Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“At the time I was glad you weren’t in the chamber, but now I wish you had been.” I run my finger along the pokers, which become hot branding tools for the Flawed.

I look at him. “The guards were worried about me. Five brands was a lot to take at once. They wanted to stop, but they needed permission. Somebody called for your dad. He came in here. Instead of stopping it, your dad took the iron and branded me for a sixth time. On my spine, without anesthetic.”

He’s shaking his head. No, no, no . He doesn’t want to believe it.

“He’ll probably tell you that I’ve made it up. That I’m spreading lies about him. They’re not lies, Art. He told me to repent and I wouldn’t, so he did this to me.”

I turn around and lift my T-shirt to reveal my lower spine. “He told a doctor that I did it to myself, but how could I have?”

I hear Dr. Greene’s voice in my head. How could a girl do this to herself?

Art is shaking his head, tears rolling down his cheeks.

I run my hand over the rods again, trying to find the right one, wondering if I could reach around my back, if I could have actually done it to myself, is that what they will try to prove? Will they make me stand up in court and show them that I could do it myself? My hand stops. It hovers over a shape that stands out from the others. The three interconnecting circles of the geometric harmony anklet that Bark made for me, the symbol of perfection, is filed alongside the Flawed F ’s. I pick it up and click it into place on the rod.

“What kind of person could do this to herself?” I repeat the words of the doctor, to myself.

I fire up the flame on the burner.

Art bangs on the glass over and over.

I place the poker over the flame.

“If everyone thinks you are something, why not become it? Isn’t that what you did, Art? Become a Whistleblower because everyone thought you were like your dad? You didn’t want to fight it anymore, you wanted to see what it was like. You didn’t have anything else to lose.”

He’s crying and banging on the window, trying to get me to stop.

“Judge Sanchez wants to make a deal with me, did you know that?”

He shakes his head, confused.

“Your dad is out. Sanchez is in. On further review, the Guild thinks they’ve made a mistake. They say they’re going to take my brands away from me.”

It’s clear Art isn’t aware of any of this.

“But I don’t want them to take my brands away. These brands have given me more strength than I’ve ever had, and I can’t pretend that none of this happened. But there needs to be a balance. I still wear the anklet for balance,” I say, realizing it now. “You gave me the greatest gift, Art. You told me I was perfect and I’ve worn it every day since, like it had a special power that beat the brands. But it wasn’t the anklet, it was because you told me, because you believed in me.”

He smiles sadly at me.

“No one will ever be able to take your gift away from me, you understand, don’t you?”

He nods.

I roll up the bottom of my T-shirt, revealing my stomach.

“Transversus abdominis,” I say. “Remember we learned about this?”

He lays his hands flat against the window, his forehead against the pane, giving up the fight to stop me.

“It’s located under the obliques; it is the deepest of the abdominal muscles and wraps around the spine for protection and stability. It’s our center of gravity.”

I hold the poker in the flame, my heart pounding. I’m not seeking perfection; I’m not seeking justice. I’m seeking balance.

I push the branding iron against my stomach. Branded Perfect forever.

Perfect and Flawed on the same body.

Now I’m balanced.

SIXTY-NINE

THE PAIN IS almost unbearable. I drop the branding stick and reach out to the chair in agony, dizzy, seeing black spots before my eyes. I try to catch my breath. I feel nauseous and breathe deeply. There’s banging on the door and I unlock it. Art bursts in and I collapse into his arms.

We both slide to the floor.

“What did you do?” he asks between sobs, panicking. “What the hell did you do? We have to get you to the hospital.”

“No,” I protest, and cling to him tighter.

“Oh, Celestine,” he cries out to me, but it’s soft and gentle and I feel his warm breath on my neck as he buries his head into me.

“Now there’s a part of you with me forever, no matter what you think of me.”

He lifts my chin with his finger so that we’re looking right at each other, inches apart. “I think you’re the strongest, bravest, most courageous, stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

I smile. “You do?”

“I was jealous,” he admits, loosening his grip on me slightly, as if remembering we’re not together. “Of you and him. I should have done what you and he did. Instead of running away on my own, I should have just taken you and run.”

He looks at me with that familiar look that used to make me go all weak at the knees, and I await the stir within me, but it doesn’t come. Nothing but fondness, affection … but nothing more. I can’t help thinking of Carrick, Carrick holding me, Carrick watching me, how Carrick smells and tastes. Carrick, who is lying on the floor of his cell.

“So even though you two going on the run angered me more than you’ll ever understand, I’m glad he was there for you, like I should have been.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “And I do understand. I felt the same way when I saw you with Juniper.…”

“We were just trying to protect you.”

“I realize that now.”

He looks away, knows that he’s finally lost me.

“I thought I could be closer to Dad this way.” He looks down at his uniform. “It’s not working. Before, I never saw the side of him that everybody else did: the judge. I mean, you and I made of fun of it, the bravado, the persona he took on, I could separate it all. But now … he’s different.”

I remain tight-lipped.

“Did he really hurt you like you said?” he whispers.

I nod.

He squeezes me tighter. “Who have I been living with?”

“He loves you,” I say, the only positive thing I can think of.

He moves me gently aside so that he can stand. I wince at the pain in my stomach. Art opens the units lining the wall and comes back to me with bandages.

He lifts my T-shirt, a move that is so familiar, and he winces as he sees the scar I made on myself. It’s clear as day, nothing like the mess on my spine. This scar wasn’t done out of punishment, it was done out of pride. He cleans the wound, which I have to grit my teeth for and grunt, and then he places a cotton pad on the wound and wraps a bandage around my waist.

“If he loves me like you say, then he’ll forgive me,” he says. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“No. You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But…” I look in the direction of the cells. “My granddad, Raphael Angelo.” I swallow. “Carrick.”

He pulls down my T-shirt. “I’ll get you all out of here,” he says quietly. “I just need time to work out how.”

“Thank you.” I take his hand and he helps me to my feet.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says. “I don’t want people to think I’m like him. Imagine, that’s my worst fear. Being like my dad.”

“Nobody will think you’re like him when they find out that you wanted to let us go.”

“My fear isn’t of people thinking it, it’s of actually being like him.”

“You’re nothing like him,” I say, and I really mean it. “Art, there’s something I have to tell you.…” I have to warn him what’s about to happen, but I look up and see Crevan. He’s sitting in the viewing chamber—I don’t know how long he’s been here. I don’t know what he’s heard. I hope he heard every single word that Art said. Our eyes meet, through the glass, and I know from the broken look on his face that he has heard every single word. He’s wearing his cloak, and it seems too big for his defeated demeanor. He stands up and leaves the room.