Daniel turns to see what is going on, and with the momentum of my kicking legs, I am sideways underneath him. Almost free.
“Grab her!” Daniel is shouting, but every cell in my body is alight with adrenaline and the tireless pursuit of life.
I am on all fours. I shove an elbow in Daniel’s face, I fight, I fight. But then my hair is snatched from behind, and long fingers curl around my neck and squeeze with such intensity that blood vessels burst in my eyes, and the fight is leaving, it is dying.
But I am not ready to give up just yet, and I grab at a finger, just one—and it must be a ring finger, because it is weak—and I bend it back as the world goes dark, and I hear a pop, and the grip around my neck loosens. Oxygen soars to my brain.
I am alive, I am alive, I am alive.
“Fucking cunt!” Daniel screams. “She broke my fucking finger!” He is hunched over in the corner, and I run; I sprint up the stairs with Landry at my back, and he pushes me, and he slams my head into the concrete wall, and it is blacker than it was, and it strikes me that I will die here. Never will I say a proper farewell to my parents or my friends or to Wren. Never will I breathe fresh air or feel a breeze against my cheek. Never will I have a shot at finding Jack or tasting freedom.
There is a flurry of footsteps—that much seeps into my battered brain—and maybe yelling, but I am too far gone to make sense of it. No, I must be wrong, because it is quiet now, unless that is my name I hear. It is so faint, it sounds like it is being whispered from the dead other end of the compound, so I can’t possibly respond. Maybe it is the trees outside the Oracle whispering my name. I want to whisper back; I do.
But now I am swaying, back and forth, like a clock, or like a tree—one of those talking trees. Yes, that is it. I am whispering my own name, nothing more, and I am alone, always alone. And now my mind is still, and I no longer know if I am moving or awakening, hearing or speaking, sleeping or dying.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I blink into a dimly lit room. My head throbs so deeply behind my eyes that for once the darkness is a blessing; light would surely crack my skull in two. Nausea wells up in my stomach from the pain, and I close my eyes again.
Probably I am at Daniel or Landry’s place. Probably my hands are chained up—my feet, too. I really should open my eyes. It’s a wonder that I am alive at all.
“Eve,” comes a low voice, and it is one I open my eyes for, no matter the pain. It is one that sends relief flowing through my veins like sugar. Wren.
He is staring down at me with something dark and animalistic etched across his face.
I try to say something, but it only comes out as a gurgle. The taste of blood coats my tongue.
“Eve,” he repeats. “Who was it?”
His voice is so even, his cadence so slow, his eyes flashing with so much violence. I swallow, and it feels like sandpaper, and then I push out three simple words that surprise even me: “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I shake my head.
He speaks slowly. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You don’t know their names?”
I shouldn’t protect my attackers. Of course I shouldn’t. I don’t want to, and it isn’t my intention. But I have to lie right now because otherwise Wren will do something terrible. I can sense that cruel monster in him right now, see it stirring behind his fiery eyes.
“No. I mean I didn’t see them. At all.”
He stands quickly and turns from me. Both hands run along his face, and then he strings them behind his head as he gazes at the ceiling. His arms are bulky with taut muscle.
“How could you not see?” His voice sounds desperate.
“I just didn’t.”
He paces now, and my eyes follow him. I like watching him move, even when he moves in torment, even when I feel like slashing my throat for causing it. But every action of his shines with such gentle, restrained strength that it is impossible to look away. And watching him is a distraction from the pain inside my brain.
“Eve—”
“Where am I?”
He stares at me, and I can tell he doesn’t want to change the subject. But he sighs. “At my place. You’ll be safe here.”
I blink, and his back is to me, and it is getting smaller. “Don’t go,” I say, and even though I am being weak for wanting him close, for wanting his comfort, I don’t care. Maybe it isn’t weakness that makes me crave companionship or safety—maybe it is human nature. Those like Daniel and Landry who breathe nothing but destructive, malevolent air, whose blood is clotted with viciousness—maybe they are the mutants.
Maybe I have been trying to be a mutant, when all I am is human.
Wren looks over his shoulder. “I’m getting you something for the pain. I’ll be back.”
When I see him next, I think I have fallen asleep for some time, because he is wearing a sweatshirt now with the hood pulled up and he is sitting beside me with his head in his hands. He must sense I am watching him, because he turns to me almost at once.
Next he puts something between my lips and holds a glass to them. “Take this. It’ll bring down the swelling.”
I do as he says, and the water feels foreign as it drains to my stomach; it tastes like metal. My head burns with less thunder than before, and I feel like I do after a hard fight. Except after a fight I feel strong, and right now I feel anything but. Images of Daniel on top of me race through my mind; the feeling of Landry’s fingertips across my stomach stings like acid.
My fingers tremble, and then I realize the shaking comes from the ball in my stomach and I need a distraction. So I push up on my elbows; I lift my raging head and look around. I am lying on top of a bed, and a thin blanket covers me. Blood covers my shirt.
I want to cry, but I shouldn’t, because the tears will never stop. Maybe I don’t want Wren to see me cry like a child. Maybe I am being a child for caring.
“How many were there?” he asks.
“Two.”
He nods. “That’s what I thought.”
“How…?” I can barely bring myself to talk about it. Saying it aloud makes it more real, too real, and surely it was all a bad dream.
His eyes fix onto mine through the darkness. “How?” he repeats.
“Did I get here.”
“I waited a few minutes after the power went out. And then I decided to go meet you.” He shakes his head. “I should have gone right away.”
I remember footsteps before the world shut off. They must have been his. “They ran as soon as they heard you,” I say slowly.
He nods. “By the time I found you, they were gone.” His voice is tight and clipped like a belt pulled against itself. He fixes me with a stare. “You’re sure you don’t know who it was?”
“I’m sure.”
“What happened to your knife?”
“Forgot it. Flashlight, too.”
“Did they say anything?”
“They had a lot to say.” …Eve is panicking thought I’d never see the day god it feels good to watch her sweat I’ve always thought she had a pretty face too bad I just smashed the shit out of it flat as fuck like a dude… On and on their words rip through my head until I realize that Wren is talking, and I force my eyes to focus on his mouth.
“And, what—you didn’t recognize their voices?” he asks. His is heavy with disbelief, or maybe I am imagining it.
I frown. Then I speak as clearly as my blood-coated mouth will allow. “No. I didn’t recognize their voices. I didn’t see their faces. Sorry.”
“One of them had a flashlight, though. I could see it from the top of the stairs.”
I shrug. “I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t notice,” he repeats, and his eyes narrow. “You, of all people. You, who is deathly terrified of the dark. You didn’t notice that suddenly you could s
ee?”
Burning prickles behind my eyes, harder than before. “I was kind of busy, Wren, fighting for my life, okay? They wanted—” I can’t bring myself to say it.
He leans forward. “Wanted?”
I make a face. “What do you think?”
He is perfectly still, like he is carved of concrete. “Did they?”
I shake my head, and when I do, the tears are dislodged, and they fall loose. There is no controlling it, not now. “I got away,” I sob. “I was so weak from the Bowl, I couldn’t fight them off. But then I did—somehow I did get them off me. And then one of them was choking me, and I—”
I catch myself, but only just. I can’t tell him I broke Daniel’s finger. It would be a telltale sign the next time Wren sees him.
“And?”
“And I got away. Again. I was running up the stairs when one of them caught me, smashed my head into the wall. That must be when you found me.” I cover my face with my hands and lie down again, the sobs too loud now to talk over or around. The bed lifts beside me, and I know Wren has gone and I am alone.
I cry until I can’t cry anymore.
…
“Here’s a facecloth,” comes his voice sometime later. I can’t see through the darkness, and I realize my eyes are sealed shut. I take the cloth blindly; it is hot and feels good against my bruised and broken skin. “Have the pills helped yet?”
I nod. “Thanks.” When I open my eyes and look up at him, I see his face is still clouded over in rage. “What?”
His eyes are stern, and they beat into mine. “I’m going to find whoever did this to you, you know,” he says quietly. He leans down so that his lips graze my forehead and I can smell his clean scent. “I’m going to find them, and I’m going to kill them.”
I say nothing.
He kisses my head and leans back so that our eyes can find each other. “It’s late. You should try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Before I can respond, my eyes slip closed, and soon my breathing becomes steady; my pulse slows.
…
I wake to silence, and for a moment panic seizes me. But then I remember where I am, and the coil in my stomach loosens. My head aches with only a dull thud that worsens when I move, but still it is bearable, and so I sit upright and toss the blanket aside.
Yesterday my muscles served me well, and I rub them slowly as my mind retraces the horrors that now reside inside my skull. That is the problem with trauma: It never ends. It endures in memory.
The mirror over the sink where I wash up shows a face I barely recognize as my own. Black and blue like I haven’t seen before; concrete is harder than fists. But whatever Wren gave me for the swelling has worked: The skin is puffy with broken blood cells, but nowhere does the distortion run deep. There is a slash along one cheek, but I wash it and it doesn’t begin to bleed again—a good sign.
My neck is the worst of it. Striped blue and yellow, the imprint of fingers holding me in their vise grip. These are the marks that the others will notice.
The thought of seeing Daniel or Landry again makes a tremor rob my hand of steadiness. I look in the mirror and force my back straighter. I must be strong, and that isn’t a problem—not for me. But the shaking doesn’t subside, and I think of their warning about not giving me a moment of peace once they are rulers of this compound, with their guns and authority. It is a blessing that I have already decided to go, and before jobs begin. Their threat is empty, meaningless; they just don’t know it yet. My mind drifts up and up until I am standing in the Oracle and the trees are swaying under a gentle breeze. I feel the sun in my eyes; I see the glass shattering under my hand. I feel myself sprinting north until I reach a field of hollyhock. Now my breathing is steady again, the shaking gone.
When I leave the washroom, I find Wren sitting on the bed. He is wearing track pants and nothing else, and my eyes linger on his smooth skin. It isn’t pale like mine. It is a warm olive, and it mounds over muscle in a way that is almost poetic. Landry is right about my body, though I have never given it much thought until now: It is hard. Straight. It doesn’t ebb and flow, it isn’t graceful in its beauty, it isn’t frightening in its strength.
Wren’s is all that and more.
He stands, and I can tell by the way he moves with so little on that he’s comfortable in his body, in his skin. “The swelling’s down.”
I nod.
He walks to me, and his eyes are on my neck, and his fingers go there, too. Gently, they graze the stripes that mark me. His eyebrows pull together so that a line appears between them, a small indentation of concern.
“Is this typical?” he asks. His voice is clipped and unnatural.
“What do you mean?”
“The attack. Is it typical? You know, for Means.”
I shrug and even try to force a smile, though I fail. “I told you. It’s a way of life.”
He wraps his arms around me, and for a moment I forget how to breathe as his bare skin ensnares me. Partly, I don’t want to be touched—not right now. But this is Wren, I remind myself, and so I push my arms around him, and my fingers drink in his warmth and the feeling of blood and muscle stirring with every breath. It feels good, better than I thought it would. It is a distraction. A distraction I am desperate for, I realize, and so I focus only on him, on his flesh, on his sturdiness. For a moment in time, I forget the events that unfolded last night. I forget the pain that coats my head and sits inside my chest.
“I can’t believe how bad it is. How unfair it is,” Wren is saying into my hair. “We’re taught it’s a different culture down there. That’s how they put it. Mean culture is just…different.” He sighs.
There is nothing I can say. Violence is a way of life. Maggie and Emerald and Hunter, they will feel sorry for me, yes. But they won’t be shocked, at least not for long. I was attacked and almost killed, but I am just one of many. I am one of the lucky ones; I survived. So instead I stand taller and pull Wren closer so that our bodies are flush. So that I can smell his skin.
I take a deep breath and push heavy words from my stomach. “Ever kissed a girl with a black-and-blue face?”
He stares down at me, and his face is knotted, perplexed, and then it breaks. He smiles. “I’ve never kissed a girl like you before, period. No matter the state of your face.”
He dips his head lower, and his lips land gingerly on mine, if only for a moment. When we pull apart, I whisper to him, “Do me a favor, okay?”
He nods, his eyes watching.
“Don’t feel bad for me. Don’t look at me any differently. Okay? I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be fine,” he repeats. He shakes his head. “I kind of expected you to say that, just not this soon. God, Eve, you’re allowed to grieve, you know.”
“I already have.”
“You just woke up.”
I force myself to shrug, a masquerade of nonchalance. “I’m made of steel.”
He laughs gently. “Yeah. Trust me, I get that.”
I run my fingers along his bare back, focusing on this sensation alone instead of the pain, prying my voice up an octave, forcing it to sound lighter than it is. “And don’t even think about feeling guilty for being a Preme. Not now. I mean, I’ve been putting the guilt trip on you for a while now, and I’d hate to think it was my attackers who finally did it.”
He scowls, but his eyes are soft. “What makes you think I feel guilty?”
“You’re not a monster,” I reply, and my voice is matter-of-fact. Under my fingers, his muscles tense up. But I am too busy pulling him close to pay it any attention.
He kisses me hard this time, too hard for my beaten tissue, and I push at his chest. When he pulls back, I see he is breathing deeply, and there is something exposed in his eyes. It passes quickly.
“Sorry,” he says. Then he forces himself to gri
n. “So, when exactly do you think you’ll be feeling better?” His eyes inch down my body in a way that is intended to be playful. He is trying as hard as I am to make things easy and airy and the opposite of what my reality has become.
It makes me smile, his efforts, almost genuinely this time. “Give me a few days, okay?”
He is watching me closely. He nods, then picks up a stack of clothes folded neatly on the bed. “Here,” he says. “They’ll be big, but at least they’re clean.”
Once he disappears, I sigh. Then I give myself a shake, carefully remove my bloodstained clothes, and throw them in the trash. The black sweatshirt from Wren is several sizes too big, but it smells like him, and I never want to take it off.
After I roll up the pants, I leave the bedroom and see for the first time the rest of his apartment. I am still as my eyes sweep over a large room painted black, different in every way from my second-floor cell. No, that isn’t quite true. Like mine, it is sparsely decorated, the walls empty but for words hanging next to me: Here in the dark I know myself. In the far corner, there is a punching bag coated in blood, knuckle tape lying on the floor beneath it.
The room is wider than the main corridor downstairs.
I don’t know what to do with so much space; it feels so unnecessary, so superfluous.
“Wow, Preme,” I say as I cross my arms. Once more I try to make my voice light, but this time I can’t. Sometimes when I’m with Wren, it feels like our differences don’t separate us. Like we are the same person, who happen to come from different places. But other times, like now, our differences feel vast. So vast it is a wonder we can see each other from either side.
He has a hoodie on now, and he sits on a sofa the color of concrete. In front of it is a coffee table with a binder sitting on one corner and a gun on the other. “It’s no big deal.” He shrugs.
“Yeah, it’s no big deal. Except that it’s huge.”
He shrugs again. “Wasted space. I don’t spend much time here.”
Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy) Page 19