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.
I think it made them angry.
They slapped me awake even though my eyes were open when we arrived. Someone unstrapped me without removing my handcuffs and kicked me in both kneecaps before ordering me to rise. And I tried. I tried but I couldn’t and finally 6 hands shoved me out the door and my face was bleeding on the concrete for a while. I can’t really remember the part where they dragged me inside.
I feel cold all the time.
I feel empty, like there is nothing inside of me but this broken heart, the only organ left in this shell. I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping reverberate around my skeleton. I have a heart, says science, but I am a monster, says society. And I know it, of course I know it. I know what I’ve done. I’m not asking for sympathy.
But sometimes I think—sometimes I wonder—if I were a monster, surely, I would feel it by now?
I would feel angry and vicious and vengeful. I’d know blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication.
Instead I feel an abyss within me that’s so deep, so dark I can’t see within it; I can’t see what it holds. I do not know what I am or what might happen to me.
I do not know what I might do again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
An explosion.
The sound of glass shattering.
Someone yanks me back just as I pull the trigger and the bullet hits the window behind Anderson’s head.
I’m spun around.
Kenji is shaking me, shaking me so hard I feel my head jerk back and forth and he’s screaming at me, telling me we have to go, that I need to drop the gun, he’s breathing hard and he’s saying, “I’m going to need you to walk away, okay? Juliette? Can you understand me? I need you to back off right now. You’re going to be okay—you’re going to be all right—you’re going to be fine, you just have to—”
“No, Kenji—” I’m trying to stop him from pulling me away, trying to keep my feet planted where they are because he doesn’t understand. He needs to understand. “I have to kill him. I have to make sure he dies,” I’m telling him. “I just need you to give me another second—”
“No,” he says, “not yet, not right now,” and he’s looking at me like he’s about to break, like he’s seen something in my face that he wishes he’d never seen, and he says, “We can’t. We can’t kill him yet. It’s too soon, okay?”