Sitting on the couch, I crunch my knees against my chest and rest my head on them. I wrap my arms around my head in an attempt to hide from the noise. Around me, the house shudders, and the roof creaks under the storm’s power. The entire world seems ready to break apart.
The grandfather clock in the corner tells me hours have passed since I lowered my head, but I don’t trust it. The clock like everything else in the Lost Highway doesn’t work correctly. Sometimes, the hands don’t move for the longest time. This place is madness, and I feel the chaos infecting my thoughts.
Crying, I want to go home. I’d willingly spend a lifetime in prison if I can escape the Lost Highway. I need to eat something besides bread. I crave stimuli besides watching Quill watch me. I ache for a moment when I don’t fear what might be behind me. Most of all, I dream of quiet darkness. Anything is preferable to the violent storm.
Chapter Fifteen
Odessa
Unaffected by the light and fury, Quill casually walks around the cabin. How can he remain so calm? Is he even human? When he speaks of Tom or Mary, there’s no emotion in his words.
Now he’s oblivious to my reactions. When I cry from the never-ending storm, Quill only glances in my direction as if surprised to find me still here.
Needing a reprieve from the madness, I finally yank him down on the couch. Though his gaze is threatening, I beg him to stay.
“I’m losing my mind,” I say, and he relents under the power of my tears. “Tell me about where you came from?”
“What does it matter?”
“I want to keep my sanity. I need to know who you are because I already know enough about me.”
Quill remains silent, and I think he’ll deny me this comfort. After he weighs his options, he gives into my request.
“I don’t know my parents. I was told the company found women needing abortions and paid them to give birth. The adoptions were black market, and no records remain. Even if I could find my parents, I see no point. What would they want with me when I have no use for them?”
“Who raised you?” I ask, inching closer on the couch.
Quill doesn’t like my proximity, but he doesn’t move immediately. “The company hired nannies when we were small. Everything was monitored. The food we ate. The music we listened to. The hours we slept. We were trained alone to prevent us from bonding with each other. Our instructors and nannies switched off regularly so we would feel no allegiance to them. We were raised to trust the company and ourselves.”
“And they wanted you to kill.”
“Yes. Unlike soldiers, we were expected to handle the stress of combat and assassination without suffering from mental instabilities like PTSD. That was the theory, but in the end, they overestimated the mind’s capabilities. One of the others snapped and killed everyone at the estate. Chance came within inches of killing me too. I feigned an injury, and he moved onto someone else. By then, the company’s offsite agents arrived and engaged in a firefight with him. I escaped just as they took him down. With so many dead at the estate, I doubt anyone noticed I was gone. Well, for a while. Over time, they must have realized, but I was here by then.”
“Did you ever have any fun? Or have anyone who cared for you?” I ask, reaching for his face.
Quill smacks away my hand. “No. We weren’t created to feel pleasure. Our bodies are machines designed to kill.”
Having compared himself to a robot, Quill frowns at me before continuing, “Normal humans are weak and slaves to pleasure. Fucking, drinking, smoking, they’ll do anything to avoid the harsh realities of life.”
“Your life makes me sad.”
“I find your pity odd, considering you chose a mate to beat you and then resented him for doing what you wanted.”
“I didn’t resent him. I just couldn’t love him. John didn’t love me either. He loved the power I gave him. He loved his slave. If I had wanted him to stop, his love wouldn’t have lasted. John just wasn’t as realistic about our relationship as I was.”
“You wanted pain, and he wanted to inflict it. Nothing more?”
“I wanted to be controlled.”
“You feel sad about my life, but we were both controlled. I don’t see how you choosing to be someone’s property enhanced your life over mine.”
“I never said it did.”
“Does your life make you sad?”
“I deserved to be someone’s property. I needed to be punished, but you were a baby when you were bought. You never had any power or choice. That’s why you make me sad.”
Quill doesn’t appreciate my sympathy, and I feel pathetic under his disapproving gaze.
“Why did you save me?”
“Tell me why you deserve to be punished.”
“I killed my sister.”
“On purpose?”
“Of course not, but what difference does intent matter?”
“It matters to people.”
“Not to me.”
“How did you kill her?”