Chapter 35 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
There’s no time to find new clothes.
I try to shove this thought out of my head, but as I run quietly through the darkened, abandoned streets, it occurs to me
that this is a bigger problem than I’m ready to acknowledge. Not only are temperatures dropping as the night deepens, but
the moon is too full and the streetlamps too bright; I’m obvious in my loose hair and pale hospital scrubs.
Still, the cold air is good for me.
Bracing.
I’d grown warm and complacent in that big, puffy jacket, and as much as I miss its warmth, wearing it would’ve made me an
easy target; worse, I was hardly able to move my arms. Between being shot and freezing to death, the latter of the two is
the slower murder, and I’ll just have to be okay with it.
I hear movement—a snatch of conversation—
I duck down a darkened alley and back up against the brick, taking the opportunity to try to orient myself. I can see my breath
in the glow of a distant streetlamp, and I pull the collar of my thin shirt up over my mouth, willing my heart rate to slow.
Die, I tell myself. Die.
My pulse quiets, my thoughts distancing from my body in relief.
I think it’s possible I’ve gone insane.
I can’t believe that was me in that diner. I’ve never been so reckless. Never, not once in my life, have I been so out of
control.
I nearly close my eyes.
James is a greater danger to me than I can ever put into words.
Even now, in the depths of a protective death, I can still sense his hands on me, his mouth on my neck. Heat gathers deep
in my core, the sensation so powerful it nearly forces my dead heart back to life. The memories drown me. The gasp of his
breath. The fever of his body. The give of muscle. His skin against my lips. His tortured sounds in my ears.
The desperate way he’d said my name.
The desperation I still feel when I think of him.
I want things from James I never thought I could want from anyone. I’ve been starved for years but I’ve never known this kind
of hunger.
These people have poisoned me.
I think too much; I feel too much; I rest too much. I’m gorging on dream and delusion; intoxicated by fantasy.
I’m forgetting to shut down.
Die, I tell myself.
Die.
Winds sweep into the alley, and I register the cold in my head without reacting with my body. My nose grows numb as if from a distance, my fingers losing feeling one at a time.
For as long as I can remember I’d suspected there was something wrong with me, but as I grew older and the questions sharpened,
I never allowed myself to truly wonder—not until I was lying on the cold ground in a rebel prison—what it really meant to
die every day.
On the Ark, I’d never been able to risk self-examination.
I always policed my thoughts on the island; thinking too critically about myself seemed dangerous. I never gave my mind permission
to dwell on who I was or how I managed to live this half-life, caging myself inside myself. The questions and the potential
answers seemed fodder for torture during an interrogation, and I could never risk losing my life for fear of leaving Clara
unprotected.
Instead, I wrote myself into a role, defined my character by cruelty; painted myself into the image of a cold, unfeeling monster
with a single weakness.
The story suited me.
The story saved me.
Even now, I wonder whether Klaus was able to see to the deeper truth beyond my shields. I wonder if that’s why he sentenced
me to death. I wonder if he knows about Clara’s dreams. I wonder what Clara knows about herself. I wonder whether there’s
any point in wondering.
My life has been death since it began.
There seems no cause for celebration in the realization that murders great and small are my only strengths.
There seems no need for examination of a life that will end shortly.
Only in brief, occasional bursts of unsuppressed fear do I wonder how, exactly, Warner was able to activate my own weapon against me.
But this isn’t the time for reflection.
Once I’m certain the footsteps have quieted and the path has cleared, I tighten my cold grip on the rifle and push deeper
into the alley, searching for an outlet.
Cursory studies of the area revealed little.
I tried to make a mental map based on signs and cues gathered during the walk from Nazeera’s house to the waffle shop, but
it was after dark, and there was little to distinguish this neighborhood from others I’d seen upon escaping from prison.
The only notable difference is that this area seems more walkable.
There are fewer cars overall. The streets seem unusually dead at this hour. Many shops already appear to be closed, despite
the fact that the sun went down only recently. I wonder, again, at the number of soldiers I’d seen in plainclothes at the
diner.
You’ll be safe on campus, James had said to his brother.
I hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time, but now I’m beginning to wonder. I draw my hand along a brick wall as I go,
reading the streets for secrets. There’s no gum or trash beaten into the brick, no chipped edges or obvious wear. Things feel
especially clean here; newer, neater. Garbage bins are arranged tidily in the alleys, undisturbed; I see no signs of graffiti.
She’s pretty contained in The Waffle, Nazeera had said.
The Waffle.
The sign outside the diner had read The Waffle’s Waffles.
A feeling of foreboding creeps up my neck, low-grade fear pushing against my mind. Where are all the soldiers? Where is the
mayhem, the urgency, the chaos of upheaval?
Why is there no indication of disturbance?
I dart from dark corner to dark corner and, save the occasional gust of wind rattling a bin or scattering leaves, I hear nothing.
No distant sounds or cries.
No footsteps. No voices.
It’s too quiet.
My heart picks up as I run, stealthily dodging shafts of light and imagined movement. My eyes widen as I go, pupils dilating
in the gloom to read the quaint shop signs above darkened windows—
The Kitchen
Mo’s Market
Alphabet Snacks
Snips I tell myself there’s no foot traffic because people have gone indoors, taking shelter.
But I know when I’m lying to myself.
If there were a manhunt ongoing, there would be clamor and commotion. This world is unapologetically loud. Its people are
frivolous and reckless; they make no effort to silence their lives or emotions. They are not afraid enough of their own government.
Something is wrong.
Crickets chirp merrily into the quiet. A single pedestrian strolls down the sidewalk in the distance, too busy peering up
at the moon to notice me. Her dog barks once, reasonably, at a flash of movement, and I tense—
Just a rabbit, darting under a bush.
I stand there a moment longer, watching the pedestrian disappear along the path. No one else appears. No new sounds are introduced.
I lift my head up by degrees, turning toward the moon as the stranger did. Fear raises the fine hairs along my nape, my instincts
telling me to pay attention, and as I study the sky, searching its depths, I feel my chest constrict.
The scene warps as if underwater.
It lasts less than a second—nearly undetectable—but I stare up at the anomaly long enough to witness it again: another quick
blur of the moon, a glitch of a cloud.
Panic shatters under my skin.
I know what an electromagnetic force field looks like. It could stop a meteor. It would neutralize a nuclear weapon.
I’m gripped by vivid, escalating fear. I wonder, standing there in the dark, my eyes pinned to the sky, what other secrets
this strange world holds.
“Cool, right?” he says, his voice carrying as he approaches.
I close my eyes, my shields dissolving, my heart screaming. I will the ground to open up and inhale me.
“What’d you say earlier?” James closes the distance between us. “Something about our world being held together with tape?”