"He already has."
I woke up on the floor.
I didn't remember falling. I didn't remember the glass slipping from my hand, the whiskey spreading across the bar, the shattering of glass on wood. I was on my back, staring at the ceiling, and the ceiling was spinning, and the world was spinning, and I couldn't make it stop.
Sasha.
Rue.
The girl who wasn't there.
Batch 36.
Batch 39.
Batch 47.
Me.
I was Batch 47.
Or maybe I was Batch 36.
Or maybe I was all of them.
Or maybe I was none of them.
"He'll discard you too."
The words echoed.
"He already has."
I pressed my palms against the floor. The wood was cold. The wood was real. The wood was the only thing I could feel that didn't shift and change and dissolve when I tried to hold onto it.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I don't know what's real anymore."
No answer.
There was never an answer.
"Daddy, please."
"Please tell me what's real."
"Please tell me who I am."
"Please tell me why I can't remember."
I was alone.
I had always been alone.
And I was falling apart.
