I lower my eyes, absorbing these blows with studied indifference. My body is not unlike the moon, cratered so thoroughly by brutality it’s hard to imagine it untouched by violence.
“Good night,” I say quietly, and turn to leave.
I hear Sam sigh, her regret building as I walk away. “Warner, wait,” she says, calling after me. “I’m sorry—that was over the line— It’s been a long day, I didn’t mean—”
I don’t look back.
SEVEN
I’m sandwiched between two thin blankets on the frozen floor of this hospital room, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, when I hear the soft whine of the door, Ella’s familiar presence entering the room.
It’s hours past midnight.
She brings with her the faint smell of something slightly chemical, which confuses me, but more important: I feel her fear as she tiptoes into the space, all displaced by a sudden relief when she catches sight, no doubt, of my prone body.
Relief.
I don’t understand.
She is relieved to discover me asleep. She is relieved she doesn’t have to speak with me.
The pressure in my chest intensifies.
I listen to the sounds of her shedding her shoes and clothes in the dark, wondering how best I might shatter the silence, bracing myself for her surprise—then disappointment—to discover I am awake. I give her a moment, hearing the familiar sounds of sheets rustling. I’m imagining her climbing into the narrow hospital bed, tucking herself under the covers, when her emotions pivot without warning: she experiences a sharp, stunning wave of happiness.
Somehow, this only scares me more.
Ella is not merely relieved, then, but happy to have evaded me. She’s happy to be going to sleep without being disturbed.
My heart races faster, dread multiplying. I’m almost afraid to say anything now, knowing that the sound of my voice would only prompt the demolition of her joy. Still, I have to speak with her. I need to know what’s happening between us—and I’m preparing to say as much when I hear her breathing change.
She is already asleep.
I have been lying awake fully clothed, sinking into darkness for hours. Ella has fallen asleep in moments.
I feel frozen. Fastened to this cold floor by fear, familiar pins and needles sparking to life in my limbs.
My eyes fly open; I can’t seem to breathe.
I hadn’t known what to do with the jewelry box in my pocket. I was afraid to leave it somewhere, worried it might be misplaced, or discovered. It remains with me instead, branding my leg with its presence, reminding me of all that feels suddenly and terrifyingly lost.
Unconsciously, I reach for an altogether different piece of jewelry, my fingers finding the smooth stone of the jade ring in the dark, the piece so much a part of me now that I can’t remember what my hand looks like without it. I spin the cold band around my pinkie finger in a familiar, repetitive motion, wondering whether it has been a mistake, all these years, to keep this token of grief so close to my skin.
The ring had been a gift from my mother; it was the only present I’d ever received as a child. And yet, the memories associated with this object are so dark and painful— reminders in every moment of my father’s tyranny, my mother’s suffering, my grandfather’s betrayal—
I have often wanted to lock away this memento of my tortured childhood. Touching it even now reminds me of versions of myself—six years old, then seven, eight, nine, and on and on—that once clutched it desperately even as I screamed, explosive pain branching across my back, over and over.
For a long time, I hadn’t wanted to forget. The ring reminded me always of my father’s brutality, of the hatred that motivated me to stay alive if only to spite him.
More than that, it is all I have left of my mother.
And yet, perhaps this ring has tethered me to my own darkness, this symbol of infinite repetition fated to conjure, forever, the agonies of my past.
Sometimes I fear I will be trapped forever in this cycle: incapable of happiness, inseparable from my demons.
I close my eyes, scenes from the day replaying as if on an automatic loop. I seem doomed to relive the events in perpetuity, combing them for answers, for evidence of anything that might explain what’s happening to my life. And despite my best efforts to shut them out, I recall Sam’s voice, then Kenji’s—
You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist.
I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your presence.
I’m sick of your attitude.
I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior.