That I had always been alone.
That I would always be alone.
That Gabriel had left because there was nothing left to stay for.
The warehouse district fell away behind me, and I walked into the morning, into the unknown, into the next chapter of a story I was writing in blood and forgetting as I went.
3
The Girl Who Wasn't There
The jukebox was playing something sad and country, the kind of song that mentioned trucks and rain and women who'd left without saying goodbye.
I'd been sitting in the booth for an hour. Maybe two. The waitress had stopped coming by, which meant either she'd given up on me or she'd forgotten I existed. Both felt equally possible. The french fries on my plate were cold—had been cold for a while, the grease congealing into something that looked almost solid, almost edible, almost like food I'd chosen to eat rather than something I'd ordered because my body was screaming for calories and I couldn't remember the last time I'd listened.
When did I last eat?
I couldn't remember.
When did I last sleep?
I couldn't remember that either.
The coffee was bitter. I'd been drinking it black because I didn't know how I took it anymore—cream? sugar? something else?—and every sip was a reminder that I didn't know myself the way I used to. The woman I'd been before the Institute, before Gabriel, before the pink room and the collar and the lullaby—she would have known how she liked her coffee. She would have known where she lived, what she did, who she was.
I knew none of those things.
But I remembered the apartment.
My apartment.
I'd found it two weeks ago—or maybe three, or maybe five, time had stopped meaning anything—and I'd paid cash for six months upfront. The landlord hadn't asked questions. The neighbors hadn't introduced themselves. It was small and dark and smelled like the person who'd lived there before me, someone I'd never met, someone whose furniture I'd thrown out and replaced with nothing.
I should go back there.
Sleep.
Shower.
Try to remember who I was before I started waking up in motel rooms with blood on my hands.
But I didn't move.
The french fries sat on the plate. The coffee sat in the cup. The jukebox played its sad song, and I stared at the window and watched the darkness press against the glass and tried not to think about Gabriel.
"He'll never love you."
The memory came without warning, sharp as a blade slipped between ribs.
Batch 39.
The girl was young—younger than me, maybe, though I couldn't tell anymore. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A scar on her lip that she kept touching, like she was checking to make sure it was still there.
We were in a room I didn't recognize. White walls. No windows. A table between us, metal, the kind they used in medical exam rooms.
"He's dangerous," she said. "He doesn't care about you. He cares about what you can become. That's not the same thing."
"You don't know him." My voice, but younger. Softer. Still capable of believing.
