The little boy was different.
I wanted to help him. I felt such a surge of sudden anger toward his mother for neglecting his cries. Her lack of compassion as a parent devastated me and it reminded me too much of my own mother. I just wanted to help him. I wanted him to know that someone else was listening—that someone else cared. I didn’t understand why it felt so strange and exhilarating to touch him. I didn’t know that I was draining his life and I couldn’t comprehend why he’d grown limp and quiet in my arms. I thought maybe the rush of power and positive feeling meant that I’d been cured of my horrible disease. I thought so many stupid things and I ruined everything.
I thought I was helping.
I spent the next 3 years of my life in hospitals, law offices, juvenile detention centers, and suffered through pills and electroshock therapy. Nothing worked. Nothing helped. Outside of killing me, locking me up in an institution was the only solution. The only way to protect the public from the terror of Juliette.
Until he stepped into my cell, I hadn’t seen Adam Kent in 3 years.
And he does look different. Tougher, taller, harder, sharper, tattooed. He’s muscle, mature, quiet and quick. It’s almost like he can’t afford to be soft or slow or relaxed. He can’t afford to be anything but muscle, anything but strength and efficiency. The lines of his face are smooth, precise, carved into shape by years of hard living and training and trying to survive.
He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s not afraid. He’s in the army.
But he’s not so different, either. He still has the most unusually blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Dark and deep and drenched in passion. I always wondered what it’d be like to see the world through such a beautiful lens. I wondered if your eye color meant you saw the world differently. If the world saw you differently as a result.
I should have known it was him when he showed up in my cell.
A part of me did. But I’d tried so hard to repress the memories of my past that I refused to believe it could be possible. Because a part of me didn’t want to remember. A part of me was too scared to hope. A part of me didn’t know if it would make any difference to know that it was him, after all.
I often wonder what I must look like.
I wonder if I’m just a punctured shadow of the person I was before. I haven’t looked in the mirror in 3 years. I’m so scared of what I’ll see.
Someone knocks on the door.
I’m catapulted across the room by my own fear. Adam locks eyes with me before opening the door and I decide to retreat into a far corner of the room.
I sharpen my ears only to hear muted voices, hushed tones, and someone clearing his throat. I’m not sure what to do.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Adam says a little loudly. I realize he’s trying to end the conversation.
“C’mon, man, I just wanna see her—”
“She’s not a goddamn spectacle, Kenji. Get the hell out of here.”
“Wait—just tell me: Does she light shit on fire with her eyes?” Kenji laughs and I cringe, slumping to the floor behind the bed. I curl into myself and try not to hear the rest of the conversation.
I fail.
Adam sighs. I can picture him rubbing his forehead. “Just get out.”
Kenji struggles to muffle his laughter. “Damn you’re sensitive all of a sudden, huh? Hangin’ out with a girl is changin’ you, man—”
Adam says something I can’t hear.
The door slams shut.
I peek up from my hiding place. Adam looks embarrassed.
My cheeks go pink. I study the intricate threads of the finely woven carpet under my feet. I touch the cloth wallpaper and wait for him to speak. I stand up to stare out the small square of a window only to be met by the bleak backdrop of a broken city. I lean my forehead against the glass.
Metal cubes are clustered together off in the distance: compounds housing civilians wrapped in multiple layers, trying to find refuge from the cold. A mother holding the hand of a small child. Soldiers standing over them, still like statues, rifles poised and ready to fire. Heaps and heaps and heaps of trash, dangerous scraps of iron and steel glinting on the ground. Lonely trees waving at the wind.
Adam’s hands slip around my waist.
His lips are at my ear and he says nothing at all, but I melt until I’m a handful of hot butter dripping down his body. I want to eat every minute of this moment.
I allow my eyes to shut against the truth outside my window. Just for a little while.
Adam takes a deep breath and pulls me even closer. I’m molded to the shape of his silhouette; his hands are circling my waist and his cheek is pressed against my head. “You feel incredible.”
I try to laugh but seem to have forgotten how. “Those are words I never thought I’d hear.”
Adam spins me around so I’m facing him and suddenly I’m looking and not looking at his face, I’m licked by a million flames and swallowing a million more. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before. I want to wash my soul in the bottomless blue of his eyes.
He leans in until his forehead rests against mine and our lips still aren’t close enough. He whispers, “How are you?” and I want to kiss every beautiful beat of his heart.
How are you? 3 words no one ever asks me.
“I want to get out of here,” is all I can think of.
He squeezes me against his chest and I marvel at the power, the glory, the wonder in such a simple movement. He feels like 1 block of strength, 6 feet tall.