Page 108 of Break Me Apart
Almost.
That’s what makes it unbearable, and that doesn’t help me right now. It doesn’t soften a damn thing. It just makes the hatred filthier because it keeps running into the fact that I still know him. I still know the sound his voice makes when it breaks and how my body would react towards him if he walked through the door before my brain had time to remember that I want him to suffer.
That makes me angrier than anything else in this room.
And I hate myself for that.
I hate myself for ever loving him.
I hate myself for still loving him now, in this exact moment, with my brother dead and his son handed over like a sentence.
I hate myself because some part of me would still choose him first if instinct got there before my pride.
And that is fucking disgusting.
I grab the bag and walk over to the door, pulling it open without looking back.
They will call this grief. I'm certain of it. They will call it instability, desertion, a breakdown, even. They will say my judgment is clouded, my emotions compromised, and whatever other neat little phrases that let them reduce this to a personal failing instead of what it is.
But they will be wrong.
I’m not confused. I’ve never been clearer.
Staying would mean accepting that this is the price of belonging here. It would mean saying “yes, this is fine, take Cassie, take Niko, take whatever comes next,” and I’ll still stand in line, wear the uniform and say thank you for the structure.
I would rather burn every last bridge myself than hand them another body and call it duty.
The building is quiet at this hour. Good. Let it stay that way. Let them wake up tomorrow and realise I’m gone after the fact, when the only thing left to do is write it down and hand it off to somebody else.
I walk through the base like I have every right to be there, because for the next few minutes, technically, I stilldo. I stop off at the empty barracks, grab the stashed phone, shoving it into my bag next to my wallet and the phone number Niko gave me as I walk.
When I push through the outer door, the cold hits me hard enough to make my eyes sting, and I keep walking.
I’m not broken. I’m done.
This isn’t escape. It’s refusal.
And if they want to come after me for that, well, they can fucking try.
EPILOGUE
CAIDEN
THREE MONTHS LATER
From:[email protected]
Date:Friday, March 28th, 1997. 10:33
Subject:I’m Sorry
—Ari,
I don’t know if this will reach you. Honestly, I don’t know if you’ll even read it if it does. You might see my name and delete it straight off, and I wouldn’t blame you. I’m writing anyway because I don’t know what else to do.
I know what you said to me in that hospital, and I know you meant every word. I haven’t forgotten any of it. I hear it at stupid times, when I’m half asleep, when Vladimir wakes up crying, and I’m moving before I’m properly awake. Sometimes I hear your voice so clearly it feels like I’m back there again, with you looking at me as if I were someone you could kill and sleep just fine after.
