We fall silent for a moment, staring at each other. He makes a tiny movement, as though he might step toward me, and I suck saliva into my mouth and spit at him. He jerks back as my spit sprays his chest, retreating until his back is pressed against the wall by the door. Before I can plead with him to stop, he turns and runs down the hallway.
“Come back! Don’t leave me like this! August, please, don’t leave me! Come back!”
Over my sobbing screams I hear the front door open and close.
AUGUST
What.
Just.
Happened?
I fall to my knees at the top of the stairs, tearing at my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
The door to the roof is propped open. I crawl out into the sunlight, gagging, gasping. I need to disconnect. Now. Something is malfunctioning. I can’t breathe. My mind is fragmenting, shattering like glass. Glass. Glass. There was so much glass on the floor. Her feet were bare. Her feet.
Something bubbles inside me, and I feel like I might vomit, though I know I can’t. But the breathing tube constricts and contracts all the way back up into my mouth. I cough violently and the tube unwinds and snakes back downward, back into my lungs and insides, filling me with thick sludge, wiping my mind clean for a second, until I can catch my breath.
I rest there, on my hands and knees, trying to hang on to my slippery thoughts. The syrup wants to push them away, turn them into anger, turn me against the vermin, the humans, the girl. . . .
What happened? She was watching something, a video, a girl. A girl being killed. One of us.
Like Sixth. My girl. I wish she were here. She would know what to do. But she’s dead. Wings of blood pooled around her neck.
The edge of the roof is only a few feet away. I struggle to my feet and stumble forward, hanging my head over the side. Below me is the terrace off the bedroom. Over the wind I can hear her screaming and crying. Maybe I imagine it. I could hop down; it’s only fifteen feet. I could hop down and be with her in seconds, unbinding her and begging her to forgive me. I don’t have a sign for “forgive,” but I’ll make one up.
I don’t even know what half those words mean, those things she called me.
There’s another edge behind me, at the other side of the roof, with no terrace below it. Forty-one stories straight down. The fall will probably kill me. Probably. What do I believe more? That she’ll ever forgive me, or that the fall will kill me? What do I want more? Forgiveness? Or death?
Or sunsets. Or spiderwebs. Pine needles.
Snowflakes.
Dandelions.
Slippery thoughts slither away. I lean my head over the edge until I imagine I can hear her again. Screaming my name. I can’t leave her there. Hold on to that thought. I can’t forget that she’s down there, tied up, alone. If I die, she dies. Starves, freezes. Tied to a bed like . . .
What have I done?
How long have I been up here? Time seems to have passed.The sun is kissing the mountaintops, the light changing from golden to indigo. I stand and measure the distance to each edge, moving my feet slightly until it is exactly even.
The orange orb of the sun dipping behind the snowcapped mountains catches my mind for a second, enough for me to think more clearly than I have in days.
I can string five thoughts together, I think. Try anyway. It’s important.
One, she doesn’t love me. She never will. Zero repeat forever. Nevermore. I doesn’t matter what I bring her or how I care for her. I can never make her love me. It’s embarrassing to think how hard I’ve tried.
Two, I love her so completely I can barely think of anything else. That feels like something I won’t be able to forget, no matter what.
Three, she’ll die if I leave her. Hang on to that. It’s important.
Four, it hasn’t snowed in six days. That’s not really relevant, I get that, but it’s true. The fact that I can even remember the last time it snowed is something to celebrate at this point.
Five, I can be by her side in seconds. And she hates me, thinks I’m a monster, which I am. But I don’t care. I’ll do whatever she wants, whatever it takes, let her hate me, abuse me, even kill me. I don’t care. That makes me a sentimental fool, as well as a pervert and a deviant. Defective, stupid, weak . . .
My head clears. Absolute clarity. I step toward the roof edge, barely aware of which direction I have chosen.
RAVEN
Here’s the thing about being handcuffed: It’s a lot worse when you don’t know when or how it’s going to end.
I scream his name and beg him to come back, beg and scream and cry until all my self-respect is gone. Then I cry for Topher, even for Xander and Emily. My parents. I cry for anyone who would never do this to me. And I cry for the dead, Sawyer and Felix and Tucker and the little child whose teddy bear lies decapitated in the bath. And after I cry about the laptop computer smashed below us, I relive the exploding glass table and the Nahx girl losing her head, drifting into exhaustion and jerking awake again and again.
When my arm and leg are both numb and aching, and the fingers on my free hand bleeding from tearing at the shackles, I relive the vase smashing over August’s head, and the mirrors and the pictures on the wall. The sun sinks low on the horizon. Golden light streams in through the terrace windows. I turn my head away and look down the hallway, where the debris of the broken picture frames makes long shadows, and the broken glass glitters golden on the floor like distant stars.
Oh my God, the glass on the floor.
Broken glass all over the floor. And I have bare feet. Something inside me cracks and spiderwebs, like a windshield, and all the little shards tinkle down to join the destruction. This is certainly not the first time I’ve fallen apart, but it’s the first time when I’m not sure I want to pick up all the pieces and put myself back together. Because somewhere among the shards is the piece of me that hated August so much that I dreamed of killing him. That I got pleasure from mocking him. That hurled insults and curses even though I know they burned him like acid. What kind of person would be so cruel and distrustful to someone who saved their life? He’s never done anything but try to help me and make me happy.
“August . . . ,” I whimper. “Come back, please. . . .”
Tugging at the restraints, I lift my free foot back, turning it awkwardly. There is a small cut on one side, nothing serious. I wriggle my other foot. It feels sound.
Time passes. The sun touches the snowy mountaintops and sinks. The twinkling stars in the hallway blink out. I’m so ashamed of myself, I actually long for darkness. If he ever does come back, I don’t want him to see me like this. If he ever does come back, the girl they would have called Rage, the fighter, the angry, lost soldier, is gone. Someone else has taken her place, someone nobody would recognize.
Above the mountains the first star appears. It’s probably Venus, but I don’t care; I press my eyes shut and make a wish anyway, whispering, “Please let him come back. . . .”
Outside on the terrace I hear something thump onto the concrete floor. The sliding door opens.
With the fading sunset behind him all I see is his silhouette. He steps forward and kneels by the bed.
Sorry. Repeat sorry. Forever.