14. The Memory That Breaks Her
The Memory That Breaks Her
The whiskey was warm and bitter and it didn't taste like anything at all.
I'd been sitting at the bar for an hour—or maybe two, or maybe just minutes—staring at the amber liquid in the glass, watching the light from the streetlamp outside catch the edges and turn them gold.
The bar was empty. The chairs were up. The doors were locked.
Matt had gone home an hour ago, after making sure I had everything I needed, after reminding me to lock up, after telling me to get some sleep.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't eat.
I couldn't stop thinking about Mercy Logistics.
The name was written on the back of my eyelids.
The warehouse was still there, in my memory, the bodies cooling on the floor, the blood drying on my hands.
The phone was in my pocket.
The messages were still there.
Shipment 47-B.
My batch number.
My designation.
My name.
I took another sip of whiskey. The liquid burned my throat, settled in my stomach like something heavy, something that might keep me grounded.
It didn't help.
Nothing helped.
Nothing ever helped.
Sasha.
The name surfaced like a body rising from deep water.
I was standing in a room I didn't recognize. White walls. No windows. A table between us, metal, the kind they used in medical exam rooms.
Across from me sat a woman.
Blonde. Young. Her eyes were hollow in a way I recognized, a way that made my chest ache.
"You're Bunny."
Not a question.
"Who are you?"
"Sasha. Batch 36. Before you. Before Gabriel decided I wasn't worth keeping."
"He kept me."
"For now."
She leaned forward, and her face was kind in a way that hurt to look at.
"He'll discard you too. They always do. It's what he is. It's what they all are."
"You don't know him."
"I know him better than you ever will."
Her hand reached across the table, and her fingers were cold, and she touched my face the way Gabriel used to.
"Run, Bunny. While you still can. Before he breaks you the way he broke me."
"I can't run."
"Then you'll die. Or worse. You'll become like me. A ghost. A memory. A warning to the next girl."
"What happened to you?"
"He threw me away. The way he'll throw you away. The way he throws all of us away."
Her face was shifting.
Blonde.
Brown.
Red.
Faces I didn't recognize.
Faces I did.
Rue.
The woman who'd said Gabriel was dead.
The woman I'd killed.
The woman I didn't remember killing.
"You're not real."
My voice was shaking.
"You're not real. None of this is real."
"Isn't it?"
Her face shifted again.
It was mine.
I was looking at myself.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair tangled around my shoulders.
"He'll discard you too."
My voice, coming from someone else's mouth.
"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.
The screaming started without permission.
I didn't know I was screaming until I heard it—a sound that didn't sound like me, high and raw and broken, the sound of something that had been trapped for too long. My hands were in my hair, pulling, twisting, trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
"I don't know what's real!"
The words tore out of me.
"I don't know what's real—I don't know—I don't—"
The door opened.
Footsteps.
Matt's voice, sharp with concern.
"Bunny!"
He was on the floor beside me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching my face.
"Bunny, look at me. Look at me."
"I don't know what's real—"
"Look at me."
I looked at him. His eyes were grey, or blue, or something in between. They were steady. They were real. They didn't shift or change or dissolve when I tried to hold onto them.
"I'm real."
His voice was calm.
"The floor is real. The bar is real. The door is real. You're in The Lost Hours. You're safe."
"I don't feel safe."
"I know. But you are."
He didn't try to fix me. He didn't tell me to stop screaming or to pull myself together or to be stronger than what I was feeling. He just sat there, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes on my face, and he stayed.
"I remembered something."
My voice was shaking.
"A woman. Sasha. Batch 36. She said Gabriel would discard me. She said he already had."
"Is she real?"
"I don't know."
"Does she feel real?"
"She feels like something. But I don't know if she's real or if I made her up."
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know."
"Then don't worry about it. Not tonight. Tonight, just breathe."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. You're doing it right now. Just keep going."
I breathed. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The air was warm and smelled like whiskey and something else—something clean, something that reminded me of Matt's jacket, the one he'd draped over me when I'd fallen asleep on the couch.
"That's it."
His voice was soft.
"Just keep breathing."
I didn't know how long we sat there.
Minutes. Hours. Time had stopped meaning anything. The floor was cold. The bar was dark. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across the wood.
Matt didn't leave.
He stayed beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his presence steady and warm. He didn't ask questions. He didn't push for answers. He just stayed.
"I killed her."
The words came out before I could stop them.
"Rue. The woman who said Gabriel was dead. I killed her, and I don't remember doing it."
"Do you remember why?"
"She said he never loved me. She said he was planning to sell me. She said he left because his brother's people were closing in, not because he cared about me."
"Do you believe her?"
"I don't know. I can't remember. I can't remember anything."
"Then don't try. Not tonight. Tonight, just rest."
"I can't rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Sasha. Rue. The girl who wasn't there. They're all the same. They're all me."
"They're not you."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. You're alive. You're still fighting. That's not nothing."
He stood up and helped me to my feet. My legs were shaking. My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
"Come on. Let's get you to the couch."
"I don't want to be alone."
"You're not alone. I'm right here."
He led me to the back room, and I sat on the couch, and he draped his jacket over my shoulders. The fabric was warm. It smelled like him—coffee and something else, something I couldn't name.
"Sleep."
"I can't."
"Try."
"What if I dream about her again?"
"Then you'll wake up, and I'll be here, and we'll get through it together."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I closed my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids was soft and warm, and I let myself drift. Not sleep. Not yet. Just... floating. Waiting for whatever came next.