Unravel Me (Shatter Me, #2)(58)

“Shut your mouth,” Warner says, his voice so low, so even, his frame so still it’s terrifying.

“You are weak,” Anderson spits, disgusted. “Too pathetically sentimental. Don’t want to kill your own father? Too afraid it’ll break your miserable heart?”

Warner’s jaw tenses.

“Shoot me,” Anderson says, his eyes dancing, bright with amusement. “I said shoot me!” he shouts, this time reaching for Warner’s injured arm, grabbing him until his fingers are clenched tight around the wound, twisting his arm back until Warner actually gasps from the pain, blinking too fast, trying desperately to suppress the scream building inside of him. His grip on the gun in his good hand wavers, just a little.

Anderson releases his son. Pushes him so hard that Warner stumbles as he tries to maintain his balance. His face is chalk-white. The sling wrapped around his arm is seeping with blood.

“So much talk,” Anderson says, shaking his head. “So much talk and never enough follow-through. You embarrass me,” he says to Warner, face twisted in repulsion. “You make me sick.”

A sharp crack.

Anderson backhands Warner in the face so hard Warner actually sways for a moment, already unsteady from all the blood he’s losing. But he doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t make a sound.

He stands there, bearing the pain, blinking fast, jaw so tight, staring at his father with absolutely no emotion on his face; there’s no indication he’s just been slapped but the bright red mark across his cheek, his temple, and part of his forehead. But his arm sling is more blood than cotton now, and he looks far too ill to be on his feet.

Still, he says nothing.

“Do you want to threaten me again?” Anderson is breathing hard as he speaks. “Do you still think you can defend your little girlfriend? You think I’m going to allow your stupid infatuation to get in the way of everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve worked toward?” Anderson’s gun is no longer pointed at me. He forgets me long enough to press the barrel of his gun into Warner’s forehead, twisting it, jabbing it against his skin as he speaks. “Have I taught you nothing?” he shouts. “Have you learned nothing from me—”

I don’t know how to explain what happens next.

All I know is that my hand is around Anderson’s throat and I’ve pinned him to the wall, so overcome by a blind, burning, all-consuming rage that I think my brain has already caught on fire and dissolved into ash.

I squeeze a little harder.

He’s sputtering. He’s gasping. He’s trying to get at my arms, clawing limp hands at my body and he’s turning red and blue and purple and I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it so, so much.

I think I’m smiling.

I bring my face less than an inch away from his ear and whisper, “Drop the gun.”

He does.

I drop him and grab the gun at the same time.

Anderson is wheezing, coughing on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to speak, trying to reach for something to defend himself with and I’m amused by his pain. I’m floating in a cloud of absolute, undiluted hatred for this man and all that he’s done and I want to sit and laugh until the tears choke me into a contented sort of silence. I understand so much now. So much.

“Juliette—”

“Warner,” I say, so softly, still staring at Anderson’s body slumped on the floor in front of me, “I’m going to need you to leave me alone right now.”

I weigh the gun in my hands. Test my finger on the trigger. Try to remember what Kenji taught me about taking aim. About keeping my hands and arms steady. Preparing for the kickback—the recoil—of the shot.

I tilt my head. Take inventory of his body parts.

“You,” Anderson finally manages to gasp, “you—”

I shoot him in the leg.

He’s screaming. I think he’s screaming. I can’t really hear anything anymore. My ears feel stuffed full of cotton, like someone might be trying to speak to me or maybe someone is shouting at me but everything is muffled and I have too much to focus on right now to pay attention to whatever annoying things are happening in the background. All I know is the reverberation of this weapon in my hand. All I hear is the gunshot echoing through my head. And I decide I’d like to do it again.

I shoot him in the other leg.

There’s so much screaming.

I’m entertained by the horror in his eyes. The blood ruining the expensive fabric of his clothes. I want to tell him he doesn’t look very attractive with his mouth open like that but then I think he probably wouldn’t care about my opinion anyway. I’m just a silly girl to him. Just a silly little girl, a stupid child with a pretty face who’s too much of a coward, he said, too much of a coward to defend herself. And oh, wouldn’t he like to keep me. Wouldn’t he like to keep me as his little pet. And I realize no. I shouldn’t bother sharing my thoughts with him. There’s no point wasting words on someone who’s about to die.

I take aim at his chest. Try to remember where the heart is.

Not quite to the left. Not quite in the center.

Just—there.

Perfect.





THIRTY-SEVEN


I am a thief.

I stole this notebook and this pen from one of the doctors, from one of his lab coats when he wasn’t looking, and I shoved them both down my pants. This was just before he ordered those men to come and get me. The ones in the strange suits with the thick gloves and the gas masks with the foggy plastic windows hiding their eyes. They were aliens, I remember thinking. I remember thinking they must’ve been aliens because they couldn’t have been human, the ones who handcuffed my hands behind my back, the ones who strapped me to my seat. They stuck Tasers to my skin over and over for no reason other than to hear me scream but I wouldn’t. I whimpered but I never said a word. I felt the tears streak down my cheeks but I wasn’t crying.