Chapter 8 #2
So many memories hit me all at once, none of them good or peaceful. “Imagine a genetically modified rage organism,” I say, using his words, “with wildly fluctuating hormones.”
He sucks in air through his teeth. “So…basically every parent’s worst nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
He pushes his fingers into his beard, the way he does when he’s lost in thought. “I heard Uncle Eddie helped you.”
“He was my mentor.”
“Weird.” He pauses, like he’s trying to be careful with his words. “Y’all don’t seem to…get along.”
I scrunch my nose. “I don’t like characterizing it that way. I appreciate and love him for all he did to keep me sane. But the way our mods clash…” Now I’m the one trying to be careful with my words. “Uncle Anders likes to say that we’re like two male betta fish in a single tank.”
Oakley chuckles. “That sounds exactly like something Uncle Anders would say.” He drums on the desk. “Yet Edison was the one who helped you direct that rage?”
I think back to all that entailed, not wanting Oakley to think worse of me. I simply nod and take a sip of soda.
“Does this have to do with the murder room I saw in the Cave?” he asks with a careful look.
I choke on my drink. It goes down the wrong pipe, and I start hacking up a lung.
Ouch.
Humiliation burns through me as I get the cough under control.
I didn’t know Hedy had taken them to the dungeon. I don’t want him to know this part of me. Not yet, at least.
But he does know.
Since I have no other options, I answer him truthfully. “Yes. I—” I think through how to say it, wishing my cheeks weren’t so hot. “When Edison could tell that I had reached a boiling point, he would take me to that room.”
“How old were you the first time you went into that room?”
I press my lips together, but he’s clearly gonna sit there until I tell him the truth.
“Thirteen.”
Oakley’s eyes widen and his breathing slows. He didn’t know that part.
“Have any of those prisoners ever…hurt you?” he asks carefully.
I shake my head.
“Are you ever in any real danger?”
I shake my head again. And think about that room, which I frequently paint with the DNA of very bad people.
“Got it.” He grips my hand again. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Just know you’re safe to share whatever you want to with me.”
I grimace. He already knows too much.
“Or not,” he quickly adds.
I pick at the label on my soda.
“I’m sorry. I have access to most of your personal information, which can’t feel great. Especially since you weren’t the one to share it with me.”
I shoot him a look, then go back to picking at the bottle.
“Look.”
I do. His smile is so warm that I want to bask in it like a cat.
But we’re in the middle of a conversation, and that would be weird.
“We can stop here,” he continues, unaware of my whole cat meander. “Or maybe you can tell me the part that’s bothering you the most, so I can step more carefully next time.”
Oh. Well. That’s easy.
You’ll never fall in love with me.
Nope, not saying that. Go with the second-worst thing.
“I’ve always known I’m not a psychopath. In here,” I say, tapping my chest. “But…to hear it officially… I almost feel a little lost.” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“Sure it does.”
“How?”
He looks at me for a long moment, then answers, “The way other people might label you can really destroy your sense of self…while also giving you something to grab on to. Which is a complete mindfuck.”
It’s like he’s inside my head.
“Is that why I feel like such a loser all the time?”
Ugh. Shit only a loser would say.
Oak’s upper lip curls. “Why would you think you’re a loser?”
“I’ve been to enough therapy to know that it’s wrong to say that, but look at me.” I gesture the length of myself. “I’m a mutation. A mistake. Made in a lab to resemble an urban legend.”
“How can somebody else’s actions make you the loser?”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t try to make sense of this. Don’t ask smart questions. It ruins the illusion.”
“The illusion that you’re a loser? Good. It should be ruined.”
Oakley crosses his arms over his massive chest, as if daring me to contradict him.
I think about the people who are responsible for me.
“Is it weird that I’ve never wanted to learn about the sperm donor or that I only have a few flashing memories of the old scientist who raised me?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. Blake was an asshole, and people with a trauma history often report memory issues. Some can barely remember their childhood at all.”
“I guess I wish there were some things I could still forget.”
“Like what?”
I don’t wanna say this next part, and yet…I do. I don’t want Oakley to hate me, but I do want him to know me.
“I’m gonna remind you that I’m not judging you,” he says. “I’m in the process of reading every last one of your files, and whatever is making you hesitate or judge yourself right now, I’ve either already read or soon will. I promise you’re not going to shock me.”
I snort. Yeah right.
“What about the animals?” I wrap my arms around my waist. “I saw what I looked like on that body-cam footage.”
Oakley nods. “For a lot of the operatives, what you did to the animals was the most disturbing thing they remember. But not a single one of them talked about the fact that you were living with the dead body of that older scientist who took care of you. For days.”
I shake my head. “Despite what I’ve seen on the video, I don’t remember anything. Not him dying. Not what I did.”
I try so hard to remember, but…nothing.
“So you were half starved, dehydrated, traumatized, surviving on rainwater and whatever animals you could find. In my estimation, you were a really brave little boy.”
I let out a dry laugh. I was—and am—scared all the time.
I would never admit that out loud. Instead, I say, “You can hear the fear in their voices. On the body cams. A small boy, eyes black, the blood of some random animal dripping from my chin.” I shudder. “The only thing I remember about that night was asking for a Happy Meal.”
“Anders was on the call that day. I’m absolutely certain he found the nearest twenty-four-hour McDonald’s and made sure you got that Happy Meal.”
I grin. “Chicken nuggets with Sweet ’N Sour sauce, fries, and a Dr Pepper.”
“Still your favorite thing to order from McDonald’s.”
Of course he remembers.
“They also gave me a whole new family. I wish I could figure out how to deserve everything the Guardians did for me.”
Including providing me with a kill tank.
“I might be new to this, but I’m pretty sure that was the most fulfilling part of the work they did.” Oakley tilts his head. “Even though I’d guess Uncle Anders really does love murder.”
I chuckle. “So much.” I send him a small smile. “Me and Hopper love it too.”
Oakley laughs at that, but I go quiet. I’m nearly overcome with the desire to go to him and sit on his lap, put my head on his shoulder, and let him hold me.
See? Loser.
“What’s all this?” Oakley asks, gesturing a circle around my face. “What’s with the sad eyes?”
I shake my head.
“Tell me.”
I take a couple of steadying breaths. I don’t know if he’s ready for this kind of truth. I guess we’re already here though.
“People like to imagine that you can take an abandoned and abused child, show them love, and make it all better.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Not how it works in the real world though, is it?”
Not for people like me.
“I always assumed it worked for normal kids,” I answer with a shrug. “But I’m evil all the way down to the marrow. I know the Wildlings don’t get it, but your dads? They understand it better than almost anyone. That’s why they hate me.”
I can tell Oakley wants to disagree with me, but he presses his lips together. Pushes his fingers through his thick beard. Finally, he looks at me.
“Are you evil? And this is just a mask of goodness? Or are you evil and just trying to do the good thing anyway? Or maybe a third option I haven’t thought of?”
Those are some damn good questions. I hate them.
“A mask? Like faking it?”
“Kinda.”
I shake my head. “I don’t like lying.”
“I can tell. You’ve been really honest with me.”
I flush. “You’re easy to be honest with.”
Oakley reaches for my hand, squeezing it again. My heart thumps strongly. Telling him all of this will probably make him hate me as much as his dads do, but he’s like this living truth serum.
I can’t lie to him. Or even evade the truth.
I consider his question for another moment, laughing to myself. “I think it’s more like I’m evil, but I’m gonna try and do the good thing anyway.”
“What’s that laugh about?”
“Your dad hates me because my zygote donor kidnapped him that one time. Which is totally fair,” I’m quick to add on.
“But I wish I could tell Ronan that I’m not angry or sad that he killed Silas Blake.
And it’s because Wimberley helped find me a family, despite everything they saw, that I try to bury this ugliness and help as many people as I possibly can. ”
I’ve been looking at our joined hands this whole time, and only now do I look into Oakley’s eyes again. Tears shimmer against his eyelashes.
“Shit,” I say, pulling away from him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He wipes the moisture from his eyes. “You didn’t upset me, Sy. It just makes me sad that somebody who works so hard to be good can still think he’s evil.”
“Oakley, come on.”
His jaw sharpens, like he’s angry. “No. You come on. Good and evil are determined by action. You can think all the horrible thoughts in your head, but they don’t become evil until you turn those thoughts into action.”
“You want action?” I lean forward. “I was late today because I murdered the man you saw in the ‘murder room.’ I literally incinerated his remains right before I walked into your office. How’s that for action?”
Oakley’s chest expands rapidly. He drums on the table. Another deep breath. Finally, he looks me in the eyes.
“Hedy wouldn’t tell me what he did to deserve being in that room. Will you?”
I swallow hard. I don’t want him to know that people like that live in the world.
I shake my head.
He slowly raises his brows.
“What?” I ask, uncomfortable with telling him no, but wanting, somehow, to protect him.
“You’re saying he was so awful that you won’t tell me what he did?”
“Basically.”
Oak blows air out of his nose, like he’s lost patience with me. “You actively do good. Every day. You balance the books. Every. Fucking. Day. And I will make it my mission to make my fathers see what I see.”
Before I can object, he continues, “And before you try to contradict me, I’ll remind you that, of the two of us, I am the one with the advanced degree in fucked-up brains.” He laughs. “And while your brain is a masterpiece of fuckery, it is a good brain. Not an evil one.”
How can he say that when he knows what I did?
“Well, if you say so,” I joke.
“I’m not kidding you. This ends now.”
His command is a knife through the shit rolling around in my brain. He stands and circles his desk before taking me by my elbow. He urges me to stand with him and then envelops me in a hug.
His bulk is instant peace.
Oh God.
I love you so much.
The words burn on my tongue, but instead, I bury my face in his neck and hold on for dear life.
“You’re amazing, and I’m lucky to know you,” he whispers in my ear.
“Thank you,” I say, the only words I can manage that aren’t I love you so fucking much.
I let the warmth of his hug work its way through me. My eyes want to turn black, and I let them.
I know a single conversation won’t fix all the evil inside, but knowing that he sees all of it and…doesn’t fucking hate me? Doesn’t think A plus B equals terrible? It’s shifted something vital. Something big.
Oakley tightens our hug and the way his belly presses against mine…ahh. Heaven.
And hell.
Great. Now I hafta kill someone else.