I will come for you. I will always come for you.
I hold onto those words. I wrap myself in them like a blanket against the cold.
But the cold is winning.
The room is freezing. I am freezing.
Hell is freezing and it’s taking me with it.
A sob rises in my chest. I try to swallow it down, try to maintain the control I've learned is essential for survival. But the sound escapes anyway, high and broken, echoing off the sterile walls.
Then another. And another.
The dam breaks.
I cry like I haven't cried since I was a child, ugly and wrenching, my whole body shaking against the restraints. Tears stream down my temples and pool in my ears. Snot clogs my throat. I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but drown in the grief I've been holding back for years.
Not just grief for Jace. Not just grief for myself.
Grief for the boy I used to be, before the foster homes and the auctions and the basement. Grief for every moment of softness that was stolen from me. Grief for a mother I barely remember and a life I never got to live.
The door opens.
Webb enters, flanked by two guards. His expression is one of mild annoyance, like I'm a machine that's malfunctioning at an inconvenient time.
"This won't do," he says. "I need you functional for tomorrow's session."
I can't stop crying. I try, but the sobs keep coming, tearing through me like something with claws.
Webb sighs and pulls an injector from his coat. The same silver cylinder they used when they took me from Jace's apartment. The same cold pressure against my neck.
"Rest now," he says, almost gently. "We'll resume when you're more composed."
The needle bites. Warmth spreads from the injection site, radiating outward, softening the edges of everything.
The lights blur. The ceiling ripples. The white room folds in on itself like paper.
And I fall.
I'm five years old.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter, the warm scent of Sunday morning pancakes. Sunlight pours through the window above the sink, catching the dust motes that drift through the air like tiny planets.
My mother stands at the stove, her back to me. She's wearing the blue robe with the frayed edges, the one she refuses to throw away because it was a gift from my grandmother. Her hair isloose, tangled from sleep, and she's humming something I don't recognize. A song from before I was born, maybe. A song from a life I'll never know.
"Mom?"
She turns, and her face is exactly as I remember: soft and tired and full of a love that asks for nothing in return. She smiles, and the world feels safe.
"Morning, baby. You want chocolate chips in your pancakes?"
"Yes please."
I climb onto the stool at the counter and watch her work. The batter sizzles when it hits the pan. She flips the pancakes with a practiced flick of her wrist, catching each one perfectly.
"You sleep okay?" she asks.
"I had a bad dream."
