He pushes past me, gathering up the blankets that make my bed, the extra clothes I’ve amassed, slippers, socks, even a cheesy romance novel he gave me, which I’ve been secretly reading, and takes the whole pile out to the terrace.
“August, don’t, please!” But he heaves the pile over the railing. The wind catches some of it, blowing it up and away, before it wafts downward and out of sight.
He makes a sign that looks like “sad” but backward, adding a question hand.
Happy?
“No, I’m not happy. Why did you do that? I’ll freeze.”
He crosses his arms, leaning back on the railing. I feel frustrated tears prickling the back of my eyes. It’s the kind of thing bullies used to do to me in school—throw my mittens out of the bus window or drop my hat in a puddle of slush. They did these things because they liked me, people used to say. The idea is horrifying. Better to remember that they did these things until the first time I knocked one of them flat with an uppercut, though I have no chance of knocking August over in this way. Even to wipe his legs out from under him, I would have to take him by surprise. Not likely, since he’s staring back at me now, sulking. My mind ticks over. I didn’t know I could upset him like that, enough for him to become so stubborn. It’s so unlike his usual emotionless attention to my every need.
The wind blows through my pajamas. My bare feet ache from the cold concrete terrace floor. I wrap my arms around myself and look over the railing. Far below, the clothes and blankets are strewn over cars and snowbanks. Now is as good a time as any to test my power over him, I guess.
“Go down and get that. Right now.”
He shakes his head.
Despite desperately wanting not to, I start to shiver. “You have to! I’ll freeze tonight.”
He turns his head away, arms still crossed, still defiant.
You go. He flicks the sign at me with one dismissive hand.
“I can’t! I can’t walk all that way down and back up. Go down and get it!”
He doesn’t react at all. Apparently, he’s better at this game than I thought he would be.
“I can die from freezing, you know. Is that what you want?” I turn and stomp dramatically back into the relative warmth of the penthouse, wincing as the pain in my leg flares up. All my bedding is gone, sheets, blankets, quilts, everything. All the extra clothes I bundle into each night are gone too, and all the ones I’ve been setting aside for my journey away from here. This part is not a game so much. Maybe he doesn’t even know how much this will hurt me. It could kill me tonight if it gets cold enough. I’m already shivering, and the sun isn’t even touching the horizon yet. Worse, all the provisions I’ve gathered for my escape are gone.
Behind me, I hear the terrace door slide closed. I slump into the sofa and hug my knees, hanging my head, hiding my face, until I know that he’s kneeling in front of me.
“Do you know how bad it feels to be so dependent on you?” I say into my knees. “My life is in your hands. I have to pretend to like you, because if you change your mind, or get bored of me and leave, I’m dead. That’s repulsive.” I hear him sigh and fidget, his armor clicking. A little farther, I think. What does it matter about his feelings anyway? He’s a killer.
“And what if that’s not enough? I don’t know what you are, or what you think you want. Whatever it is, I have to give it, if I want to live. Right?” I look up at him. He’s shaking his head, both palms raised at his sides.
“Just go away,” I say, but before he can get up, I stop him. “No, wait. I have a better idea.” He sits back on his heels, expectant. I open the high collar of my pajama top, exposing my neck. “If you want me dead, do it now.” I lean forward, pressing my bare neck toward him. “Go on. Get it over with.”
He exhales roughly, almost like a growl, and recoils. As we stare at each other, I realize that I’ve conjured up some tears from somewhere, and I’m not even sure if they’re real. Wiping them away elicits a sob, and seconds later I’m crying for real, curled up on the sofa, shivering with cold and crying in front of this monstrous alien who holds my life in his bloodied hands. I cover my face again because I think I’ve probably cried enough to make my point, but I’m not sure that I can stop. After a few seconds I feel his warm hands on my feet.
And unlike I normally would, I don’t flinch away.
AUGUST
Her skin is cool and smooth. Cold, in fact. Without all her blankets and clothes she could freeze tonight. I know this isn’t really what she wants. It’s not what I want either, and yet I feel something tugging me away, urging me to turn and run, down the stairs three at a time and out into the streets, away from her, because part of me wants this torment to be over.
It’s exhausting being the object of her hate, her disdain and disgust. I’m so tired. Between her and Sixth, the effort of being the only creature on this planet who even marginally cares whether I live or die has worn me out. I’ll leave her. It’s something I should have done weeks ago. I feel the oily sludge bubbling up, erasing my own thoughts, thinking for me.
It would be easier if she would look at me, so I could say something to her at least, maybe good-bye.
Open your eyes, Dandelion, please.
I feel the pain in my chest before I realize I’m hitting myself there.
Please, please, please.
Her feet are so delicate, so slender and pretty. Sometimes when I look at her I think of unspeakable things, things that make me want . . . to be anyone but who I am.
I make a noise, with my breathing, like a hiss, and pull my fingers away from her cold skin. She looks up at me.
Sorry. Sorry. Very sorry forever.
She slides down to the end of the sofa, away from me.
Don’t be scared.
“I’m not.”
She’s lying. I can smell the adrenaline flowing through her.
Sorry forever.
“Right, I get it,” she says, mockingly imitating my last sign, shooting her hand upward, to the stars. “Big sorry. Forever sorry.” She wipes the tears from her face. “Go get my clothes and blankets now. It’s cold in here.”
Of course. Of course I will. My body is on fire with shame. I try to lower my temperature to something more comfortable, but fail. Even though it is close to freezing, I’m burning. I have to fight to keep from gagging on the tube in my throat as I stagger to the door.
“August.”
I turn to the sound of her voice.
“Don’t ever touch me again, okay? I mean it. My leg is healed. My ribs are fine. I can take the splint off my arm. So just . . . don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Don’t even look at me. Unless you really are going to kill me, keep your creepy hands to yourself.”
Before I can stop myself, I make a set of signs to her, a terrible curse I learned from Sixth.
Die in mud and pain, defective low rank.
I regret it immediately and hope that she didn’t understand.