Whisper (Whisper #1)(86)

He says nothing, so I know my assumption is correct.

Kael was right — about everything.

My pulse begins to pound, pound, pound in my ears, but I keep breathing.

In …

… And out.

I try tugging against my restraints again, but they’re just as tight as before, and I’m even weaker now than when I first awoke. Alarmingly weaker. Even if I could break free of the bonds, I’m not sure I’d be able to walk out of this room without assistance. So all I can do is try to stall Vanik and hope that dream-Kael was telling the truth about help being on the way.

“You’re like a case straight out of a psychology textbook,” I say, my thoughts too sluggish to come up with a better stall tactic than to antagonize him deliberately. “You should book a session with Dr. Manning. He’d have a field day with you.”

Vanik’s face darkens, but I am beyond fear now. I won’t let it control me.

I keep breathing.

In …

… And out.

Vanik’s eyes change when the door to the room slides open. As if my words summoned him, Manning re-enters the lab.

“Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear!” Vanik cries, sounding pleased.

Within scant seconds, Manning is beside my restrained body, his beady eyes staring down at me with not a hint of emotion on his face.

“You lied to me,” I rasp. “The Remnants aren’t the terrorists — you are.”

Manning shrugs, unfazed by my accusation. “The military took our lives from us. They threw us down here and tortured us into submission. While others of my generation might not care, I’m not willing to let them find us again to finish what they started. This time, we strike first.”

I only just stop from shaking my head again, not wanting a repeat of the dizzy spell that almost took me out a moment ago. “The government can’t be the threat you claim they are. I’ve met the Speakers who live away from Lengard, and they’re thriving outside these walls. And my parents, too —” I swallow but force myself to continue. “They survived away from here for years without being noticed. Until — Until —” I swallow again. “Well, it wasn’t the military who got to them in the end.”

“No, it was you,” Vanik says heartlessly.

I feel the stab of that but manage to remain in the here and now. I’ve come too far to spiral deeper into my panic; it’s time I faced what happened and begin to move on from it.

I keep breathing.

In …

… And out.

“Yes, it was me,” I admit, my voice weak, but my words strong. “It was me who killed them. But until that happened, we were living happily — outside of Lengard. I never knew about Speakers or the military or anything else. Our lives were normal.”

“And then you killed them,” Vanik says, unnecessarily repeating the fact.

“Yes,” I say again, also unnecessarily. And I …

Keep …

Breathing.

There’s a pause, like time has stopped and the earth has halted its rotation around the sun. And then, of all things, Vanik begins to laugh.

The sound is loud and raucous, and I press deeper into the hard material supporting my spine, heedless of my injured flesh. I want to get as far away from him as possible.

“I love that you believe that,” he bellows around his laughter. “I love that you believe you’re even capable of that.”

My forehead crinkles. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re a Creator, Six-Eight-Four,” Vanik tells me, his laughter waning, but his eyes still lit with glee. “By definition, Creators create. You bring life, not death. Your ability is only limited by your imagination, but your imagination is limited in this case. You are mentally and emotionally incapable of summoning the intent to kill someone, let alone the control to see it through.”

I wish you were dead … You’re dead to me … Both of you.

I try to shake the memory away, but it lingers.

“There’s no possible way your Speaking ability could have caused your parents’ deaths,” Vanik states.

I hate you … I’m never talking to you again … You’re dead to me …

“You’re wrong,” I argue, pushing back the voices in my mind. “I killed them.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. I speak over him, needing to get my admission out now that I’ve come this far.

“I told them I wished they were dead,” I say, uttering words I’ve never been able to speak before now. “I told them they were dead to me.”

He seems to be waiting for more. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?” I say. “I had no control — the words were all it took for the action to follow through. I ran upstairs after my tantrum, and when I came back down, they were lying on the floor, dead.”

I close my eyes as the memory plays across my mind. My mum in her favorite Sunday dress, yellow with the white daisies. My dad in his pressed slacks and starched shirt, not a wrinkle to be found. Both staring up at the ceiling with glassy, unseeing eyes.

This time when Vanik laughs, it’s a bitter-sounding breath of humor. “You really do know nothing, Six-Eight-Four.”

My eyes shoot open, and I glare at him. “I know what I did. Just as I know I have to live with it for the rest of my life.”