Shatter Me - Tahereh Mafi Page 0,40

burning with indignation so raw that it’s like a fire raging within me, a wildfire of decimated hopes. I want to crush Warner’s spine in my hand. I want him to know what it’s like to wound, to inflict such unbearable agony on others. I want him to know my pain and Jenkins’ pain and Fletcher’s pain and I want him to hurt. Because maybe Warner is right.

Maybe some people do deserve it.

“Take off your shirt.”

For all his posturing, Warner looks genuinely surprised, but he wastes no time unbuttoning his jacket, slipping off his gloves, and peeling away the thin cotton shirt clinging closest to his skin.

His eyes are bright, sickeningly eager; he doesn’t mask his curiosity.

Warner drops his clothes to the floor and looks at me almost intimately. I have to swallow back the revulsion bubbling in my mouth. His perfect face. His perfect body. His eyes as hard and beautiful as frozen gemstones. He repulses me. I want his exterior to match his broken black interior. I want to cripple his cockiness with the palm of my hand.

He walks up to me until there’s less than a foot of space between us. His height and build make me feel like a fallen twig. “Are you ready?” he asks, arrogant and foolish.

I contemplate breaking his neck.

“If I do this you’ll get rid of all the cameras in my room. All the bugs. Everything.”

He steps closer. Dips his head. He’s staring at my lips, studying me in an entirely new way. “My promises aren’t worth much, love,” he whispers. “Or have you forgotten?” 3 inches forward. His hand on my waist. His breath sweet and warm on my neck. “I’m an exceptional liar.”

Realization slams into me like 200 pounds of common sense. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be making deals with him. I shouldn’t be contemplating torture dear God I have lost my mind. My fists are balled at my sides and I’m shaking everywhere. I can hardly find the strength to speak. “You can go to hell.”

I’m limp.

I trip backward against the wall and slump into a heap of uselessness; desperation. I think of Adam and my heart deflates.

I can’t be here anymore.

I fly to the double doors facing the room and yank them open before Warner can stop me. But Adam stops me instead. He’s standing just outside. Waiting. Guarding me wherever I go.

I wonder if he heard everything and my eyes fall to the floor, the color flushed from my face, my heart in pieces in my hand. Of course he heard everything. Of course he now knows I’m a murderer. A monster. A worthless soul stuffed into a poisonous body.

Warner did this on purpose.

And I’m standing between them. Warner with no shirt on. Adam looking at his gun.

“Soldier.” Warner speaks. “Take her back up to her room and disable all the cameras. She can have lunch alone if she wants, but I’ll expect her for dinner.”

Adam blinks for a moment too long. “Yes, sir.”

“Juliette?”

I freeze. My back is to Warner and I don’t turn around.

“I do expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

TWENTY-TWO

It takes 5 years to walk to the elevator. 15 more to ride it up. I’m a million years old by the time I walk into my room. Adam is still, silent, perfectly put together and mechanical in his movements. There’s nothing in his eyes, in his limbs, in the motions of his body that indicate he even knows my name.

I watch him move quickly, swiftly, carefully around the room, finding the little devices meant to monitor my behavior and disabling them one by one. If anyone asks why my cameras aren’t working, Adam won’t get in trouble. This order came from Warner. This makes it official.

This makes it possible for me to have some privacy.

I thought I would need privacy.

I’m such a fool.

Adam is not the boy I remember.

I was in third grade.

I’d just moved into town after being thrown out of asked to leave my old school. My parents were always moving, always running away from the messes I made, from the playdates I’d ruined, from the friendships I never had. No one ever wanted to talk about my “problem,” but the mystery surrounding my existence somehow made things worse. The human imagination is often disastrous when left to its own devices. I only heard bits and pieces of their whispers.

“Freak!”

“Did you hear what she did—?”

“What a loser.”

“—got kicked out of her old school—”

“Psycho!”

“She’s got some kind