Believe Me (Shatter Me #6.5)(7)

The dog barks. I hear it panting.

It barks again.

“So you’re just going to ignore me?” Kenji exhales, irritated. “Why? Why are you like this? Why are you always such a dick?”

Sometimes I’m so desperate for quiet I think I might commit murder for a moment of silence. Instead, I shut down incrementally, tuning out as many voices as I’m able. It wasn’t so bad before I was forced to join this peace cult. In my previous life at Sector 45 I was left alone. At Omega Point, I spent most of my time in solitary confinement. When we later took over 45, I retained the privacy of my rooms.

Here, I am losing my mind.

I am bombarded, en masse, by the emotional downloads of others. There is no reprieve from the pandemonium. Ella likes spending time with these people, and these people do everything in crowds. Meals are taken in a massive dining tent. End-of-day mingling is done communally, in the quiet tent, where it is never quiet. Many of the cabins were damaged or destroyed in the battle, which means everyone is currently sharing space—or sleeping in common areas—while we rebuild. Nouria and Sam did us a kindness by repurposing Ella’s room in the medical tent; it seemed the only alternative to bunking with everyone else in a makeshift barracks. Still, our room smells always of antiseptic and death. There is only one narrow hospital bed, over which Ella and I argue each night. She insists, despite my unassailable protests, that I take the bed while she sleeps on the floor.

It’s the only time I ever get upset with her.

I don’t mind the cold floor. I don’t mind physical discomfort. No, what I hate is lying awake every night listening to the pain and grief of others still recovering. I hate being reminded constantly of the ten days I spent standing in the corner of our room watching Ella struggle to come back to life.

My need for silence has grown debilitating. Sometimes I think if I could kill this part of me, I would.

“Don’t touch me,” I say suddenly, sensing Kenji’s intention to make contact with me—to tap my shoulder or grab my arm—before it happens. It takes a great deal of self-control not to physically respond.

“Why do you have to say it like that?” he says, wounded. “Why do you make it sound like I was going to enjoy touching you? I’m just trying to get your attention.”

“What do you need, Kishimoto?” I ask unkindly. “I’m not interested in your company.”

His responding pain is loud; it glances off my chest, leaving a vague impression. This pathetic new development fills me with shame. I desperately don’t want to care, and yet—

Ella adores this idiot.

I come to a sudden stop on the path. The dog bumps my legs, wagging its tail violently before barking again. I take a deep breath, stare at a tree in the distance.

“What is it you need?” I ask again, this time gently.

I feel him frown as he processes his feelings. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I got it.”

I stiffen at that, my body activating with awareness. I pivot fully to face him. Suddenly, Kenji Kishimoto appears to me vividly rendered: his tired eyes, his tanned skin, his heavy, sharp black brows—and his hair, in desperate need of a cut. There’s a bruise fading along his temple, his left hand wrapped in gauze. I hear the rattle of leaves and spot a squirrel, darting into a bush. The dog goes berserk.

“You got what?” I say carefully.

“Oh, now you’re interested?” He meets my eyes, his own narrowed in anger. “Now you’re going to look at me like I’m a human being? You know what? Fuck this. I don’t even know why I do shit for you.”

“You didn’t do it for me.”

Kenji makes a sound of disbelief, looking away before looking back at me. “Yeah, well, she deserves to have a nice ring, doesn’t she? You miserable piece of shit. Who proposes to a girl without a ring?”

“I might remind you that you are in no position to exercise moral superiority,” I say, my voice growing lethal even as I will myself to remain calm. “Having destroyed her wedding dress.”

“That was an accident!” he cries. “Yours was an oversight!”

“Your very existence is an oversight.”

“Oh, wow.” He throws up his hands. “Ha ha. Very mature comeback.”

“Do you have it or not?”

“Yeah. I do.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But, you know, now I’m thinking I should just give it to her myself. After all, I was the one who did all of this for you. I was the one who asked Winston to sketch your design. I was the one who found someone to make the goddamn thing—”

“I was not going to leave the grounds while she was lying in a hospital bed,” I say, so close to shouting that Kenji visibly startles. He steps back, studies me a moment.

I neutralize my expression, but too late.

Kenji loses his anger as he stands there, softening as he stares at me. I experience nothing but rage in response.

He never seems to understand. It’s his constant pity— his sympathy, not his stupidity—that makes me want to kill him.

I take a step forward, lower my voice. “If you are idiotic enough to think I will allow you to be the one to give her this wedding ring, you have clearly underestimated me. I might not be able to kill you, Kishimoto, but I will devote my life to making yours a palpable, never-ending hellscape.”