After three laps, my headache graduates to explosive.
Another dozen yards and I cannot put one foot in front of the other without wincing. The pounding of my feet is like a gong between my temples. I’ve never experienced such horrific pain, not even when the plugs were pulled and I was woken from the incubator. Even then, the very air on my skin stung; everything felt raw and new. But this … this is like nothing else. All I can think is how to make it stop.
Two more steps. Could Titus have hit my kill switch? I wonder if this is what it feels like to terminate.
Imitations do not die because, scientifically speaking, we do not actually live. But I know termination must be painful or why would we fear it? If all that exists on the other side is oblivion—no consequences, no higher power, no answering for wrong actions—then why else would I care whether I stay or go? It must be pain. Fear of pain. The staggering headache that beats in my skull makes a convincing argument.
I make it to the gate that leads off the track and stumble. I grab onto the railing and hang over it, gasping and blinking profusely against the white-hot agony that has taken up residence behind my lids. My chest heaves, pulling oxygen in and out while I try to maintain a standing position. My knees threaten to buckle. It seems all my body’s energy is being sent to the nerve center in my brain, so it can scream at me lest I forgot how much this actually hurts.
Someone’s hands close around my arms, guiding me slowly toward the door. I am vaguely aware how disappointing it feels when I pass through the doorway and the feel of the crisp air against my bare skin evaporates, replaced by the faux warmth of the gym. I let the hands direct me and fight the urge to scream. Every footfall feels like a hammer inside my head.
One foot in front of the other. Again and again.
I end up inside a small room on a narrow cot that is covered in a thin layer of white paper. It crunches and crinkles as the hands push me down against it. I lie on my back and wince against the light that penetrates from overhead and threatens to burn through my lids.
I hear a whimper and it takes me a moment to realize it belongs to me. The hands on my shoulders disappear. I have the sense I am alone.
Minutes later, footsteps sound against the linoleum and someone shuffles in, fabric rubbing against fabric as they sit and scoot toward me in their chair. I wince and turn away from the sound, curling onto my side. A cool hand lands against my cheek, gently pressing as it moves upward inch by inch until it caresses my forehead. The fingers are thin and dainty, and somehow I know it is a female. The pressure disappears and the chair scrapes back. The noise grates on my nerves, but I don’t utter a sound.
Papers are shuffled and the chair returns. “Raven?” a woman’s voice asks. Tentative, soft.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
“Raven, I am Josephine. I’m a doctor. Can you open your eyes?”
I turn her words over in my heavy brain. A doctor. After everything I’ve been through, been left to heal from on my own, now they send a doctor? What does this mean? Am I terminating? The urge to ask these questions is drowned out by my fear. I am terrified that if I speak, whatever small part of sanity left will snap and the pain will overtake me and I will end. So I keep my lips firmly clamped against my teeth and remain silent.
“Raven, I’m here to help. I—I know what you are.” She lowers her voice and leans closer as she adds, “I have been to the City.”
That gets my attention. I strain my lids, forcing them open. My left one cooperates but then slams shut again as light penetrates. I let out a cry and roll away.
“I understand if you cannot speak. Maybe you can nod so I know your symptoms. Does your stomach hurt?”
I manage to shake my head. No.
“Your head?”
I nod emphatically, desperate to communicate the problem and hoping she can fix it. She knows what I am, where I’m from. She must know how to cure me.
“Your head hurts,” she repeats, letting me know she understands. “Anything else?” she asks. It is a more open-ended question than the others but again, I simply shake my head. The pain behind my forehead is the priority. “Give me a moment.”
I hear her stand and move around the room. Cabinets are opened, items are shuffled. I can hear her muttering but the words sound foreign. My fingernails dig into my arms where I’ve clenched them around me but I do not let go. The pressure is an outside stimulus that counteracts the internal pain—however minutely effective it is.
Josephine returns and her cool fingers land lightly on my arm. I shrink back but she doesn’t let go.
“It’s all right,” she murmurs over and over until the sound of her voice lulls me into stillness and I give her silent permission to touch me if it means making me better.
Something beeps overhead. It’s not worth risking a peek, so I lie still and wait for whatever’s next. Josephine is extending my arm, straightening it and exposing my veins. Her fingertips pat gently at the crook in my elbow. She rubs something against my skin and I wrinkle my nose at the sterile smell it leaves behind. Then something sharp pricks at my skin.
The pain is quick and biting. I suck in a breath and hold it until the pinching subsides. The entire episode is reminiscent of something, somewhere … I cannot quite put my finger on it but I know I must’ve experienced this very feeling before.
Before I can guess, the pain in my head lessens. I imagine a wave receding from the shoreline and brace myself for the impact of the next one but it never comes. Gingerly, I pry an eye open. I find Josephine staring down at me expectantly. Her face is round and framed by strands of brown hair that have come loose from her bun. Though older than her voice made me think, she is very pretty.
The pain dials back another notch and I lick my lips; a strange sweetness coats my mouth. Josephine continues to watch me without a word. “What was that?” I ask when I find my voice.
“The drug? It’s a painkiller. It’ll taste funny for a bit.”
“No, I mean, the prick I felt.”
She holds up a plastic tube with a needle attached to one end. “You mean the injection?”
“Yes, that. What is it?”
“It’s a syringe. The medicine I gave went into your vein. It’s more effective that way,” she explains. I take her word for it. I don’t remember ever having been administered medicines this way, but I’m grateful for how quickly it has worked.
“Do you know what caused my pain?” I ask.
I’ve rarely experienced physical ailments and when I have, they are always short-lived. Twig City spares no expense on medicines but their first priority is making us so healthy in the first place that we have no need for treatment.
“I’m not sure, but I took a quick scan before I injected you. I should have the results back in a day or two and I’ll let you know if I find anything.” I nod, assuming she refers to the beeping I heard. “You have a pretty significant bump on your head. That probably contributed.” She hesitates and then asks, “Has this happened before?”
“No.”
Her voice softens as she asks, “And the bruise on your cheek?”
I look away. I’m more angry than ashamed but I’m fighting both. “It didn’t cause my headache.”
“No, it didn’t,” she agrees. I sense she’s waiting for more but I don’t offer further explanation.
“The scan you took, it will tell us why this happened to me?” I ask.
She rises, offering me her hand. “We’ll see. Do you feel like you can stand up?”
“I think so.” I decline her help and push to my feet. I am standing toe to toe with this woman and we are close enough to the same height that we are also eye to eye. There is something trustworthy in her, but just the same, I am cautious. “How do you know what I am?” I ask quietly.
She glances toward the closed door and then back again. “I have been to the City. I have treated Imitations there for Mr. Rogen on occasion.”
“Is that why you’re here? To treat me?”
I ask.
She nods. “Yes.”
There is something behind her simple answer but I don’t know the right question to ask. The door opens and Gus pokes his head inside. “Better?” he asks.
“Seems so,” Josephine answers for me.
He grunts and swings the door wide, motioning for me to exit. I share a look with Josephine. I have so many more questions and she knows it. None will be answered now, if ever, so I make my way past her and out the door.
I am delivered to my room where Maria is waiting with a drawn bath and fresh clothes. I don’t argue or wave off her attempts to help me. I am too afraid of my own thoughts if I were left to them.
“I heard you fenced with Sofia earlier,” Maria says when I’m dressed and seated at the vanity. She is methodically running a soft-bristled brush through my wet hair.
Between that and the lingering drugs in my system, I am so relaxed I answer without thinking, “Yes, she is much better than I am.”
Maria’s hand hesitates only briefly before continuing her even strokes with the brush. “Truly,” she agrees. “She is most gifted.”
I curse myself for my admission. Even with Maria, I must continue to be her. Haughty, condescending, confident. If Titus finds out, I am positive I will have another bruise to match the first—or worse. Still, I can’t help but recognize the note of pride in Maria’s voice.
“She is special to you? Sofia?” I ask.
She nods as she brushes. “She is my daughter.” I can hear her reluctance to admit this. I wonder if she is afraid Raven Rogen would use that sort of affection against her. Probably.
“She is very lucky to have such a caring mother,” I say.
Through our reflections, our eyes lock. Finally, after what feels like a million years, she nods. Her expression never changes. “Thank you,” she says, and I know it is the only nice thing I have ever said to her.
Chapter Eight
By the next morning, my cheek is jaundiced from the fading bruise. No amount of makeup will fully cover the damage, so I give up and walk to breakfast with my hair in my face. No one in this house will care but I hate that evidence of my slavery is so prominently displayed.
Halfway to the dining hall, someone steps out of a doorway and I stop abruptly to avoid a collision. I recognize his boots and look up into the face I’ve missed the past twenty-four hours despite all efforts to the contrary.
“Linc,” I say as my hair falls away.
“Rav…” My name—my Authentic’s name—dies on his lips. His brows lift in surprise and then it’s as if a mask falls over his features, effectively hiding his thoughts from me. “What happened to your face?”
“I … was struck.” I am suddenly unsure of how to explain my injury. Or how he will react if I do. He shouldn’t care how I’m treated. I hope he does.
“Did that happen on the rooftop?” he asks. “I don’t remember seeing any mark the other night.”
“Yes, the rooftop,” I say, grabbing hold of the flimsy explanation.
He stares for a long moment and I am positive he doesn’t believe me. My heart races as I wait for him to demand the truth, but he doesn’t. He nods toward the hallway, a muscle in his jaw working. “Breakfast?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. We fall into step together, neither of us speaking another word.
***
I play tennis with Sofia on the roof and after lunch, when Gus is convinced I won’t have another migraine meltdown, I run laps. The guard watches from the doorway but like before, I enjoy the solitude of being the only one in the fresh air. Several laps in, I notice Linc stands in place of my original guard. He watches from against the outside wall, but I don’t mind. Linc’s presence is not oppressive like the others.
The ends of my hair tickle my shoulder blades as I move. It would be more comfortable pulled back but I don’t want to risk exposing the ink behind my ear—or more importantly, Titus’s anger should the staff notice. I am hyperaware of the exposed skin between my cropped sports bra and the waistline of my shorts but I tell myself this is me, her, Authentic Raven, and they’ve all seen it before. Or they think they have.
Running is repetitive but it helps in ordering my thoughts. I concentrate on my footfalls, the rhythm it creates. Soon my heavy emotions fall away. I still think of my situation. Of Titus and his threats, of my GPS chip ticking away inside me like a bomb whose countdown I can’t read. But my physical exertion has drowned out my mind’s reaction to it all. I am detached and cold. For the first time since leaving Twig City, I feel like I’ve been trained to feel … nothing.
When I finish my run, Linc is waiting with a bottle of water. I take a swig and keep walking to let my body cool down. He surprises me by falling into step beside me. We are halfway around the loop when he speaks. The wind gusts are strong this close to the roof’s edge and I have to strain to hear him.
“You’re different,” he says.
As soon as he speaks the words, my heart hammers against my chest double-time. Any coldness or distance I’d achieved during my run vanishes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s something different about you, ever since that first attack where you got hit on the head.”
I focus on controlling my breathing, which is coming faster and has nothing to do with the four miles I’ve just completed. “Well, I do have amnesia—”
“No,” he interrupts. “It’s more than that. You’re not … you. I haven’t figured it out, but there’s something off.”
I can’t think of an answer that will pacify him. The amnesia story is all I have and if that isn’t working, I don’t know what will, short of the truth. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that. Even if it didn’t mean his certain death—or my own—I can’t bear to see the horror in him that I’m sure my words would bring.
He lets out a frustrated grunt. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Raven. I may only have worked here a few months, but I can see there’s more going on than I’m being told. Not just with you but Titus, Gus, all of them. Everything’s a damned secret.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you should ask your boss.”
“Titus is a liar and a tyrant. I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” He stops walking and pulls me to a stop beside him. We are on the outer rim of the track and I’m not sure if we can be seen from the glass doors, but I don’t dare look away from Linc to check.
“Linc, I …” I have no idea what to say, but I desperately want to say something, because suddenly this boy matters very much. As does his opinion of me. “I am different. I’m not that girl from before.”
“Why? What changed?” He is leaning forward, hanging on my every word, desperate for me to give him a real answer.
I open my mouth but the next words out of my lips cannot be the ones on my tongue. I cannot tell him the truth. I close my mouth again. He recognizes my decision and the fire goes out of him.
There is nothing else to do. I begin walking and clear the blind spot we stood in just as the door opens and a guard steps out. He blinks at me in relief and then steps back inside.
I hear Linc’s footsteps as he catches up. He passes me without a word and disappears inside.
I don’t see him again all day.
***
On Sunday, Titus joins me at breakfast. He is all smiles and compliments and a complete stranger in his forced joviality. It is the first time I have seen him since he struck me but all traces of his anger are gone. My own, however, has only grown. The sight of him jars me so heavily that I have to grit my teeth to keep from snarling. I force one foot in front of the other and somehow I make it to the table. Biscuits and eggs have already been laid out. A steaming mug sits in front of my plate and I concentrate on it.
“Raven, darling, you look lovely this morning,” he says as I take a seat and fold my napkin primly across my lap.
“Thank you,” I say. The compliment makes my skin crawl because it has come from his mouth.
; My satin blouse is thin but more than that, his gaze roaming over me make me feel exposed in a way that disgusts me to my core. I smile and sip my gourmet coffee.
The entire meal is Titus fawning over me and telling me what a great job I’m doing. By the end, my nails have torn the skin in my palms where I’ve curled my hands into fists. Titus doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
“You should take a day off from all this constant exercise, darling,” Titus says when the dishes have been cleared. “It’s Sunday, a day for rest. You should get out, get some fresh air.”
I almost choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
He smiles. He is fully aware of what he’s suggested—a reprieve from my prison—and I’m not sure if he’s teasing me just yet. Still, my heart thuds against my chest at the prospect of being allowed to walk out the front door.
“I mean it,” he says. “Go for a walk or something. This will all be here when you get back.” He waves a dismissive hand.
I hesitate. I know there is something he isn’t telling me, like the fact that I will never be without a camera on me, no matter where I go. And of course there’s my GPS. But the offer is too good to pass up and I rise to my feet, half expecting him to laugh at me and tell me it’s a joke. He doesn’t. Instead, he smiles a knowing smile and watches me leave.
“See you later, daughter,” he calls out behind me.
I don’t turn.
My steps are methodical as I wind around the circular hallway to the elevator. I don’t bother stopping at my room to change or dab on more makeup. I’m too afraid Titus will change his mind and lock me away after all. I make it into the elevator without seeing a single security guard. The door closes and in this moment, freedom—however contrived—is so close I can taste it.
The elevator stops and the doors open to the lobby. My boots echo against the hard floor, a fast-paced click-click as I hurry toward fresh air. The doorman sees me coming, tips his hat, and pulls open the door for me. I pass through and relish the feel of the air as it hits my face.
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