Shatter Me Complete Collection

by Mafi, Tahereh

  Delalieu drops his fork. The silverware clangs against the china plates. He looks up, eyes wide. “Sir?”

  “I’d like to try it,” I tell him, attempting to spread butter on my toast with my left hand. I toss a look in his direction. “You’re always going on about your coffee, aren’t you? I thought I—”

  Delalieu jumps up from the table without a word. Bolts out the door.

  I laugh silently into my plate.

  Delalieu carts the tea and coffee tray in himself and stations it by my chair. His hands shake as he pours the dark liquid into a teacup, places it on a saucer, sets it on the table, and pushes it in my direction.

  I wait until he’s finally sitting down again before I take a sip. It’s a strange, obscenely bitter sort of drink; not at all what I expected. I glance up at him, surprised to discover that a man like Delalieu would begin his day by bracing himself with such a potent, foul-tasting liquid. I find I respect him for it.

  “This isn’t terrible,” I tell him.

  His face splits into a smile so wide, so beatific, I wonder if he’s misheard me. He’s practically beaming when he says, “I take mine with cream and sugar. The taste is far better that w—”

  “Sugar.” I put my cup down. Press my lips together, fight back a smile. “You add sugar to it. Of course you do. That makes so much more sense.”

  “Would you like some, sir?”

  I hold up my hand. Shake my head. “Call back the troops, Lieutenant. We’re going to halt daytime missions and instead launch in the evening, after curfew. You will remain on base,” I tell him, “where the supreme will dictate orders through his men; carry out any demands as they are required. I shall lead the group myself.” I stop. Hold his eyes. “There will be no more talk of what has transpired. Nothing for the civilians to see or speak of. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, his coffee forgotten. “I’ll issue the orders at once.”

  “Good.”

  He stands up.

  I nod.

  He leaves.

  I’m beginning to feel real hope for the first time since she left. We’re going to find her. Now, with this new information—with an entire army against a group of clueless rebels—it seems impossible we won’t.

  I take a deep breath. Take another sip of this coffee.

  I’m surprised to discover how much I enjoy the bitter taste of it.

  Twenty

  He’s waiting for me when I return to my room.

  “The orders have been issued,” I tell him without looking in his direction. “We will mobilize tonight.” I hesitate. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to contend with.”

  “What’s it like,” he asks, “to be so crippled?” He’s smiling. “How can you stand to look at yourself, knowing that you’ve been disabled by your own subordinates?”

  I pause outside the adjoining door to my office. “What do you want?”

  “What,” he says, “is your fascination with that girl?”

  My spine goes rigid.

  “She is more to you than just an experiment, isn’t she?” he says.

  I turn around slowly. He’s standing in the middle of my room, hands in his pockets, smiling at me like he might be disgusted.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at yourself,” he says. “I haven’t even said her name and you fall apart.” He shakes his head, still studying me. “Your face is pale, your only working hand is clenched. You’re breathing too fast, and your entire body is tense.” A pause. “You have betrayed yourself, son. You think you’re very clever,” he says, “but you’re forgetting who taught you your tricks.”

  I go hot and cold all at once. I try to unclench my fist and I can’t. I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I’m suddenly feeling unsteady, wishing I’d eaten more at breakfast, and then wishing I’d eaten nothing at all.

  “I have work to do,” I manage to say.

  “Tell me,” he says, “that you would not care if she died along with the others.”

  “What?” The nervous, shaky word escapes my lips too soon.

  My father drops his eyes. Clasps and unclasps his hands. “You have disappointed me in so many ways,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “Please don’t let this be another.”

  For a moment I feel as though I exist outside of my body, as if I’m looking at myself from his perspective. I see my face, my injured arm, these legs that suddenly seem unable to carry my weight. Cracks begin to form along my face, all the way down my arms, my torso, my legs.

  I imagine this is what it’s like to fall apart.

  I don’t realize he’s said my name until he repeats it twice more.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, surprised to hear how calm I sound. “You’ve walked into my room without permission; you stand here and accuse me of things I don’t have time to understand. I am following your rules, your orders. We will leave tonight; we will find their hideout. You can destroy them as you see fit.”

  “And your girl,” he says, cocking his head at me. “Your Juliette?”

  I flinch at the sound of her name. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like a whisper.

  “If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?” He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?”

  Time seems to slow down, melting all around me.

  “It would be a waste,” I say, ignoring the tremble I feel deep inside me, threatening to tip me over, “to lose something I’ve invested so much time in.”

  He smiles. “It’s good to know you see it that way,” he says. “But projects are, after all, easily replaced. And I’m certain we’ll be able to find a better, more practical use of your time.”

  I blink at him so slowly. Part of my chest feels as if it’s collapsed.

  “Of course,” I hear myself say.

  “I knew you’d understand.” He claps me on my injured shoulder as he leaves. My knees nearly buckle. “It was a good effort, son. But she’s cost us too much time and expense, and she’s proven completely useless. This way we’ll be disposing of many inconveniences all at once. We’ll just consider her collateral damage.” He shoots me one last smile before walking past me and out the door.

  I fall back against the wall.

  And crumble to the floor.

  Twenty-One

  Swallow the tears back often enough and they’ll start feeling like acid dripping down your throat.

  It’s that terrible moment when you’re sitting still so still so still because you don’t want them to see you cry you don’t want to cry but your lips won’t stop trembling and your eyes are filled to the brim with please and I beg you and please and I’m sorry and please and have mercy and maybe this time it’ll be different but it’s always the same. There’s no one to run to for comfort. No one on your side.

  Light a candle for me, I used to whisper to no one.

  Someone

  Anyone

  If you’re out there

  Please tell me you can feel this fire.

  It’s day five of our patrols, and still, nothing.

  I lead the group every night, marching into the silence of these cold, winter landscapes. We search for hidden passageways, camouflaged manholes—any indication that there might be another world under our feet.

  And every night we return to base with nothing.

  The futility of these past few days has washed over me, dulling my senses, settling me into a kind of daze I haven’t been able to claw my way out of. Every day I wake up searching for a solution to the problems I’ve forced upon myself, but I have no idea how to fix this.

  If she’s out there, he will find her. And he will kill her.

  Just to teach me a lesson.

  My only hope is to find her first. Maybe I could hide her. Or tell her to run. Or pretend she’s already dead. Or maybe I’ll convince him that she’s diffe
rent, better than the others; that she’s worth keeping alive.

  I sound like a pathetic, desperate idiot.

  I am a child all over again, hiding in dark corners and praying he won’t find me. Hoping he’ll be in a good mood today. That maybe everything will be all right. That maybe my mother won’t be screaming this time.

  How quickly I revert back to another version of myself in his presence.

  I’ve gone numb.

  I’ve been performing my tasks with a sort of mechanical dedication; it requires minimal effort. Moving is simple enough. Eating is something I’ve grown accustomed to.

  I can’t stop reading her notebook.

  My heart actually hurts, somehow, but I can’t stop turning the pages. I feel as if I’m pounding against an invisible wall, as if my face has been bandaged in plastic and I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear any sound but my own heart beating in my ears.

  I’ve wanted few things in this life.

  I’ve asked for nothing from no one.

  And now, all I’m asking for is another chance. An opportunity to see her again. But unless I can find a way to stop him, these words will be all I’ll ever have of her.

  These paragraphs and sentences. These letters.

  I’ve become obsessed. I carry her notebook with me everywhere I go, spending all my free moments trying to decipher the words she’s scribbled in the margins, developing stories to go along with the numbers she’s written down.

  I’ve also noticed that the last page is missing. Ripped out.

  I can’t help but wonder why. I’ve searched through the book a hundred times, looking for other sections where pages might be gone, but I’ve found none. And somehow I feel cheated, knowing there’s a piece I might’ve missed. It’s not even my journal; it’s none of my business at all, but I’ve read her words so many times now that they feel like my own. I can practically recite them from memory.

  It’s strange being in her head without being able to see her. I feel like she’s here, right in front of me. I feel like I now know her so intimately, so privately. I’m safe in the company of her thoughts; I feel welcome, somehow. Understood. So much so that some days I manage to forget that she’s the one who put this bullet hole in my arm.

  I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard I’ve fallen for her.

  And I’ve fallen.

  So hard.

  I’ve hit the ground. Gone right through it. Never in my life have I felt this. Nothing like this. I’ve felt shame and cowardice, weakness and strength. I’ve known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen.

  And yet I’ve known nothing like this terrible, horrible, paralyzing feeling. I feel crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it keeps getting worse. Every day I feel sick. Empty and somehow aching.

  Love is a heartless bastard.

  I’m driving myself insane.

  I fall backward onto my bed, fully dressed. Coat, boots, gloves. I’m too tired to take them off. These late-night shifts have left me very little time to sleep. I feel as though I’ve been existing in a constant state of exhaustion.

  My head hits the pillow and I blink once. Twice.

  I collapse.

  Twenty-Two

  “No,” I hear myself say. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  She’s sitting on my bed. She’s leaning back on her elbows, legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles. And while some part of me understands I must be dreaming, there’s another, overwhelmingly dominant part of me that refuses to accept this. Part of me wants to believe she’s really here, inches away from me, wearing this short, tight black dress that keeps slipping up her thighs. But everything about her looks different, oddly vibrant; the colors are all wrong. Her lips are a richer, deeper shade of pink; her eyes seem wider, darker. She’s wearing shoes I know she’d never wear. And strangest of all: she’s smiling at me.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  It’s just one word, but my heart is already racing. I’m inching away from her, stumbling back and nearly slamming my skull against the headboard, when I realize my shoulder is no longer wounded. I look down at myself. My arms are both fully functional. I’m wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and my underwear.

  She shifts positions in an instant, propping herself up on her knees before crawling over to me. She climbs onto my lap. She’s now straddling my waist. I’m suddenly breathing too fast.

  Her lips are at my ear. Her words are so soft. “Kiss me,” she says.

  “Juliette—”

  “I came all the way here.” She’s still smiling at me. It’s a rare smile, the kind she’s never honored me with. But somehow, right now, she’s mine. She’s mine and she’s perfect and she wants me, and I’m not going to fight it.

  I don’t want to.

  Her hands are tugging at my shirt, pulling it up over my head. Tossing it to the floor. She leans forward and kisses my neck, just once, so slowly. My eyes fall closed.

  There aren’t enough words in this world to describe what I’m feeling.

  I feel her hands move down my chest, my stomach; her fingers run along the edge of my underwear. Her hair falls forward, grazing my skin, and I have to clench my fists to keep from pinning her to my bed.

  Every nerve ending in my body is awake. I’ve never felt so alive or so desperate in my life, and I’m sure if she could hear what I’m thinking right now, she’d run out the door and never come back.

  Because I want her.

  Now.

  Here.

  Everywhere.

  I want nothing between us.

  I want her clothes off and the lights on and I want to study her. I want to unzip her out of this dress and take my time with every inch of her. I can’t help my need to just stare; to know her and her features: the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw. I want to run my fingertips across the soft skin of her neck and trace it all the way down. I want to feel the weight of her pressed against me, wrapped around me.

  I can’t remember a reason why this can’t be right or real. I can’t focus on anything but the fact that she’s sitting on my lap, touching my chest, staring into my eyes like she might really love me.

  I wonder if I’ve actually died.

  But just as I lean in, she leans back, grinning before reaching behind her, never once breaking eye contact with me. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It’s almost over now.”

  Her words seem so strange, so familiar. “What do you mean?”

  “Just a little longer and I’ll leave.”

  “No.” I’m blinking fast, reaching for her. “No, don’t go—where are you going—”

  “You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.”

  “No—”

  But now she’s holding a gun.

  And pointing it at my heart.

  Twenty-Three

  These letters are all I have left.

  26 friends to tell my stories to.

  26 letters are all I need. I can stitch them together to create oceans and ecosystems. I can fit them together to form planets and solar systems. I can use letters to construct skyscrapers and metropolitan cities populated by people, places, things, and ideas that are more real to me than these 4 walls.

  I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist.

  Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m still alive.

  It’s extraordinarily cold this morning.

  I suggested we make a smaller, more low-key trip to the compounds earlier in the day today, just to see if any of the civilians seemed suspicious or out of place. I’m beginning to wonder if Kent and Kishimoto and all the others are living among the people in secret. They must, after all, have to have some source for food and water—something that ties them to society; I doubt they can grow anything underground. But of course, these are all assumptions. They might very well have a person who can grow fo
od out of thin air.

  I quickly address my men; instruct them to disperse and remain inconspicuous. Their job is to watch everyone today, and report their findings directly to me.

  Once they’re gone, I’m left to look around and be alone with my thoughts. It’s a dangerous place to be.

  God, she seemed so real in my dream.

  I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face; my fingers linger against my lips. I could feel her. I could really feel her. Even thinking about it now makes my heart race. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I keep having such intense dreams about her. I won’t be able to function at all.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and focus. I allow my eyes to wander naturally, and I can’t help but be distracted by the children running around. They seem so spirited and carefree. In a strange way, it makes me sad that they’ve been able to find happiness in this life. They have no idea what they’ve missed; no idea what the world used to be like.

  Something barrels into the backs of my legs.

  I hear a strange, labored sort of panting; I turn around.

  It’s a dog.

  A tired, starving dog, so thin and frail it looks like it could be knocked over by the wind. But it’s staring at me. Unafraid. Mouth open. Tongue lolling.

  I want to laugh out loud.

  I glance around quickly before scooping the dog into my arms. I don’t need to give my father any more reasons to castrate me, and I don’t trust my soldiers not to report something like this.

  That I would play with a dog.

  I can already hear the things my father would say to me.

  I carry the whimpering creature over to one of the recently vacated housing units—I just saw all three families leave for work—and duck down behind one of the fences. The dog seems smart enough to understand that now is not the time to bark.

  I tug off my glove and reach into my pocket for the Danish I grabbed at breakfast this morning; I hadn’t had a chance to eat anything before our early start today. And though I haven’t the faintest idea what dogs eat, exactly, I offer the Danish anyway.