“What does that mean?”
In response Leon unhinges without warning, his head hanging forward from his neck hanging forward from his body, his limbs locked in positions so unnatural I back away from him with a strangled sound. Leon is hyperventilating uncontrollably. He finally falls to his knees and claws at his head in a frenzied panic,and by the time he starts screaming I already know how it’s going to end.
I throw my arms up over my face, the vial still clenched in my fist, bracing myself as he screams and screams until the lights come on in the hall, the sounds of footsteps thundering toward us. The handles on the dresser drawers begin rattling, the ground shuddering beneath me, fists pounding relentlessly against my door. I hear muted voices and cries, the clatter and snick of a lock tumbling. By the time Agatha slams open my bedroom door in a crazed panic, Leon has self-immolated.
I draw my hands away from my face and it seems to take years. Blood has spattered across the scene, smearing everything. I am numb as I survey the aftermath: gone are his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Leon has been eviscerated from the inside, flesh and blood pushed out of open orifices. My stomach heaves.
I double over.
I hear Agatha scream, and then the room is swarmed— faces and limbs blurring together and I’m stumbling upright, realizing too late how this looks: Leon, brutally murdered inside my bedroom, entrails still exhaling from his body as blood stains the carpet beneath us. I stand over him, my face wiped of emotion—me, his murderer, the person who’s already tried to kill him once. Jaws are slack with horror, eyes wide and accusing. Even I can understand the ease with which they form their conclusions. Soon, hands are reaching, rushing at me. Crazed expressions, gasps of urgency,someone shoutingget the manaclesand I remember, with a start, Agatha’s promise to melt my mouth off my face.
I realize then that I have no choice.
I tuck the vial in my pocket and fumble for the butterknife on the floor and Agatha shoutsShe’s got a weapon!and I dive out of the way of an electric lasso, crashing into the mirror hanging behind the bathroom door. Glass shatters around me and I don’t hesitate: I whip a shard at the woman’s throat—Deepti, her name is Deepti—and listen for impact, then scramble to my feet as she releases a guttural, choking cry. Agatha launches herself at me in a rage and I make use of her momentum, flipping her over my head, dropping to one knee, and burying the knife in her chest.
I feel a buzz of awareness as I yank the dull blade free, the hum of an unexpected quiet falling over the room. I look up, slowly, at the stunned sea of familiar faces, then the blood on my hands, the look of frozen astonishment on Agatha’s face. Jing is crying. Elias has covered his mouth in horror. Aya has wet herself. Ian is sagging against the wall, looking like he might throw up. I’m miles and miles away from my mind when James finally bursts into the room, and the look on his face as he takes it all in—when he turns and stares at me with a wordless, shattering, breathtaking disappointment—
It actually kills me.
I feel it: my extremities go numb; my heart slows inside my body. My bones give out and I slump to the ground, my head hitting the wet carpet. I stare up at the recessed lights as they dim and flare,pushing everything out of focus. I turn my neck and the effort is exhausting; I blink and it lasts a century. Hands handle me roughly, strip the butterknife out of my fist. I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to kill anymore. I don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to live in this body anymore—
You’ve been dead inside for years, I remind myself.
Die, I tell myself.
Die.
My eyes roll back inside my head, my heart turns to stone in my chest. I feel my mind disconnecting. My chest stops moving. I’m aware, somehow, that I’m no longer breathing, no longer feeling. My skin is a rubber suit, sloshing with liquid.
Die, Rosabelle, I tell myself.
Die.
And this time, I do.
Rosabelle
Chapter 36
In my dreams, everything is soft.
The harsh edges of the world are blunted, my face cradled by clouds. My body seems suspended in water, my hair freed from its utilitarian knot, silky lengths cascading down my back. I am a body still becoming, untouched by tragedy. In my dreams I am safe; I have a strong hand to hold; a door to lock against the dark; a trusted ear into which I whisper my fears. In my dreams I am patient and kind; I have room in my heart for more pain than my own. I am not afraid to smile at strangers. I have never witnessed death. In my dreams sunlight glazes my skin; gentle wind caresses my limbs; Clara’s laughter makes me smile.
She is running.
In my dreams, she’s always running.
My heart restarts with an electric jolt.
“Then try it again,” barks Soledad, his voice booming inside of me. “What do you mean there’s no brain activity?”
“Sir, we’ve tried to implant the chip several times now, but we can’t get her to connect—”
“That’s bullshit,” he cries. “Try it again.”
Alarms blare, hands handling me, stripping me. Cold metal and flashes of light.
“We did it exactly as you asked,” says someone nervously. “We tried it again—this year without any anesthetic, just as you instructed—”
