Tahereh Mafi - Destroy Me

“Second,” I say, more slowly this time, “in an effort to expedite the process of stabilizing Sector

45, its citizens, and the ensuing chaos resulting from these recent disruptions, the supreme commander of The Reestablishment has joined us on base. He arrived,” I tell them, “not thirty-six hours ago.”

Some men have dropped their fists. Forgotten themselves. Their eyes are wide.

Petrified.

“You will welcome him,” I say.

They drop to their knees.

It’s strange, wielding this kind of power. I wonder if my father is proud of what he’s created. That

I’m able to bring thousands of grown men to their knees with only a few words; with only the sound of his title. It’s a horrifying, addicting kind of thing.

I count five beats in my head.

“Rise.”

They do. And then they march.

Five steps backward, forward, standing in place. They raise their left arms, curl their fingers into fists, and fall on one knee. This time, I do not let them up.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” I say to them. “We will not rest until Kent and Kishimoto are found and Ms. Ferrars has returned to base. I will confer with the supreme commander in these next twenty-four hours; our newest mission will soon be clearly defined. In the interim you are to understand two things: first, that we will defuse the tension among the citizens and take pains to remind them of their promises to our new world. And second, be certain that we will find Privates

Kent and Kishimoto.” I stop. Look around, focusing on their faces. “Let their fates serve as an example to you. We do not welcome traitors in The Reestablishment. And we do not forgive.”

One of my father’s men is waiting for me outside my door.

I glance in his direction, but not long enough to discern his features. “State your business, soldier.”

“Sir,” he says, “I’ve been instructed to inform you that the supreme commander requests your presence in his quarters for dinner at twenty-hundred hours.”

“Consider your message received.” I move to unlock my door.

He steps forward, blocking my path.

I turn to face him.

He’s standing less than a foot away from me: an implicit act of disrespect; a level of comfort even

Delalieu does not allow himself. But unlike my men, the sycophants who surround my father consider themselves lucky. Being a member of the supreme commander’s elite guard is considered a privilege and an honor. They answer to no one but him.

And right now, this soldier is trying to prove he outranks me.

He’s jealous of me. He thinks I’m unworthy of being the son of the supreme commander of The

Reestablishment. It’s practically written on his face.

I have to stifle my impulse to laugh as I take in his cold gray eyes and the black pit that is his soul.

He wears his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his military tattoos clearly defined and on display.

The concentric black bands of ink around his forearms are accented in red, green, and blue, the only sign on his person to indicate that he is a soldier highly elevated in rank. It’s a sick branding ritual

I’ve always refused to be a part of.

The soldier is still staring at me.

I incline my head in his direction, raise my eyebrows.

“I am required,” he says, “to wait for verbal acceptance of this invitation.”

I take a moment to consider my choices, which are none.

I, like the rest of the puppets in this world, am entirely subservient to my father’s will. It’s a truth

I’m forced to contend with every day: that I’ve never been able to stand up to the man who has his fist clenched around my spine.

It makes me hate myself.

I meet the soldier’s eyes again and wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he has a name, before I realize

I couldn’t possibly care less. “Consider it accepted.”

“Yes, s—”

“And next time, soldier, you will not step within five feet of me without first asking permission.”

He blinks, stunned. “Sir, I—”

“You are confused.” I cut him off. “You assume your work with the supreme commander grants you immunity from rules that govern the lives of other soldiers. Here, you are mistaken.”

His jaw tenses.

“Never forget,” I say, quietly now, “that if I wanted your job, I could have it. And never forget that the man you so eagerly serve is the same man who taught me how to fire a gun when I was nine years old.”

His nostrils flare. He stares straight ahead.

“Deliver your message, soldier. And then memorize this one: do not ever speak to me again.”

His eyes are focused on a point directly behind me now, his shoulders rigid.

I wait.

His jaw is still tight. He slowly lifts his hand in salute.

“You are dismissed,” I say.

I lock my bedroom door behind me and lean against it. I need just a moment. I reach for the bottle I left on my nightstand and shake out two of the square pills; I toss them into my mouth, closing my eyes as they dissolve. The darkness behind my eyelids is a welcome relief.

Until the memory of her face forces itself into my consciousness.

I sit down on my bed and drop my head into my hand. I shouldn’t be thinking about her right now. I have hours of paperwork to sort through and the additional stress of my father’s presence to contend with. Dinner with him should be a spectacle. A soul-crushing spectacle.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and make a weak effort to build the walls that would surely clear my mind. But this time, they don’t work. Her face keeps cropping up, her journal taunting me from its place in my pocket. And I begin to realize that some small part of me doesn’t want to wish away the thoughts of her. Some part of me enjoys the torture.

This girl is destroying me.

A girl who has spent the last year in an insane asylum. A girl who would try to shoot me dead for kissing her. A girl who ran off with another man just to get away from me.

Of course this is the girl I would fall for.

I close a hand over my mouth.

I am losing my mind.

I tug off my boots. Pull myself up onto my bed and allow my head to hit the pillows behind me.

She slept here, I think. She slept in my bed. She woke up in my bed. She was here and I let her get away.

I failed.

I lost her.

I don’t even realize I’ve tugged her notebook out of my pocket until I’m holding it in front of my face. Staring at it. Studying the faded cover in an attempt to understand where she might’ve acquired such a thing. She must’ve stolen it from somewhere, though I can’t imagine where.

There are so many things I want to ask her. So many things I wish I could say to her.

Instead, I open her journal, and read.

Sometimes I close my eyes and paint these walls a different color.

I imagine I’m wearing warm socks and sitting by a fire. I imagine someone’s given me a book to read, a story to take me away from the torture of my own mind. I want to be someone else somewhere else with something else to fill my mind. I want to run, to feel the wind tug at my hair. I want to pretend that this is just a story within a story. That this cell is just a scene, that these hands don’t belong to me, that this window leads to somewhere beautiful if only I could break it. I pretend this pillow is clean, I pretend this bed is soft. I pretend and pretend and pretend until the world becomes so breathtaking behind my eyelids that I can no longer contain it. But then my eyes fly open and I’m caught around the throat by a pair of hands that won’t stop suffocating suffocating suffocating

My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound.