Page 109 of Operation: Defiance

The first touch of bristles to my teeth is almost unbearable. Too sharp. Too loud. Mint cuts through the furry coating like a scythe. My gums protest, no longer used to this kind of attention, throbbing under the strokes.

But I don’t stop. Front teeth first. Then the sides. Then the molars. My shoulder complains about the angle, but it holds. My jaw starts to ache from staying open too long.

I rinse, using my cupped palm to bring water to my lips. There’s still too much fuzz. Too much…wrong.

The second pass is better. Easier.

When I finally stop, my mouth tingles. My tongue feels like it belongs to me again. The taste of what they called “food” lingers at the edge of my memory, but the mint cuts through it.

I didn’t realize how much I needed that taste gone until now.

I cap the toothpaste with more effort than it should take and set it back exactly where it was. Brush too. Ordered. Controlled. Because I can choose that now too.

My legs wobble. Standing on my own, walking, brushing my teeth… This is more movement than I’ve been allowed in too long. My body is keeping score even if my mind doesn’t want to. Sitting sounds good. Necessary. Lying down would be even better.

Then my glance catches the mirror.

I didn’t know I was avoiding it until just now.

I could turn away. Go back to bed. Pretend.

I grip the edge of the counter instead. The porcelain is cool under my fingers.

“Look,” I whisper. “Just once.”

For a second, my brain refuses to make the connection between what I see and what I know of me.

The woman in the mirror is pale. Too pale. Her skin has a sallow undertone that doesn’t belong. Bruises blossom along her jaw, her throat, the edges of her collarbones—yellow and green at the borders, ugly purple at the center.

There’s swelling over her right cheekbone. A small cut near her hairline. Faint, square imprints where electrodes used to be, only just starting to fade.

Her hair is flattened in places, sticking out in others. Thinner than it should be. Stripped of the small rituals that used to define it. A part. A twist. A clip or a braid.

Her eyes are the worst.

They’re mine. Color, shape, all correct. But the way they sit in her face is wrong. Too hollow. Shadows brace the sockets, highlighting the streaks of red around her irises.

I don’t recognize my own posture. My shoulders are drawn tightly. My head is angled, protecting the side where the ties from the hood rubbed my neck raw.

I swallow. The woman in the mirror moves at the same time. That’s the only proof I have that she’s me.

“Okay,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “This is data.”

Naming a thing helps. So does cataloging.

Mixed stage bruises. Pressure repeated time and time again.

Shoulder swelling is visible under the fabric of the sweatshirt. Range of motion is compromised. Dangerous if not treated. Less dangerous after Asher did…whatever he did.

Wrists bruised, abraded, raw. Swelling. Nerve pain still present, but improving.

My face is…different.

I let myself have that word. Different.

Not ruined.

Not destroyed.