"Hurry the hell up and tryto kill me." Dan suddenly snarls, lip curling in fury. His eyes dart around the room, bouncing from camera to camera. He blows a provoking kiss at one of them.
A ripple of humour travels up through me, andI struggle not to laugh. Mostly becauseI think it will come out sounding more like a sob, and Dan will be pissed ifI give them the satisfaction of seeing me break at their hand.
I don't want to do this. I really, really, do not want to. But my life is notmy own. It belongs to them.I havebeen taught this through their vicious demands and their cold cruelty. I have been taught there are some things that simply are, for no other reason than because theyare.
Despite his goading words, Dan lunges first.I'monlysurprised my brother held himself back for this long.
Wefight then. Itis messy becauseweknow each other so well, and itgoes on for far too long.We let itgo on and on and on until both ofus are panting and cut up all to shit, shooting jagged shards of glass at each other and missing by a mile, never getting close to anything fatal. It's playing, really, not fighting.
Dan knows how I fight and what my weaknesses are, buthe isn't pressing on those weaknesses like he should be.
We bothknow this can't last. There has to be an end. A conclusion. A choice.
Dan is usually the one who makes decisions whenwe're out ona mission. Dan makes the hard calls when he has to. But he's hesitating now. That meansI haveto be the one to do it. The responsibility rests firmly onmy shoulders. I hate Dan for that.I want to shout at him, to hurt him, tocutandbreakandscream. How could he do this tomenow?
Dan hasme on my knees withmyarms trapped behindmy back. He'sgot an especially nasty piece of glass pressed againstmy throat. I can feel the sharp bite of it. Dan has me. But he doesn't, notreally, because his hold is weak. It's the kind of weakneither ofus have been capable of sincewewere first learning how to properly restrain someone during a fight. Dan shouldn't be hesitating like this.I should alreadybe dead.
Ian Stone, director of Obsidian Inc., ordered my brother and me to fight until one of us was dead. A punishment for attempting to get away from him.
Dan should be using his shard of glass to slit my throat. But he isn’t. He’s forcingme to make the choice, and it's the worst thinganyone has ever done to me.People have hurt me before. Hurtme in ways that should have caused unrepairable psychological fragmentation.
I didn't, though, becauseI had Dan.I hadmy brother.
Dan was supposed to be the strong one. He was supposed to be the one toend this fight.
Ieasily break out of Dan's hold, and then we're fighting again.
Minutes go by that feel more like hours.
For the first time,I'm fighting with the same fury as Dan always does.I'm so angry,I feel like I could choke on it. Part of me hopes this anger, this ferocious rage,will takeall the air out of my lungs and make my mind go blank.
Idon't know how Dan can go around feeling like this all the time. It's toohard to breathe through all this clogged emotion.
Itakemy brother down to the ground with a hand around his throat, cracking Dan’s head against the concrete hard enough to make his ears ring, disorientating him.It doesn’t knock him out like it would a normal person. It does, however, cause the green glow around his glass shards to disappear and the glass to fall to the floor in a noisy clatter.
Using my knees on Dan’s biceps and my lower body to sit on his chest, I’m able to keep him pinned to the ground. I let go of his throat, grabbing his hair to yank his head back and bare his throat to me. He instinctively archesawayinan attempt todislodge me,butI've got him trapped.
If it were anyone else pinning him,Dan would be biting andthrashing right now. He wouldn't even register the pain; it would be lost in the need to fight, to survive.
But Dan doesn't fight me. For the first time in his life, Dan does not fight. I hate him for that as well. I hate him so much that itburns.
"I'm not sorry," I tell him, my voice unnaturally steady.
Dan knows why. It's whatwe always say.Because fuck being sorry. The whole world could be sorry, and it wouldn't change a thing.
Dan makes a rough, pained sound.It’s quieter than it should be because even now, his reaction is stunted byour training.
"Guilt," Dan says, voice low and rasping, “is for real people.”
Iblow outa shuddered breath.It's too much and not enough. Nothing will ever be enough. Nothing will ever wipe this away.
Ishift back enough to look Dan in the eye. He's looking up at me, staring, smiling a little.I stare back, rigid and so very numb. There are tears then.My own. Dan's.
The numbness doesn't last. It fades, making way for the pain. Andthat hurts.That, this, ithurts.And it's too hard, and it's too late, and they're taking everything, everything, everything, and oh fuck,oh please, I can'tbreathe.
I can hear Dan's laughter in my head.
"Jack,"my brotherwhispers, his eyes wide and not even a little bit afraid.
