How sad.
I always dared to identify with the princess, the one who runs away and finds a fairy godmother to transform her into a beautiful girl with a bright future. I clung to something like hope, to a thread of maybes and possiblys and perhapses. But I should’ve listened when my parents told me that things like me aren’t allowed to have dreams.
And I’m beginning to think they were right. I’m beginning to wonder if I should just bury myself in the ground before I remember that technically, I already am. I never even needed a shovel.
It’s strange.
How hollow I feel.
Like there might be echoes inside of me. Like I’m one of those chocolate rabbits they used to sell around Easter, the ones that were nothing more than a sweet shell encapsulating a world of nothing. I’m like that.
I encapsulate a world of nothing.
Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form have now been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed, angry, even. I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person who’s ever tried to see good in me is now paying for it with his life.
The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me.
Well. 1 of 2.
I find myself thinking about Warner too much.
I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating demeanor. I remember the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the window to escape and I remember the horror on his face when I pointed his own gun at his heart and then I wonder at my preoccupation with this person who is nothing like me
I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how he will greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially not after I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old man boy person into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m lying to myself. Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who could ever understand him.
And this is what I’ve learned:
I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the warmth of friendship or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is the leader of The Reestablishment and applauds his son’s murders instead of condemning them and I know that Warner has no idea what it’s like to be normal.
He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global domination without questioning why, without considering the repercussions, without stopping long enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a power, a strength, a position in society that enables him to do too much damage and he owns it with pride. He kills without remorse or regret and he wants me to join him. He sees me for what I am and expects me to live up to that potential.
Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else to contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and taking control. That’s what he wants from me.
And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything. Lately, I don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore, and I know the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my head, telling me I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I could be so much more than a scared little girl.
He says I could be power.
But still, I hesitate.
Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not want to hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even if they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If I die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred of dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control. And I will not allow anyone to take that from me.
So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words.
We are synonyms but not the same.
Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve seen the world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and forget that though they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they share a certain set of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night is not the same as a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge themselves into a sentence changes everything.
They are not the same.
I’ve spent my entire life fighting to be better. Fighting to be stronger. Because unlike Warner I don’t want to be a terror on this Earth. I don’t want to hurt people.
I don’t want to use my power to cripple anyone.
But then I look at my own 2 hands and I remember exactly what I’m capable of. I remember exactly what I’ve done and I’m too aware of what I might do. Because it’s so difficult to fight what you cannot control and right now I can’t even control my own imagination as it grips my hair and drags me into the dark.
SIXTEEN
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you almost can’t breathe. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night, leaches the light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your hand only to yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up.
You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep at night and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt
do I
don’t I
should I
why won’t I
And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it. You can’t find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you’re not enough never enough never ever enough.
Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion.
Sometimes it just won’t let go.
“Helloooooo?”
I blink and gasp and flinch away from the fingers snapping in front of my face as the familiar stone walls of Omega Point come back into focus. I manage to spin around.
Kenji is staring at me.
“What?” I shoot him a panicked, nervous look as I clasp and unclasp my ungloved hands, wishing I had something warm to wrap my fingers in. This suit does not come with pockets and I wasn’t able to salvage the gloves I ruined in the research rooms. I haven’t received any replacements, either.
“You’re early,” Kenji says to me, cocking his head, watching me with eyes both surprised and curious.
I shrug and try to hide my face, unwilling to admit that I hardly slept through the night. I’ve been awake since 3:00 a.m., fully dressed and ready to go by 4:00. I’ve been dying for an excuse to fill my mind with things that have nothing to do with my own thoughts. “I’m excited,” I lie. “What are we doing today?”
He shakes his head a bit. Squints at something over my shoulder as he speaks to me. “You, um”—he clears his throat—“you okay?”