Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(65)

I blink, and for a moment the face across the room is blurred. Dread takes root in the pit of my stomach and becomes a weed that threatens to grow into my throat and choke me. Forgiveness? After everything I’ve seen? But then my vision clears, and I see that it’s Revenge—not Forgiveness—who watches me. He’s standing in front of the window, a black-silver silhouette outlined in moonlight. How did it become night? When I say nothing in response, he turns to gaze through the window, as if the world out there is so much more interesting than this one.

For a few seconds I just look at him. That bittersweet scent of chocolate surrounds us. And I feel it. All of this, ending. It’s almost audible, like glass breaking or a page turning.

I’ve finally made my choice.





TWENTY-THREE


“Alex, don’t do this.”

Silence.

Then, “Alex. Look at me.”

Still I don’t react. Ignoring Forgiveness and his grating voice has suddenly become easy, and I watch the picture slide out of the printer. Over and over and over. Nate Foster and his whore, entwined and oblivious to the fact that they’re not alone. No one is ever alone, even when they are. I’ve seen the image so many times now that it’s ingrained on the insides of my eyelids, there whenever I close my eyes. Revenge is behind me, strangely silent. But he’s here, even if he hasn’t touched me yet. It must be only a matter of time, because I’m not going to change my mind again. The choice is made.

It’s become a mantra: the choice is made. And now I actually believe it.

Making a sound in his throat, Forgiveness comes closer, probably to plead with me again or help me find reason. I don’t look up as I mutter, “Get the f*ck out of my face, or I won’t stop with the flyers.” This makes him pause, and I know we’re both thinking of the gun in Uncle Saul’s glove box.

Now Revenge steps in front of me, blocking Forgiveness from view. His fists are clenched. I don’t intervene. Mint clashes with chocolate and they glare at each other. “Nate Foster deserves it,” Revenge growls.

“Ruining his life won’t make anything better,” Forgiveness snaps back, the first time I’ve ever heard his voice rise. “It won’t change what happened, and it won’t give you any sense of peace, Alex. It will only—”

“Save the speech about my own self-destruction, please.” I keep my attention glued to the printer.

Gilbert, the librarian, doesn’t even look up from the book in front of him. He has that glaze in his eyes that gives away the fact he’s high as a kite. Ironic that he’s one of the smartest people in this town. He doesn’t ask questions, like what it is I’m printing so many copies of or what class I’m supposed to be in. He just bends over some pages, dirty hair hanging into his eyes, and reads the words intently. It makes me think of Angus and his strange, empty jars. Odd how people find meaning in simple objects, when the real meaning is something they can’t even see.

Involuntarily, my eyes meet Forgiveness’s. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes are screaming. Stop. Don’t do this. You’ll regret it. Please.

The choice is made. The choice is made. The choice is made.

But Forgiveness won’t give up. He sends his memories to me, wistful moments of release or reunion. Just when I feel myself begin to waver, Revenge steps closer and I see a flash. A memory of my own. My little brother in his car seat, bloody and broken and gone. My resolve hardens like it’s a clay sculpture that’s been in the oven just long enough. Finished with the printer, I take my stack of inky retribution and walk away. It’s a relief to put my back to the Choices. “Bye, Gil,” I say as I pass the lanky librarian. He flaps a hand at me.

Desperate, Forgiveness calls my name, and there are sounds suspiciously like a struggle. I don’t look back, but I hear Revenge say, “Let her go.” He doesn’t sound as smug as I thought he would. He doesn’t follow me, and I’m glad, because there’s something I want to do without anyone hovering over my shoulder. I drift through the school hallways, memorizing everything even though it’s already been memorized, and enter the girls’ bathroom.

Light pours in through the grates over the window. Setting the flyers on the edge of the sink, mindless of the dampness, I take a sharpie out of my pocket and go into the big stall. I squat. Next to my mother’s declaration of love I write, ALEX WAS HERE. Because I was, no matter how it begins or ends. I stayed when everyone else left, I walked these halls and laughed and lived when all I could think about was death. My hand shakes slightly. For once, though, I’ve created something legible. I lean back, trying to avoid touching the toilet, and study the plastic wall, the things that kids thought worthy enough of forever remembering. Love, hate, hope, pain. My parents. And me.

Finished with this, too, I leave that familiar and reeking bathroom for the last time. Flyers in hand, I walk two doors down to the office. A fan blows in the corner and the air smells like stale cigarette smoke. Julia Stork, our receptionist and nurse, looks up from her rickety desk. Her cat-eye glasses glint purple in the florescent light. “Hi, Alex.” Unaware of my purpose for being here, she smiles.

I don’t smile back. The old me would hesitate, think, reconsider, but I’m past all of that. The choice is made. And it seems significant that there are no Emotions around me when I say it.