Unite Me. Tahereh Mafi

I’m forced to wear every day, and it petrifies me.

      That this girl would know exactly how to shatter me.

      She rests her hand against my collarbone.

      And then she grips my shoulder, digs her fingers into my skin like she’s trying to tear off my arm. The agony is so blinding that this time I actually scream. I fall to my knees before her and she wrenches my arm, twisting it backward until I’m heaving from the effort to stay calm, fighting not to lose myself to the pain.

      “Juliette,” I gasp, “please—”

      She runs her free hand through my hair, tugs my head back so I’m forced to meet her eyes. And then she leans into my ear, her lips almost touching my cheek. “Do you love me?” she whispers.

      “What?” I breathe. “What are you doing—”

      “Do you still love me?” she asks again, her fingers now tracing the shape of my face, the line of my jaw.

      “Yes,” I tell her. “Yes I still do—”

      She smiles.

      It’s such a sweet, innocent smile that I’m actually shocked when her grip tightens around my arm. She twists my shoulder back until I’m sure it’s being ripped from the socket. I’m seeing spots when she says, “It’s almost over now.”

      “What is?” I ask, frantic, trying to look around. “What’s almost over—”

      “Just a little longer and I’ll leave.”

      “No—no, don’t go—where are you going—”

      “You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.”

      “No,” I’m gasping, “no—”

      All at once she yanks me forward, and I’m awake so quickly I can’t breathe.

      I blink several times only to realize I’ve woken up in the middle of the night. Absolute blackness greets me from the corners of my room. My chest is heaving; my arm is bound and pounding, and I realize my pain medication has worn off. There’s a small remote wedged under my hand; I press the button to replenish the dosage.

      It takes a few moments for my breathing to stabilize. My thoughts slowly retreat from panic.

       Juliette.

      I can’t control a nightmare, but in my waking moments her name is the only reminder I will permit myself.

      The accompanying humiliation will not allow me much more than that.

SEVEN

      “Well, isn’t this embarrassing. My son, tied down like an animal.”

      I’m half-convinced I’m having another nightmare. I blink my eyes open slowly; I stare up at the ceiling. I make no sudden movements, but I can feel the very real weight of restraints around my left wrist and both ankles. My injured arm is still bound and slung across my chest. And though the pain in my shoulder is present, it’s dulled to a light hum. I feel stronger. Even my head feels clearer, sharper somehow. But then I taste the tang of something sour and metal in my mouth and wonder how long I’ve been in bed.

      “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, amused.

      He moves closer to my bed, his footsteps reverberating right through me. “You have Delalieu whimpering apologies for disturbing me, begging my men to blame him for the inconvenience of this unexpected visit. No doubt you terrified the old man for doing his job, when the truth is, I would’ve found out even without his alerts. This,” he says, “is not the kind of mess you can conceal. You’re an idiot for thinking otherwise.”

      I feel a light tugging on my legs and realize he’s undoing my restraints. The brush of his skin against mine is abrupt and unexpected, and it triggers something deep and dark within me, enough to make me physically ill. I taste vomit at the back of my throat. It takes all my self-control not to jerk away from him.

      “Sit up, son. You should be well enough to function now. You were too stupid to rest when you were supposed to, and now you’ve overcorrected. Three days you’ve been unconscious, and I arrived twenty-seven hours ago. Now get up. This is ridiculous.”

      I’m still staring at the ceiling. Hardly breathing.

      He changes tactics.

      “You know,” he says carefully, “I’ve actually heard an interesting story about you.” He sits down on the edge of my bed; the mattress creaks and groans under his weight. “Would you like to hear it?”

      My left hand has begun to tremble. I clench it fast against the bedsheets.

      “Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.” He pauses. “Does that name sound familiar?”

      I squeeze my eyes shut.

      “Imagine my surprise,” he says, “when I heard that my son had finally done something right. That he’d finally taken initiative and dispensed with a traitorous soldier who’d been stealing from our storage compounds. I heard you shot him right in the forehead.” A laugh. “I congratulated myself—told myself you’d finally come into your own, that you’d finally learned how to lead properly. I was almost proud.

      “That’s why it came as an even greater shock to me to hear Fletcher’s family was still alive.” He claps his hands together. “Shocking, of course, because you, of all people, should know the rules. Traitors come from a family of traitors, and one betrayal means death to them all.”

      He rests his hand on my chest.

      I’m building walls in my mind again. White walls. Blocks of concrete. Empty rooms and open space.

      Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays.

      “It’s funny,” he continues, thoughtful now, “because I told myself I’d wait to discuss this with you. But somehow, this moment seems so right, doesn’t it?” I can hear him smile. “To tell you just how tremendously . . . disappointed I am. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “In a single month you’ve lost two soldiers, couldn’t contain a clinically insane girl, upended an entire sector, and encouraged rebellion among the citizens. And somehow, I’m not surprised at all.”

      His hand shifts; lingers at my collarbone.

      White walls, I think.

      Blocks of concrete.

      Empty rooms. Open space.

      Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays.

      “But what’s worse than all this,” he says, “is not that you’ve managed to humiliate me by disrupting the order I’d finally managed to establish. It’s not even that you somehow got yourself shot in the process. But that you would show sympathy to the family of a traitor,” he says, laughing, his voice a happy, cheerful thing. “This is unforgivable.”

      My eyes are open now, blinking up at the fluorescent lights above my head, focused on the white of the bulbs blurring my vision. I will not move. I will not speak.

      His hand closes around my throat.

      The movement is so rough and violent I’m almost relieved. Some part of me always hopes he’ll go through with it; that maybe this time he’ll actually let me die. But he never does. It never lasts.

      Torture is not torture when there’s any hope of relief.

      He lets go all too soon and gets exactly what he wants. I jerk upward, coughing and wheezing and finally making a sound that acknowledges his existence in this room. My whole body is shaking now, my muscles in shock from the assault and from remaining still for so long. My skin is cold sweat; my breaths are labored and painful.

      “You’re very lucky,” he says,