James 4
James
I don’t head home.
I stalk blindly down the street in the opposite direction, knowing I want time to clear my head, but I only make it a few blocks before I realize I might need a wall to brace myself.
I duck down a side street, backing up against a building, struggling to calm down.
The cool air on my skin is both a comfort and discomfort; my body can’t decide what it needs.
I’m running too hot; too cold; dangerously nauseous.
Brick digs into my back, under my hands.
The midday sun beats down overhead. Snatches of conversation and movement seem to reach me from another world.
My hands are clammy. My hands are shaking. I feel like I might actually throw up.
Everyone feels sorry for me.
They feel sorry for me because they think this twist of the knife in my heart is an inevitable consequence of my own stupid actions: the crazy serial killer decided I was no longer useful, so she broke me in half and moved on, surprise surprise.
Poor James. What an idiot.
Anger closes a fist around my throat.
I’m not a fucking idiot.
I didn’t imagine the moments I had with Rosabelle.
I was there when she pinned me to the wall and kissed my heart.
I was there when she forfeited her one chance to fly home just to spare my life.
I was there when she cried in my arms; when she fell asleep against my chest. I remember everything. Every fucking second.
I don’t want you to die, she’d said to me.
Over and over—
I don’t want you to die
I don’t want you to die
I really don’t want you to die
I’m overheating.
I need to start moving again, but I don’t trust my legs. I’m unsteady and somehow paralyzed, my head still spinning. I need to process this but I don’t know how. Her voice keeps rising up inside me, memories circling my ribs, compressing my lungs.
Listen to me, she’d said. If these soldiers matter to you, leave. If you want to spare their lives, leave. I’m trying—I’m really trying to be a better person, but if even one of them hurts you I swear I’ll slaughter them all—
My heart pounds harder.
I want to protect you, she’d said.
I want to keep you safe
I don’t understand what’s happening.
I don’t know what’s going on with her. I don’t know what she’s doing right now or why she’s doing it. But I know better than to believe some bullshit story that she might be secretly in love with Sebastian.
She was terrified of him.
I saw the look in her eyes when he was unmasked at the warehouse.
The abject fear and horror printed on her face will likely live on in my mind forever.
I have no doubt that Sebastian is some kind of true psychopath.
I saw what he did to her that night; her blood was still warm on his body when I stared into his eyes.
There was no remorse there.
No concern for her welfare.
This was a man who was comfortable hurting her. Who’s likely hurt her before. In the moment, I had no idea who he was. I thought he was a spy; I thought we had to bring him in for questioning. Now I wish I’d killed him. I wish I’d ripped his throat out just for laying a fucking finger on her.
And if what Nazeera said is true—that Rosabelle intends to return to the island and marry Sebastian—
Nothing about that makes sense.
Rosabelle needs to get back to the Ark to save her sister, maybe even to take down the system; but she’s not trying to head home to live out a happily ever after.
Something is wrong. Rosabelle is plotting.
And she’s pushing me away on purpose.
She asked my world to erase me from her life; she probably planted these stories herself. She wants me to believe the lie she’s already sold everyone else: that she’s a heartless machine.
I won’t believe it.
I don’t.
Rosabelle’s fatal flaw is that she’s willing to destroy herself for the people she cares about.
She’ll drive herself directly into the ground; keep going until there’s nothing left.
She became a mercenary as a child just to keep her younger sister alive.
She let The Reestablishment torture her for ten years just to be able to give scraps of food to Clara.
I saw what she was willing to do to get that plane off the ground at the airfield—what she was willing to endure to get back to her sister.
What she gave up for me.
She knew stalling on that runway meant her imminent capture; she knew it meant facing possible execution; and she gave up anyway just to keep me alive. Cried in my arms, covered in blood, her body pierced with bullet holes.
I inhale sharply, my chest seizing at the memory.
There’s nothing casual about her affection.
I don’t give a fuck if everyone thinks I’m stupid for believing there’s something real between us. I know for a fact that there’s something real between us.
I know her.
The trouble is, she knows me, too.
Rosabelle knows I’d stop her from doing something reckless. She knows I’m the only person on the planet who’d stand between her and a fucking army. She knows that if I find out she’s intentionally putting herself in danger in a misguided effort to keep me safe—
Memory strikes me like a pendulum.
The world pushes out of focus. My ears ring; the sounds around me quiet.
You still don’t understand, she’d said to me. I will protect you with my life. If that means I have to fight you, I will. If that means I have to suffer in order to keep you safe, I will.
My legs finally give out.
I slide badly to the ground, my back scraping against the brick. I drop my head in my hands.
“Fuck,” I say desperately.
I haven’t felt this powerless since I was a child.