Shatter Me Complete Collection

by Mafi, Tahereh

  “I need to get out of here,” he says. “I need to leave. I can’t be here anymore.”

  “Warner—”

  “Do you know what he said to me? Did he tell you what he said to me?”

  Silence.

  “He just walked into my room this morning. He walked right in here and said he wanted to have a conversation with me.” Warner laughs again, loud, too loud. Shakes his head. “He told me I can change. He said I might have a gift like everyone else here—that maybe I have an ability. He said I can be different, love. He said he believes I can be different if I want to be.”

  Castle told him.

  Warner stands up but doesn’t turn around all the way and I see he’s not wearing a shirt. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I can see the scars on his back, the word IGNITE tattooed on his body. His hair is messy, untamed, falling into his face and his pants are zipped but unbuttoned and I’ve never seen him so disheveled before. He presses his palms against the stone wall, arms outstretched; his body is bowed, his head down as if in prayer. His entire body is tense, tight, muscles straining against his skin. His clothes are in a pile on the floor and his mattress is in the middle of the room and the chair he was just sitting in is facing the wall, staring at nothing at all and I realize he’s begun to lose his mind in here.

  “Can you believe that?” he asks me, still not looking in my direction. “Can you believe he thinks I can just wake up one morning and be different? Sing happy songs and give money to the poor and beg the world to forgive me for what I’ve done? Do you think that’s possible? Do you think I can change?”

  He finally turns to face me and his eyes are laughing, his eyes are like emeralds glinting in the setting sun and his mouth is twitching, suppressing a smile. “Do you think I could be different?” He takes a few steps toward me and I don’t know why it affects my breathing. Why I can’t find my mouth.

  “It’s just a question,” he says, and he’s right in front of me and I don’t even know how he got there. He’s still looking at me, his eyes so focused and so simultaneously unnerving, brilliant, blazing with something I can never place.

  My heart it will not be still it refuses to stop skipping skipping skipping

  “Tell me, Juliette. I’d love to know what you really think of me.”

  “Why?” Barely a whisper in an attempt to buy some time.

  Warner’s lips flicker up and into a smile before they fall open, just a bit, just enough to twitch into a strange, curious look that lingers in his eyes. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say a word. He only moves closer to me, studying me and I’m frozen in place, my mouth stuffed full of the seconds he doesn’t speak and I’m fighting every atom in my body, every stupid cell in my system for being so attracted to him.

  Oh.

  God.

  I am so horribly attracted to him.

  The guilt is growing inside of me in stacks, settling on my bones, snapping me in half. It’s a cable twisted around my neck, a caterpillar crawling across my stomach. It’s the night and midnight and the twilight of indecision. It’s too many secrets I no longer contain.

  I don’t understand why I want this.

  I am a terrible person.

  And it’s like he sees what I’m thinking, like he can feel the change happening in my head, because suddenly he’s different. His energy slows down, his eyes are deep, troubled, tender; his lips are soft, still slightly parted and now the air in this room is too tight, too full of cotton and I feel the blood rushing around in my head, crashing into every rational region of my brain.

  I wish someone would remind me how to breathe.

  “Why can’t you answer my question?” He’s looking so deeply into my eyes that I’m surprised I haven’t buckled under the intensity and I realize then, right in this moment I realize that everything about him is intense. Nothing about him is manageable or easy to compartmentalize. He’s too much. Everything about him is too much. His emotions, his actions, his anger, his aggression.

  His love.

  He’s dangerous, electric, impossible to contain. His body is rippling with an energy so extraordinary that even when he’s calmed down it’s almost palpable. It has a presence.

  But I’ve developed a strange, frightening faith in who Warner really is and who he has the capacity to become. I want to find the 19-year-old boy who would feed a stray dog. I want to believe in the boy with a tortured childhood and an abusive father. I want to understand him. I want to unravel him.

  I want to believe he is more than the mold he was forced into.

  “I think you can change,” I hear myself saying. “I think anyone can change.”

  And he smiles.

  It’s a slow, delighted smile. The kind of smile that breaks into a laugh and lights up his features and makes him sigh. He closes his eyes. His face is so touched, so amused. “It’s just so sweet,” he says. “So unbearably sweet. Because you really believe that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  He finally looks at me when he whispers, “But you’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I’m heartless,” he says to me, his words cold, hollow, directed inward. “I’m a heartless bastard and a cruel, vicious being. I don’t care about people’s feelings. I don’t care about their fears or their futures. I don’t care about what they want or whether or not they have a family, and I’m not sorry,” he says. “I’ve never been sorry for anything I’ve done.”

  It actually takes me a few moments to find my head. “But you apologized to me,” I tell him. “You apologized to me just last night—”

  “You’re different,” he says, cutting me off. “You don’t count.”

  “I’m not different,” I tell him. “I’m just another person, just like everyone else. And you’ve proven you have the capacity for remorse. For compassion. I know you can be kind—”

  “That’s not who I am.” His voice is suddenly hard, suddenly too strong. “And I’m not going to change. I can’t erase the nineteen miserable years of my life. I can’t misplace the memories of what I’ve done. I can’t wake up one morning and decide to live on borrowed hopes and dreams. Someone else’s promises for a brighter future.

  “And I won’t lie to you,” he says. “I’ve never given a damn about others and I don’t make sacrifices and I do not compromise. I am not good, or fair, or decent, and I never will be. I can’t be. Because to try to be any of those things would be embarrassing.”

  “How can you think that?” I want to shake him. “How can you be ashamed of an attempt to be better?”

  But he’s not listening. He’s laughing. He’s saying, “Can you even picture me? Smiling at small children and handing out presents at birthday parties? Can you picture me helping a stranger? Playing with the neighbor’s dog?”

  “Yes,” I say to him. “Yes I can.” I’ve already seen it, I don’t say to him.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” I insist. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “That kind of life,” he says, “is impossible for me.”

  “But why?”

  Warner clenches and unclenches 5 fingers before running them through his hair. “Because I feel it,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve always been able to feel it.”

  “Feel what?” I whisper.

  “What people think of me.”

  “What …?”

  “Their feelings—their energy—it’s—I don’t know what it is,” he says, frustrated, stumbling backward, shaking his head. “I’ve always been able to tell. I know how everyone hates me. I know how little my father cares for me. I know the agony of my mother’s heart. I know that you’re not like everyone else.” His voice catches. “I know you’re telling the truth when you say you don’t hate me. That you want to and you can’t. Because there’s no ill will in your heart, not toward me, and if there was I would know. Just like I know,” he says, his voice husky with restraint, “that you felt something when we kissed. You felt the same thing I did and you’re
ashamed of it.”

  I’m dripping panic everywhere.

  “How can you know that?” I ask him. “H-how—you can’t just know things like that—”

  “No one has ever looked at me like you do,” he whispers. “No one ever talks to me like you do, Juliette. You’re different,” he says. “You’re so different. You would understand me. But the rest of the world does not want my sympathies. They don’t want my smiles. Castle is the only man on Earth who’s been the exception to this rule, and his eagerness to trust and accept me only shows how weak this resistance is. No one here knows what they’re doing and they’re all going to get themselves slaughtered—”

  “That’s not true—that can’t be true—”

  “Listen to me,” Warner says, urgently now. “You must understand—the only people who matter in this wretched world are the ones with real power. And you,” he says, “you have power. You have the kind of strength that could shake this planet—that could conquer it. And maybe it’s still too soon, maybe you need more time to recognize your own potential, but I will always be waiting. I will always want you on my side. Because the two of us—the two of us,” he says, he stops. He sounds breathless. “Can you imagine?” His eyes are intent on mine, eyebrows drawn together. Studying me. “Of course you can,” he whispers. “You think about it all the time.”

  I gasp.

  “You don’t belong here,” he says. “You don’t belong with these people. They will drag you down with them and get you killed—”

  “I have no other choice!” I’m angry now, indignant. “I’d rather stay here with those who are trying to help—trying to make a difference! At least they’re not murdering innocent people—”

  “You think your new friends have never killed before?” Warner shouts, pointing at the door. “You think Kent has never killed anyone? That Kenji has never put a bullet through a stranger’s body? They were my soldiers!” he says. “I saw them do it with my own eyes!”

  “They were trying to survive,” I tell him, shaking, fighting to ignore the terror of my own imagination. “Their loyalties were never with The Reestablishment—”

  “My loyalties,” he says, “do not lie with The Reestablishment. My loyalties lie with those who know how to live. I only have two options in this game, love.” He’s breathing hard. “Kill. Or be killed.”

  “No,” I tell him, backing away, feeling sick. “It doesn’t have to be like that. You don’t have to live like that. You could get away from your father, from that life. You don’t have to be what he wants you to be—”

  “The damage,” he says, “is already done. It’s too late for me. I’ve already accepted my fate.”

  “No—Warner—”

  “I’m not asking you to worry about me,” he says. “I know exactly what my future looks like and I’m okay with it. I’m happy to live in solitude. I’m not afraid of spending the rest of my life in the company of my own person. I do not fear loneliness.”

  “You don’t have to have that life,” I tell him. “You don’t have to be alone.”

  “I will not stay here,” he says. “I just wanted you to know that. I’m going to find a way out of here and I’m going to leave as soon as I have the chance. My vacation,” he says, “has officially come to an end.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Tick tock.

  Castle called an impromptu meeting to brief everyone on the details of tomorrow’s fight; there are less than 12 hours until we leave. We’ve gathered in the dining hall because it’s the easiest place to seat everyone at once.

  We had 1 final meal, a handful of forced conversation, 2 tense hours filled with brief, spastic moments of laughter that sounded more like choking. Sara and Sonya were the last to sneak into the hall, both spotting me and waving a quick hello before they sat down on the other side of the room. Then Castle began to speak.

  Everyone will need to fight.

  All able-bodied men and women. The elderly unable to enter battle will stay back with the youngest ones, and the youngest ones will include James and his old group of friends.

  James is currently crushing Adam’s hand.

  Anderson is going after the people, Castle says. The people have been rioting, raging against The Reestablishment now more than ever. Our battle gave them hope, Castle says to us. They’d only heard rumors of a resistance, and the battle concretized those rumors. They are looking to us to support them, to stand by them, and now, for the first time, we will be fighting with our gifts out in the open.

  On the compounds.

  Where the civilians will see us for what we are.

  Castle is telling us to prepare for aggression on both sides. He says that sometimes, especially when frightened, people will not react positively to seeing our kind. They prefer the familiar terror as opposed to the unknown or the inexplicable, and our presence, our public display might create new enemies.

  We have to be ready for that.

  “Then why should we care?” someone shouts from the back of the room. She gets to her feet and I notice her sleek black hair, one heavy sheet of ink that stops at her waist. Her eyes are glittering under the fluorescent lights. “If they’re only going to hate us,” she says, “why should we even defend them? That’s ridiculous!”

  Castle takes a deep breath. “We cannot fault them all for the foolishness of one.”

  “But it’s not just one, is it?” a new voice chimes in. “How many of them are going to turn on us?”

  “We have no way of knowing,” Castle says. “It could be one. It could be none. I am merely advising you to be cautious. You must never forget that these civilians are innocent and unarmed. They are being murdered for their disobedience—for merely speaking out and asking for fair treatment. They are starved and they’ve lost their homes, their families. Surely, you must be able to relate. Many of you still have family lost, scattered across the country, do you not?”

  There’s a general murmur among the crowd.

  “You must imagine that it is your mother. Your father. Your brothers and sisters among them. They are hurting and they are beaten down. We have to do what little we can to help. It’s the only way. We are their only hope.”

  “What about our men?” Another person gets to his feet. He must be in his late 40s, round and robust, towering over the room. “Where is the guarantee that we will get Winston and Brendan back?”

  Castle’s gaze drops for only a second. I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed the pain flit in and out of his eyes. “There is no guarantee, my friend. There never is. But we will do our best. We will not give up.”

  “Then what good was it to take the kid hostage?” he protests. “Why not just kill him? Why are we keeping him alive? He’s done us no good and he’s eating our food and using resources that should go to the rest of us!”

  The crowd bursts into an aggravated frenzy, angry, insane with emotions. Everyone is shouting at once, shouting things like, “Kill him!” and “That’ll show the supreme!” and “We have to make a statement!” and “He deserves to die!”

  There’s a sudden constriction in my heart. I’ve almost begun to hyperventilate and I realize, for the very first time, that the thought of Warner dead is anything but appealing to me.

  It horrifies me.

  I look to Adam for a different kind of reaction but I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m stupid to be surprised at the tension in his eyes, his forehead, the stiff set of his lips. I’m stupid to have expected anything but hatred from Adam. Of course Adam hates Warner. Of course he does.

  Warner tried to murder him.

  Of course he, too, wants Warner dead.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  “Please!” Castle shouts. “I know you’re upset! Tomorrow is a difficult thing to face, but we can’t channel our aggression onto one person. We have to use it as fuel for our fight and we have to remain united. We cannot allow anything to divide us. Not now!”

  6 ticks of silence.

  “I
won’t fight until he’s dead!”

  “We kill him tonight!”

  “Let’s get him now!”

  The crowd is a roar of angry bodies, determined, ugly faces so scary, so savage, so twisted in inhuman rage. I hadn’t realized that the people of Omega Point were harboring so much resentment.

  “STOP!” Castle’s hands are in the air, his eyes on fire. Every table and chair in the room has begun to rattle. People are looking around, scattered and scared, unnerved.

  They’re still unwilling to undermine Castle’s authority. At least for now.

  “Our hostage,” Castle begins, “is no longer a hostage.”

  Impossible.

  It’s impossible.

  It’s not possible.

  “He has come to me, just tonight,” Castle says, “and asked for sanctuary at Omega Point.”

  My brain is screaming, raging against the 14 words Castle has just confessed.

  It can’t be true. Warner said he was going to leave. He said he was going to find a way to get out.

  But Omega Point is even more shocked than I am. Even Adam is shaking with anger beside me. I’m afraid to look at his face.

  “SILENCE! PLEASE!” Castle holds out another hand to quell the explosion of protests.

  He says, “We have recently discovered that he, too, has a gift. And he says he wants to join us. He says he will fight with us tomorrow. He says he will fight against his father and help us find Brendan and Winston.”

  Chaos

  Chaos

  Chaos

  explodes in every corner of the room.

  “He’s a liar!”

  “Prove it!”

  “How can you believe him?”

  “He’s a traitor to his own people! He’ll be a traitor to us!”

  “I’ll never fight beside him!”

  “I’ll kill him first!”

  Castle’s eyes narrow, flashing under the fluorescent lights, and his hands move through the air like whisks, gathering up every plate, every spoon, every glass cup in the room and he holds them there, right in midair, daring someone to speak, to shout, to disagree.

  “You will not touch him,” he says quietly. “I took an oath to help the members of our kind and I will not break it now. Think of yourselves!” he shouts. “Think of the day you found out! Think of the loneliness, the isolation, the terror that overcame you! Think of how you were cast off by your families and your friends! You don’t think he could be a changed man? How have you changed, friends? You judge him now! You judge one of your own who asks for amnesty!”