Read Shatter Me Complete Collection Online
Authors: Tahereh Mafi
As soon as I’m in the room I open the armoire and yank the purple dress off the hanger before I remember I’m being watched.
The cameras.
I wonder if Adam was punished for telling me about the cameras, too. I wonder if he’s taken any other risks with me. I wonder why he would.
I touch the stiff, modern material of the plum dress and my fingers find their way to the hem, just as Adam’s did yesterday. I can’t help but wonder why he likes this dress so much. Why it has to be this one. Why I even have to wear a dress.
I am not a doll.
My hand comes to rest on the small wooden shelf beneath the hanging clothes and an unfamiliar texture brushes my skin. It’s rough and foreign but familiar at the same time. I step closer to the armoire and hide between the doors. My fingers feel their way around the surface and a surge of sunshine rushes through my stomach until I’m certain I’m bursting with hope and feeling and a force of stupid happiness so strong I’m surprised there aren’t tears streaming down my face.
My notebook.
He saved my notebook.
Adam saved the only thing I own.
I grab the purple dress and tuck the paper pad into its folds before stealing away to the bathroom.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
He was trying to tell me, I realize. Before, in the bathroom. He was trying to tell me something and I was so scared I scared him away.
I scared him away.
I close the door behind me and my hands are shaking as I unfurl the familiar papers bound together by old glue. I flip through the pages to make sure they’re all there and my eyes land on my most recent entry. At the very bottom there is a shift. A new sentence not written in my handwriting.
A new sentence that must’ve come from him.
It’s not what you think.
I stand perfectly still.
Every inch of my skin is taut with tension, fraught with feeling and the pressure is building in my chest, pounding louder and faster and harder, overcompensating for my stillness. I do not tremble when I’m frozen in time. I train my breaths to come slower, I count things that do not exist, I make up numbers I do not have, I pretend time is a broken hourglass bleeding seconds through sand. I dare to believe.
I dare to hope Adam is trying to reach out to me. I’m crazy enough to consider the possibility.
I rip the page out of the small notebook and clutch it close, actively swallowing the hysteria tickling every broken moment in my mind.
I hide the notebook in a pocket of the purple dress. The pocket Adam must’ve slipped it into. The pocket it must’ve fallen out of.
The pocket of the purple dress. The pocket of the purple dress.
Hope is a pocket of possibility.
I’m holding it in my hand.
Warner is not late.
He doesn’t knock, either.
I’m slipping on my shoes when he walks in without a single word, without even an effort to make his presence known. His eyes are falling all over my frame. My jaw tightens on its own.
“You hurt him,” I find myself saying.
“You shouldn’t care,” he says with a tilt of his head, gesturing to my dress. “But it’s obvious you do.”
I zip my lips and pray my hands aren’t shaking too much. I don’t know where Adam is. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. I don’t know what Warner will do, how far he’ll go in the pursuit of what he wants but the prospect of Adam in pain is like a cold hand clutching my esophagus. I can’t catch my breath. I feel like I’m struggling to swallow a toothpick. If Adam is trying to help me it could cost him his life.
I touch the piece of paper tucked into my pocket.
Breathe.
Warner’s eyes are on my window.
Breathe.
“It’s time to go,” he says.
Breathe.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer.
We step out the door. I look around. The hallway is abandoned; empty. “Where is
Adam
everyone . . . ?”
“I really like that dress,” Warner says as he slips an arm around my waist. I jerk away but he pulls me along, guiding me toward the elevator. “The fit is spectacular. It helps distract me from all your questions.”
“Your poor mother.”
Warner almost trips over his own feet. His eyes are wide; alarmed. He stops a few feet short of our goal. Spins around. “What do you mean?”
My stomach falls over.
The look on his face: the unguarded strain, the flinching terror, the sudden apprehension in his features.
I was trying to make a joke, is what I don’t say to him. I feel sorry for your poor mother, is what I was going to say to him, that she has to deal with such a miserable, pathetic son. But I don’t say any of it.
He grabs my hands, focuses my eyes. Urgency is pulsing at his temples. “What do you mean?” he insists.
“N-nothing,” I stammer. My voice breaks in half. “I didn’t—it was just a joke—”
Warner drops my hands like they’ve burned him. He looks away. Charges toward the elevator and doesn’t wait for me to catch up.
I wonder what he’s not telling me.
Only once we’ve gone down several floors and are making our way down an unfamiliar hall toward an unfamiliar exit does he finally look at me. He offers me 4 words.
“Welcome to your future.”
I’m swimming in sunlight.
Warner is holding open a door that leads directly outside and I’m so unprepared for the experience I can hardly see straight. He grips my elbow to steady my path and I glance back at him.
“We’re going outside.” I say it because I have to say it out loud. Because the outside world is a treat I’m so seldom offered. Because I don’t know if Warner is trying to be nice again. I look from him to what looks like a concrete courtyard and back to him again. “What are we doing outside?”
“We have some business to take care of.” He tugs me toward the center of this new universe and I’m breaking away from him, reaching out to touch the sky like I’m hoping it will remember me. The clouds are gray like they’ve always been, but they’re sparse and unassuming. The sun is high high high, lounging against a backdrop propping up its rays and redirecting its warmth in our general direction. I stand on tiptoe and try to touch it. The wind folds itself into my arms and smiles against my skin. Cool, silky-smooth air braids a soft breeze through my hair. This square courtyard could be my ballroom.
I want to dance with the elements.
Warner grabs my hand. I turn around.
He’s smiling.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the cold gray world under our feet, “this makes you happy?”
I look around. I realize the courtyard is not quite a roof, but somewhere between two buildings. I edge toward the ledge and can see dead land and naked trees and scattered compounds stretching on for miles. “Cold air smells so clean,” I tell him. “Fresh. Brand-new. It’s the most wonderful smell in the world.”
His eyes look amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He shakes his head. Pats down his jacket and reaches for an inside pocket. He pulls out a gun with a gold hilt that glints in the sunlight.
I pull in a sharp breath.
He inspects the gun in a way I wouldn’t understand, presumably to check whether or not it’s ready to fire. He slips it into his hand, his finger poised directly over the trigger. He turns and finally reads the expression on my face.
He almost laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s not for you.”
“Why do you have a gun?” I swallow, hard, gripping my arms tight across my chest. “What are we doing up here?”
Warner slips the gun back into his pocket and walks to the opposite end of the ledge. He motions for me to follow him. I creep closer. Follow his eyes. Peer over the barrier.
Every soldier in the building is standing not 15 feet below.
I distinguish almost 50 lines, each perfectly straight, perfectly spaced, so many soldiers standing single file I lose count.
I wonder if Adam is in the crowd. I wonder if he can see me.
I wonder what he thinks of me now.
The soldiers are standing in a square space almost identical to the one Warner and I occupy, but they’re one organized mass of black: black pants, black shirts, shin-high black boots; not a single gun in sight. Each is standing with his left fist pressed to his heart. Frozen in place.
Black and gray
and
black and gray
and
black and gray
and
bleak.
Suddenly I’m acutely aware of my impractical outfit. Suddenly the wind is too callous, too cold, too painful as it slices its way through the crowd. I shiver and it has nothing to do with the temperature. I look for Warner but he has already taken his place at the edge of the courtyard; it’s obvious he’s done this many times before. He pulls a small square of perforated metal out of his pocket and presses it to his lips; when he speaks, his voice carries over the crowd like it’s been amplified.
“Sector 45.”
One word. One number.
The entire group shifts: left fists released, dropped to their sides; right fists planted in place on their chests. They are an oiled machine, working in perfect collaboration with one another. If I weren’t so apprehensive I think I’d be impressed.
“We have two matters to deal with this morning.” Warner’s voice penetrates the atmosphere: crisp, clear, unbearably confident. “The first is standing by my side.”
Thousands of eyes snap up in my direction. I feel myself flinch.
“Juliette, come here, please.” 2 fingers bend in 2 places to beckon me forward.
I inch into view.
Warner slips his arm around me. I cringe. The crowd starts. My heart careens out of control. I’m too scared to back away from him. His gun is too close to my body.
The soldiers seem stunned that Warner is willing to touch me.
“Jenkins, would you step forward, please?”
My fingers are running a marathon down my thigh. I can’t stand still. I can’t calm the palpitations crashing my nervous system. Jenkins steps out of line; I spot him immediately.
He’s okay.
Dear God.
He’s okay.
“Jenkins had the pleasure of meeting Juliette just last night,” he continues. The tension among the men is very nearly tangible. No one, it seems, knows where this speech is headed. And no one, it seems, hasn’t already heard Jenkins’ story. My story. “I hope you’ll all greet her with the same sort of kindness,” Warner adds, his lips laughing without a sound. “She will be with us for some time, and will be a very valuable asset to our efforts. The Reestablishment welcomes her. I welcome her. You should welcome her.”
The soldiers drop their fists all at once, all at exactly the same time.
They shift as one, 5 steps backward, 5 steps forward, 5 steps standing in place. They raise their left arms high and curl their fingers into a fist.
And fall on one knee.
I run to the edge, desperate to get a closer look at such a strangely choreographed routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Warner makes them stay like that, bent like that, fists raised in the air like that. He doesn’t speak for at least 30 seconds. And then he does.
“Good.”
The soldiers rise and rest their right fists on their chests again.
“The second matter at hand is even more pleasant than the first,” Warner continues, though he seems to take no pleasure in saying it. His eyes are sharpening over the soldiers below, shards of emerald flickering like green flames over their bodies. “Delalieu has a report for us.”
He spends an eternity simply staring at the soldiers, letting his few words marinate in their minds. Letting their own imaginations drive them insane. Letting the guilty among them tremble in anguish.
Warner says nothing for so long.
No one moves for so long.
I begin to fear for my life despite his earlier reassurances. I begin to wonder if perhaps I am the guilty one. If perhaps the gun in his pocket is destined for me. I finally dare to turn in his direction. He glances at me for the first time and I have no idea how to read him.
His face is 10,000 possibilities staring straight through me.
“Delalieu,” he says, still looking at me. “You may step forward.”
A thin, balding sort of man in a slightly more decorated outfit steps out from the very front of the fifth line. He doesn’t look entirely stable. He ducks his head an inch. His voice warbles when he speaks. “Sir.”
Warner finally unshackles my eyes and nods, almost imperceptibly, in the balding man’s direction.
Delalieu recites: “We have a charge against Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.”
The soldiers are all frozen in line, frozen in relief, frozen in fear, frozen in anxiety. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Even the wind is afraid to make a sound.
“Fletcher.” One word from Warner and several hundred necks snap in the same direction.
Fletcher steps out of line.
He looks like a gingerbread man. Ginger hair. Ginger freckles. Lips almost artificially red. His face is blank of every possible emotion.
I’ve never been more afraid for a stranger in my life.
Delalieu speaks again. “Private Fletcher was found on unregulated grounds, fraternizing with civilians believed to be rebel party members. He had stolen food and supplies from storage units dedicated to Sector 45 citizens. It is not known whether he betrayed sensitive information.”
Warner levels his gaze at the gingerbread man. “Do you deny these accusations, soldier?”
Fletcher’s nostrils flare. His jaw tenses. His voice cracks when he speaks. “No, sir.”
Warner nods. Takes a short breath. Licks his lips.
And shoots him in the forehead.
No one moves.
Fletcher’s face is etched in permanent horror as he crumbles to the ground. I’m so struck by the impossibility of it all that I can’t decide whether or not I’m dreaming, I can’t determine whether or not I’m dying, I can’t figure out whether or not fainting is a good idea.
Fletcher’s limbs are bent at odd angles on the cold, concrete floor. Blood is pooling around him and still no one moves. No one says a single word. No one betrays a single look of fear.
I keep touching my lips to see if my screams have escaped.
Warner tucks his gun back into his jacket pocket. “Sector 45, you are dismissed.”
Every soldier falls on one knee.
Warner slips the metal amplification device back into his suit and has to yank me free from the spot where I’m glued to the ground. I’m tripping over myself, my limbs weak and aching through the bone. I feel nauseous, delirious, incapable of holding myself upright. I keep trying to speak but the words are sticking to my tongue. I’m suddenly sweating and suddenly freezing and suddenly so sick I see spots clouding my vision.
Warner is trying to get me through the door. “You really must eat more,” he says to me.
I am gaping with my eyes, gaping with my mouth, gaping wide open because I feel holes everywhere, punched into the terrain of my body.
My heart must be bleeding out of my chest.
I look down and can’t understand why there’s no blood on my dress, why this pain in my heart feels so real.
“You killed him,” I manage to whisper. “You just killed him—”
“You’re very astute.”
“Why did you
kill him
why would you
kill him
how could you
do
something like that—”
“Keep your eyes open, Juliette. Now’s not the time to fall asleep.”
I grab his shirt. I stop him before he gets inside. A gust of wind slaps me across the face and I’m suddenly in control of my senses. I push him hard, slamming his back up against the door. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his crystal-cold eyes. “You
disgust
me—”
He twists me around, pinning me against the door where I just held him. He cups my face in his gloved hands, holding my eyes in place. The same hands he just used to kill a man.
I’m trapped.
Transfixed.
Slightly terrified.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
“Life is a bleak place,” he whispers. “Sometimes you have to learn how to shoot first.”
Warner follows me into my room.
“You should probably sleep,” he says to me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since we left the rooftop. “I’ll have food sent up to your room, but other than that I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
“Where is Adam?
Is he safe? Is he healthy? Are you going to hurt him?
”
Warner flinches before finding his composure. “Why do you care?”
I’ve cared about Adam Kent since I was in third grade.
“Isn’t he supposed to be watching me? Because he’s not here. Does that mean you’re going to kill him, too?” I’m feeling stupid. I’m feeling brave because I’m feeling stupid. My words wear no parachutes as they fall out of my mouth.
“I only kill people if I need to.”
“Generous.”
“More than most.”
I laugh a sad laugh, sharing it with only myself.
“You can have the rest of the day to yourself. Our real work will begin tomorrow. Adam will bring you to me.” He holds my eyes. Suppresses a smile. “In the meantime, try not to kill anyone.”
“You and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins, “you and I are not the same—”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“You think you can compare my—my
disease
—with your insanity—”
“Disease?”
He rushes forward, abruptly impassioned, and I struggle to hold my ground. “You think you have a
disease
?” he shouts. “You have a gift! You have an extraordinary ability that you don’t care to understand! Your
potential
—”
“I have no potential!”
“You’re wrong.” He’s glaring at me. There’s no other way to describe it. I could almost say he hates me in this moment. Hates me for hating myself.
“Well you’re the murderer,” I tell him. “So you must be right.”
His smile is laced with dynamite. “Go to sleep.”
“Go to hell.”
He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”