The Program (The Program #1)(29)

I wish I were dead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I’M CHEWING ON MY LIP AS I DRIVE, TEARING AT THE flesh, wincing when it burns. My lips are chapped from crying in my car day after day, but I don’t care. My hair is knotted and uncombed, and again, I don’t give a goddamn.

It’s been four days since James came home. I sit through school but don’t speak. Don’t look up. My parents ask me questions that I answer vaguely. They’re worried, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing ever did.

I drive by James’s house sometimes. Once, I saw him through his living room window, staring out at nothing. I nearly went to the door, but I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell someone that you’re the love of their life if they don’t know you? How could I survive his nonreaction?

When I pull up to my house after another bout of crying, I think about finally ending it. Stopping the fear and pain. I’m angry—angrier than I ever felt, but under that is a sadness I can barely comprehend.

I shut off the ignition and climb out of the car, walking lethargically up to the house. My hair is matted to my forehead, hanging partly in my eyes. I don’t brush it back. I like it there because it helps me feel hidden. Like I could disappear.

I open the front door but the house is quiet. “I’m home,” I say, but don’t bother waiting for an answer. I start up the stairs toward my bedroom when I hear rustling.

“Sloane?” my mother calls, her voice sounding choked. I pause and turn to look at her. Her cardigan is wrapped tightly around her as she hugs herself, her brown eyes large and worried. For a minute I want to tell her that I’m okay, but I don’t want to lie to her.

“I’m home,” I repeat. I’m about to start up the stairs again, when my father emerges from the living room. His nose is red as if he’s been crying.

“Honey,” he says to me. “Come downstairs.” His voice is soft, but different. Is that . . . Is that guilt?

My first thought is that James has killed himself. It’s a mixture of devastation and relief. But then behind my father, the door opens. Two men, white coats, walk inside the entryway. My chest seizes.

“What are they doing here?” I ask, fear creeping over my skin. The handler with the dark hair is in my house. He’s here for me.

My mother’s lips quiver. “We were just so worried, Sloane. Since James came back, you haven’t been the same. And after Brady, we couldn’t take the chance. If you’d just—”

“What have you done?” I whisper.

My dad squeezes his eyes shut, and I can tell that he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hand me over. I look at my mother again, hoping she can still stop it.

“What have you done, Mom?” But I’m so terrified that I can’t breathe. The handlers walk through the entryway, stomping purposely toward the steps, toward me. With one last betrayed look to my parents, I tear up the stairs.

They can’t take me. They can’t take me.

I burst through my bedroom door and then slam it shut, locking it. I glance toward my window but worry I’d be too injured in the fall to get away. I look frantically around my room, at all the memories: the pictures of me and my brother. Of James. The handlers will take it all. They’ll take everything.

Behind me someone jiggles the handle and then knocks. Bangs. I can’t escape. And I can’t bear the thought of losing everything. I can’t let them have it.

I grab the picture of Brady and James off my mirror. In it, James is shirtless as usual and grinning widely, his arm over Brady’s shoulders, the river behind them. My brother is midlaugh, as if James just said something really funny. I can’t remember what it was.

The banging on my door gets louder and I hear my mother’s voice, pleading with me to open it. To not hurt myself.

I slip off my chipped purple ring, kissing it hard. I love you, James, I think. Us forever, like you promised.

I lift up my mattress, searching for the slit I’d made years ago when I was trying to hide notes from James. On the other side of the door, my mother announces to them that she’s got the key. Just then I find the tear and slip the picture and the ring into it. Then I drop my mattress and cover it with the sheet. Once I’m gone, they’ll sanitize my room, but they won’t look there. I don’t think they’ll look there.

When I come back from The Program, I’ll find it. And I’ll find James and ask him about it. Maybe then we’ll remember who we are. What we meant to each other.

I spy a pair of scissors on my dresser, surprised that I didn’t notice them before. I consider fighting my way out. Stabbing the handlers—especially the one who has been after me from the beginning—and pushing past my parents. Refusing to let them take my life from me.

I grab the shears, clutching them in my fist.

There’s a clicking sound and then the door swings open. My mother swallows hard when she sees the scissors in my hand. My father calls to me, sounding terrified.

I back toward the window. My face is hot and my mouth is wet. I think I’m drooling, overwhelmed with rage as I growl at them.

“Miss Barstow,” the dark-haired handler says calmly as he enters. “Put the scissors down.” He shoots a look to the other handler and they separate, each taking one side of the room to surround me.

“No.” But my voice is like an animal’s. My father starts to cry again and even though I’m angry, I can’t hate him. Brady broke him. He can’t go through it again.