anger;
anger;
shredded petals as I rip blossoms violently from their stems;
the deafening sound of the gun going off;
Clara losing her first tooth, smiling as she says,Look, Rosa, I’m dying;
my mother, fuming that I’ve knocked on my father’s office door;
the lurid gloss of her pink dress;
a wild look out the window;
How many times do I have to tell you that your papa is an important man? He is chief commander and regent of Sector 52, don’t you understand? He has serious responsibilities, and if you want his attention you’ll have to prove yourself worthy—
It’s as if my brain is being teased apart, as if Klaus is sifting through all of me, messily unearthing memory from flesh. Sensations buzz through me: exhaustion and isolation from the years I spent training; bright joy at the sound of Clara’s laughter; vomit the first time I killed someone; the blinding gasp of hunger; the betrayal of my father’s betrayal; anger reducing me to ash; shame; shame; self-loathing;fury—
My eyes roll back in my head as fresh agony shatters through my right arm, images flooding my mind with abandon now: steel clamps; neon wires; the stutters of baffled scientists; the rage of Soledad; the revulsion in Sebastian’s eyes;
No, don’t fix it;
Let the pain remind her what a disappointment she is;
You’ve disappointed us, Rosa;
You’ve disappointed all of us—
They’d said I wouldn’t last more than six minutes in the cradle. I wish my lungs would fail. I wish I knew how to escape this hell. I’m sure I’ve been here for an eternity—
Strange, says Klaus, turning inside my skin.Very strange.
I’m growing dizzy with fatigue. My body seems to be ballooning, stretching painfully to accommodate this mental invasion. Exhaustion drags me deeper and deeper into the dark. I drift against a cold cadaver, the dead fingers of a dead body grazing my cheek, but I lack the energy even to flinch.
I realize, with some relief, that I must finally be dying. Again.
No, you will not die today.
My eyes flicker open.
But it’s not clear, Rosabelle Wolff, whether you deserve to live.
James
Chapter 7
Fuck this shit.
Fuck this place.
I hate it here, hate myself for thinking this was a good idea, hate my family for being right about how much of an idiot I am, hate the fact that I can never prove them wrong because I’m a moron, hate that Warner is probably right, that profanity is probably a failure of the mind, that only idiots need to rely on foul language to express themselves properly—or whatever stupid shit he said to Adam that one time, I can’t remember—but I’ve already acknowledged the fact that I’m an idiot, so I think it’s okay for me to just lean into the personality for the moment.
Fuck.
I bang my head against the tree trunk, startling a group of birds, disturbing a dusting of snow. The rough bark scrapes my forehead in a painful, pleasant sort of way, and this pisses me off, too, though I’m not sure why. Whatever.
At the moment, everything is pissing me off.
