UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,90
tapestry into Miracolina’s lap, graciously allowing her to take over. Now she knows she doesn’t need to surrender her eyes to be the eyes of an old nun. And she doesn’t need to surrender her sense of self to connect with others.
Besides—she’s only fourteen. She has her whole life to be a martyr.
Rewinds
1 • 00039
Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.
He chews on his thoughts like a piece of gum that has long since lost its flavor. 00039 still believes he might one day make sense of those thoughts. He has no choice but to believe, because losing the hope of having hope would be unimaginable. Almost as unimaginable as his existence.
“I know you all must be angry. Confused. You have every right to be.”
School of salmon. Gaggle of geese. Murder of crows.
There are many others here in this group of diced-and-sliced souls. All are like him. They are ugly. They are scarred. They pass their timeless days babbling their own particular incoherencies. And fighting. Always fighting. But with whose hands do they fight? Does anyone know?
“I’m here to ease you through this. To help you find yourselves—and you will, I promise you that.”
Pretty boy. Media star. First of his kind.
Different parts of 00039 remember the young man addressing them. He was the sparkling example of what could be. He was the dream before the nightmare. Camus Comprix. Unlike the dozens of rewinds gathered here on Molokai, Camus Comprix has gentle seams instead of jagged scars. Unlike them, his many flesh tones are well designed and symmetrical, expanding out from a dynamic sunburst in the center of his forehead. Unlike them, his hair, filled with textures and tints, redefines the very concept of style. He is a work of art. Unlike them. And yet he claims to be one of them.
00039 knows he is no work of art. Even though he has never seen himself in a mirror, he knows because he can see versions of himself reflected in the rewinds around him. All of them are in their teens, with no specific age. They are a mix of many ages. All of them are caught between what they once were and what they might become.
How did this happen? How did this terrible state of existence come to be?
Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.
If only he could think more clearly. . . .
“I’ve been where you are,” insists Camus Comprix, the golden child. “I know how painful it is—but you will integrate. The pieces do come together if you keep working at it.”
It’s comforting to hear, but nothing 00039 has seen here proves it. The only rewind ever to fully reintegrate is the one addressing them. If only 00039 could be just a little bit of what Camus is, it will be enough. So instead of resenting him, the rewind makes a decision to admire him. Camus was rewound, just like them. Yes, with much greater care, but he was rewound from bits and pieces of others.
00039 remembers his unwinding. Or rather, he remembers echoes of dozens of unwindings. When he first awoke, and regained awareness, he thought that he was living in a divided state—that the Juvenile Authority’s propaganda must be true, and this is what it felt like to be alive, but divided. Soon, however, he came to realize that this was something very different. And when he realized what he was, he felt ashamed.
“What happened to you was a crime,” Camus Comprix says. “I can’t change that. What I can do is teach you to live with dignity.”
The rewind next to 00039 turns to him with disturbingly empty, mismatched eyes. “Snake,” he says pointing to Comprix. “Janus. Lucifer.” Then he smiles a twisted grin. “Lincoln, Kennedy, King,” he says. “Bang bang! Police have no leads.”
00039 doesn’t know what he means and doesn’t want to. Whatever it is, it’s unpleasant. He ignores the rewind beside him and turns his attention back to Camus Comprix, so sharp in his military uniform, so convincing in his eloquence. 00039 wants to believe everything he says is true.
Messiah. Communion. Hallelujah.
Yes—perhaps this first born rewind can save him.
2 • Cam
He leaves the ward sick to his stomach. Not from what he sees, but from what he feels. There is no level of hell deep enough for Roberta and her colleagues. Yes, Roberta was sentenced to life in prison, but it’s not enough. No punishment could ever be enough for having created these poor creatures.
No, Cam tells himself. Not creatures. They are human beings. Cam has finally