like that.
I encapsulate a world of nothing.
Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form have now
been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed, angry, even.
I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person who’s ever tried
to see good in me is now paying for it with his life.
The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me.
Well. 1 of 2.
I find myself thinking about Warner too much.
I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating demeanor. I remember
the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the window to escape and I remember
the horror on his face when I pointed his own gun at his heart and then I wonder at
my preoccupation with this person who is nothing like me and still so similar.
I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how he will
greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially not after
I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old man boy person
into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m lying to myself.
Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who could ever understand him.
And this is what I’ve learned:
I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the warmth of friendship
or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is the leader of The Reestablishment
and applauds his son’s murders instead of condemning them and I know that Warner has
no idea what it’s like to be normal.
Neither do I.
He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global domination
without questioning why, without considering the repercussions, without stopping long
enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a power, a strength, a position
in society that enables him to do too much damage and he owns it with pride. He kills
without remorse or regret and he wants me to join him. He sees me for what I am and
expects me to live up to that potential.
Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else to
contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and taking
control. That’s what he wants from me.
And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything. Lately, I
don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore, and I know
the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my head, telling me
I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I could be so much more
than a scared little girl.
He says I could be power.
But still, I hesitate.
Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no
pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not want to hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even
if they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If
I die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred
of dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control.
And I will not allow anyone to take that from me.
So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words.
We are synonyms but not the same.
Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve seen the
world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and forget that though
they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they share a certain set
of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night is not the same as
a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not
the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge themselves into a sentence
changes everything.
They are not the same.
I’ve spent my
I encapsulate a world of nothing.
Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form have now
been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed, angry, even.
I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person who’s ever tried
to see good in me is now paying for it with his life.
The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me.
Well. 1 of 2.
I find myself thinking about Warner too much.
I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating demeanor. I remember
the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the window to escape and I remember
the horror on his face when I pointed his own gun at his heart and then I wonder at
my preoccupation with this person who is nothing like me and still so similar.
I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how he will
greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially not after
I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old man boy person
into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m lying to myself.
Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who could ever understand him.
And this is what I’ve learned:
I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the warmth of friendship
or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is the leader of The Reestablishment
and applauds his son’s murders instead of condemning them and I know that Warner has
no idea what it’s like to be normal.
Neither do I.
He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global domination
without questioning why, without considering the repercussions, without stopping long
enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a power, a strength, a position
in society that enables him to do too much damage and he owns it with pride. He kills
without remorse or regret and he wants me to join him. He sees me for what I am and
expects me to live up to that potential.
Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else to
contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and taking
control. That’s what he wants from me.
And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything. Lately, I
don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore, and I know
the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my head, telling me
I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I could be so much more
than a scared little girl.
He says I could be power.
But still, I hesitate.
Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no
pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not want to hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even
if they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If
I die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred
of dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control.
And I will not allow anyone to take that from me.
So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words.
We are synonyms but not the same.
Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve seen the
world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and forget that though
they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they share a certain set
of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night is not the same as
a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not
the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge themselves into a sentence
changes everything.
They are not the same.
I’ve spent my
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