess, is that really you?”
Juliette appraises Kenji once, swiftly, but doesn’t respond.
“Who are you three?” she says, nodding at the newcomers. They stand slowly. Uncertainly.
“These are our new guests,” I say, but now I can’t bring myself to look at her. To face her. “I was just about to introduce them to Castle and Kishimo—”
“And you weren’t going to include me?” says a new voice. “I’d like to meet the new supreme commander, too.”
I turn around to find Lena standing in the doorway, not three feet from Juliette, looking around the room like she’s never been so delighted in all her life. I feel my heart pick up, my mind racing. I still have no idea if Juliette knows who Lena is—or what we were together.
And Lena’s eyes are bright, too bright, her smile wide and happy.
A chill runs through me.
With them standing so close together, I can’t help but notice that the differences between her and Juliette are almost too obvious. Where Juliette is petite
, Lena is tall. Juliette has dark hair and deep eyes, while Lena is pale in every possible way. Her hair is almost white, her eyes are the lightest blue, her skin is almost translucent, save the many freckles spanning her nose and cheeks. But what she lacks in pigment she makes up for in presence; she’s always been loud, aggressive, passionate to a fault. Juliette, by comparison, is muted almost to an extreme this morning. She betrays no emotion, not a hint of anger or jealousy. She stands still and quiet, silently studying the situation. Her energy is tightly coiled. Ready to spring.
And when Lena turns to face her, I feel everyone in the room stiffen.
“Hi,” Lena says loudly. False happiness disfigures her smile, morphing it into something cruel. She holds out her hand as she says, “It’s nice to finally meet Warner’s girlfriend.” And then: “Oh, wait—I’m sorry. I meant ex-girlfriend.”
I’m holding my breath as Juliette looks her up and down.
She takes her time, tilting her head as she devours Lena with her eyes and I can see Lena’s offered hand beginning to tire, her open fingers starting to shake.
Juliette seems unimpressed.
“You can call me the supreme commander of North America,” she says.
And then walks away.
I feel an almost hysterical laughter build in my chest; I have to look down, force myself to keep a straight face. And then I’m sobered, all at once, by the realization that Juliette is no longer mine. She’s no longer mine to love, mine to adore. I’ve never been more attracted to her in all the time I’ve known her and there’s nothing, nothing to be done about it. My heart pounds faster as she steps more completely into the room—a gaping Lena left in her wake—and I’m struck still with regret.
I can’t believe I’ve managed to lose her. Twice.
