Her hatred for me aside, the sight of Melanie sitting with arms and legs bound, clothes in rags and exposed skin red or burnt or scabbed or still oozing, is enough to make me choke back a sob. All I can think about is my promise. In exchange for bringing her in, I’m sworn to free her when she asks.
I am terrified she’ll ask me to do it now, and I have no idea what to do if she does. I can’t free her any easier than I can free a single Imitation from Twig City.
And if she’s too far gone to ask? If Titus has tortured her past the point of lucidity over the past eight weeks, what then?
I don’t have an answer for either scenario.
I concentrate on keeping the tray steady until I make it to the wooden table in the center of the room. It is weathered and scarred, although not nearly as badly as Melanie’s chair. Or her body. I wonder briefly what sort of instrument would inflict the wounds I see, but dismiss it. I don’t want to know.
The dishes rattle as I set the tray down. Melanie’s eyes don’t stray from mine as I uncap a tinted bottle and pour her a sizable glass of wine. I repeat the process with a second glass provided. I’m not normally a drinker, not after that time in the coat closet with Taylor, but my nerves are strung so tightly they might snap if I don’t do something.
“I brought you a drink,” I say, my voice wobbly as I slide the drink closer to her.
She can’t take it but it’s the gesture that counts. And I don’t know where else to start. Titus wants information that I can only hope Melanie won’t cooperate in giving. At least if Melanie does talk, she can’t tell Titus where Morton and the others are now.
But she doesn’t say a word.
She only glares.
“I also brought food. Steak and eggs and bacon and pie,” I tell her.
More silence.
I resist the urge to fidget. The chair behind me creaks as I pull it out and lower myself into it. I want to show her I’m patient. I’m not going anywhere. It’s the only comfort I can offer, to be with her, even if it’s full of hateful silence. Besides, the door will be locked until Titus is satisfied. Of this I am certain.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.
Minutes pass.
I fix my eyes on a place over Melanie’s left shoulder. I can’t bring myself to hold her gaze. It fills me with images of her hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing the free space out of my windpipe.
I blink free of the terror. She apologized for that. I should let it go. Do humans do that? Do they let attempted murder go if the guilty party apologizes? I have no idea. Melanie is the only human who has ever apologized to me. I can’t picture Titus or any of the politicians I’ve met apologizing to anyone. Maybe humans don’t do that.
Linc would do it, though.
Linc. I am glad he’s not here. I suspect Titus has waited to bring me down here on purpose, but I am glad for it. If Linc were here, he’d only worry. Or worse, interfere.
Melanie suddenly lurches forward in a heaving cough. It is the first movement she’s shown and it’s clear when her chin is thrown against her chest and her shoulders heave in wracking tremors that she is in pain. The cough is wet and doesn’t let up. Melanie wheezes with the effort to breathe between hacks. Her hair swings as she moves, a limp curtain that hides her distorted expression. A liquidy substance rips from her lungs and coats her mouth before running down her chin.
I jump up and go to her, knocking an apple off the tray in my haste to grab the napkin underneath. It rolls along the table and thuds dully to the floor. I slide out of my chair and around the table, crouching beside Melanie. I press the napkin to her open mouth and wait. She hacks again and it is more of a gurgling sound. More of the napkin is saturated underneath my fingers. I do my best to hold steady. When she jolts, I move with her, keeping the napkin in place as best I can.
“It’s all right,” I murmur when she breaks from coughing long enough to suck in another breath.
I continue to offer soft reassurances, like I used to do with Ida when she was worried for an Imitation that left to see Marla and never returned. It’s not so much the words themselves that matter. It’s the tone and the sentiment behind them. I consider stroking Melanie’s hand—another comfort I would offer Ida—but Melanie’s movements are too jerky. Not to mention, her hair and skin have a dull sheen of grime over it that I can’t bring myself to touch. I wonder how long it’s been since she bathed. Or been allowed out of this chair. Or this room. Or these bindings.
This is my fault.
When her shoulders are finally still, I bring the napkin away. It is stained red.
I grab the wine glass and hold it to her lips, tipping it slowly. She sips and swallows and makes a face. The alcohol must burn its way down her insides but it’s the only thing I have. Titus didn’t give me any water. When she’s finished, I set the glass aside.
Melanie slowly raises her head and regards me solemnly. For a moment, I feel connected. Just like the moment we shared the night she surrendered. There is a glimpse of tenderness, of lucidity. And I know she is still in there … somewhere. But then her eyes fill with venom and her lip curls.
“You. This is all because of you,” she says in a hoarse whisper that is frightening in its desperation. Her lips are crimson and sticky with blood and her eyes are wide and unfocused. She has never looked more like a monster. And because she is right, I have never felt more like a villain.
I can’t argue, but I’m not sure it would be prudent to agree, not with her lip curled that way and her arms now straining against her bindings. She watches me, waiting for something. “I …”
“Why are you here?” she screams, her voice breaking on the last word as it gives out from the effort.
Before I can think of an answer, she jerks her attention toward the door and then just as quickly to the reflective wall. “Why would you send her in here?” Melanie yells at the mirrored glass. “Why?”
There is no answer.
“I want to see Daniel! Bring me to Daniel!”
I rise to my feet and back up a step, the stained napkin hanging loosely in my hand. I don’t know what else to do or how to fix it. For me, for Titus, or for her.
Melanie strains away from me and the chair creaks. She continues to screech at the wall, “Of all of the people in the world, you send her? I’m not telling her shit!”
Again, there is no answer and I know there won’t be. She must know it too. Finally, she turns back to glare at me, her chest heaving with labored breaths.
“Melanie, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Her eyes are still full of unshed tears but they don’t look particularly sad. She is broken, most certainly, but she is also unhinged. There is an emptiness there I cannot reach. Hopelessness. And I know it is too late.
“I failed,” she says dully.
“No, you didn’t. You’re doing great,” I say, hoping Titus will think we’re both referring to her survival and nothing more.
She doesn’t seem to hear me as she goes on, “I failed them all. He knows I had them. It slipped out when he used that
thing
…” A tear slips down her cheek. “And Daniel. I failed him too. I—” She breaks off and lets out a sob and just as quickly as it ended, the burning anger returns. “You promised!” she screams, looking at me.
“I—” I stop, unsure what I can say that won’t incriminate me.
“You want them? Fine!” She is yelling and staring at the mirrored wall again. Without hesitation, she spouts an address in the depths of downtown. I know it because it’s the old address, the one where the Imitations were hidden when I found them. I go still, scared I’ll give away the truth: that the information is useless. They’ve been moved. Weeks ago. With Obadiah’s help. They are safe. For a little longer, they are safe.
Melanie goes on yelling, her eyes unfocused and head tipped toward the ceiling. Spittle forms at the edges of her mouth as her voice gains volume. “You never meant it, did you? I fell for it. Yeah, I did. And now it’s too late. And I’m finished. He’s finished. For nothing. All for nothing and no one.” She brings her gaze down to mine so abruptly, I scramble away and land on my backside. My palms go out to brace my fall and I grimace the moment they touch the dirt-coated floor.
“You,” she says, packing all kinds of meaning into the one word. “You can’t go back on it. You can still get Daniel. It was all for him, anyway. I don’t give a shit about the others.”
I shoot a glance at the shiny wall, my eyes wide as I try to think of a response that works for all the sets of ears tuning in. “Daniel?” I repeat.
It is not the answer Melanie wants. She screams unintelligibly and pulls against her bindings. A long, narrow cut on her arm breaks open. It oozes red and white trails down to her wrist before dripping into a pink puddle onto the floor. It pools over a dried spot of the same color, and I know this is not the first time she’s hurt herself in the midst of her own angst.
Pressure squeezes around my chest, like a bowtie pulled too tight. “Melanie,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s on full tilt, screaming and straining and pulling at the bindings, yanking her body this way and that until the chair begins to rock on its wobbly legs.
“Melanie,” I repeat, stealing another glance at the wall, but already knowing Titus won’t intervene. Not for this. It’s what he wants.
I reach out for her but stop short, unsure how or where to touch her that won’t escalate her panic. “You have to calm down,” I say.
She only jerks harder, screams louder. I squeeze my eyes shut against her screeching. Even if I say the right thing now, she won’t hear me.
“He got broken,” she says, “But he’s good, I know he is. Fix him … Fix him, please.”
“Melanie, please stop screaming,” I say when she pauses to suck in a breath.
And then just as quickly as the insanity appeared, it disappears. She stops wailing and her eyes clear and she looks directly at me. “Thank you for everything,” she says, so sincerely that for a moment I wonder which Melanie is real and which is the crazy. “See you on the other side.”
She blinks. I blink.
The moment vanishes. The crazy returns.
Her lids droop and narrow. Tears return. She shudders and strains against her bindings.
“What—?” I begin, more confused than before.
She opens her mouth as if to scream again. I can’t take it anymore. The screeching is grating on me, leaving my insides feeling like Melanie’s outsides and I can’t take another second. I reach out and grip Melanie’s shoulders in a firm grasp. She winces and her screams turn to wails.
“Melanie!” My own cry is barely heard over the racket she makes. She tries to shrink away from me but there is nowhere to go. I tighten my grip and she wails again and jerks hard—harder than before—and the chair rocks back. It tips up onto two legs and wobbles. I shift my weight, leaning to steady it, but my movement is all it needs to send the legs over the edge.
Melanie doesn’t fight it. Instead, she throws her weight toward it and tips her head back, still wailing, and the chair tips and crashes to the floor.
There is an audible crack as Melanie’s head hits the concrete floor and then she is silent. Her eyes are stuck open, glassy and unseeing, her face tipped toward the ceiling. White foam bubbles in her mouth, leaking out the edges and forming a pool on the floor that looks like regurgitated toothpaste. Her shoulders twitch and then she is completely and utterly. Still.
I have no idea whether she’s dead or unconscious and the fear of the first is almost too great to consider. My hand covers my mouth in horror and even though I feel the vibrations of my own vocal chords engaged, it feels like hours or days before my own scream reaches my ears.
The door opens, banging harshly against the wall as two guards hurry to where Melanie’s fallen. Still in the chair, her body is stuck in the sitting position, her knees pointed toward the bare bulb overhead. Titus strolls calmly behind his men. Worry is not even a blip on his expressional radar. If anything, he looks put out. He stands near the door, eyeing me disapprovingly, as if it’s my fault he’s been made to stand in such a dirty room while his men try to revive a probably dead girl whose injuries are at his hand.