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"Shut it, Yorke," I snapped, unable to tear my gaze away from the miniature version of myself. The same black hair, the same stark white stripe; it wasn't just a coincidence. That was me. She was younger, scared, and utterly clueless about the role she played in this sick production but she was still me.
I tried to make sense of it all, to piece together this alternate childhood that clashed violently with the memories I clung to—of my mom's gentle touch, my dad's strong embrace, the warmth of home. This cold, clinical place couldn't have been where I grew up.
"Careful. We don't want them damaged...yet," my mother instructed, her voice a scalpel slicing through my heart.
"Damaged? What the hell did they think we were? Fucking toys?" I growled under my breath and watched as the younger me squirmed against the straps. Her small body shook in pathetic efforts to break free.
"Easy, Averill. Breathe," Ansel murmured beside me and his hand found mine in an anchor to the present.
But everything in me wished she had that- the scared little girl beside me. I may not have remembered it, but it was obvious all she needed was someone- anyone- to give a fuck about her.
"Breathing's a luxury at this point," I replied tersely but I squeezed his hand back. Grounding or not, I hated feeling helpless, especially when it was my own past betraying me.
As the scene continued, my past self and Oswin were injected with something that made their struggles sluggish and their bodies eventually went limp. They looked like broken dolls discarded by a cruel child.
"Is this what you wanted me to see, Oswin?" My voice came out strangled, my insides a boiling mess of anger and confusion.
"Part of it," he admitted and his eyes never left the past that unfolded before us. "I wanted you to know the truth."
Truth was a double-edged sword—cutting deep and leaving scars that no amount of sarcasm could ever hide.
The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, a stark contrast to the acrid fear that coated my throat. I watched in disbelief as they wheeled in a third child—a boy with a mop of unruly hair and an uncertain look in his eyes. My heart clenched painfully in recognition.
"Ansel?" The name was a whisper torn from my lips, a ghost of sound in the cold room of memory.
"Tell me again, what am I supposed to do?" Young Ansel's voice was tentative, a far cry from the assured tone of the man I knew.
"Make her believe the narrative we've constructed," my mother's voice cut through the fog of confusion, authoritative and chilling. "Her mother is dead and never coming back."
Betrayal surged inside me and bile rose in my throat.
That's the lie they implanted? That she had died when, in reality, she had been there all along, orchestrating this madness?
"Is that even possible?" The skepticism in young Ansel's tone was met with impatience.
"Your powers are beyond what you can imagine," the scientist insisted. "Do it."
The scene before me wavered as young Ansel approached our unconscious forms, his expression conflicted. He reached out, and I felt the echo of his power brush against my mind—an invasive thought weaving a story that wasn't mine.
"Mom," I murmured in unison with my younger self, the word tainted with the sting of deceit.
"Shh," Oswin's voice was close, a hand on my shoulder grounding me in the present. "We need to see this through."
"See this through?" I snapped back and jerked away from his touch. "I'm watching my life being rewritten like some sick bedtime story!" My tirade was cut short as the illusion dissolved, the green haze dissipating like smoke on the wind.
We were back in Oswin's penthouse. The expensive furniture and modern art clashed violently with the turmoil inside me. My gaze snapped to Ansel, my betrayal sharp like broken glass.
"Did you know about this?" My voice held an edge, each word a dagger aimed at his heart.
"Partly," he admitted, and oh, how I wanted to hate him for it.
"Partly?" I echoed, my laugh hollow. "That's a convenient piece of selective fucking memory, Ansel. What else are you hiding?"
"Let's just take a second," Ansel stepped forward with open palms.
"A second?" I snarled and the pain of betrayal morphed into fury. "You want a second after playing fucking puppet master with my memories?"
"Everything I've done—" Ansel began, but I wasn't ready to hear excuses.
