Broken(4)

Wolfe warned you—

“So helpful. Seriously. Go touch yourself.”

—warned you that Janus was different than the others that had come before.

“Yet not a word about Erich Winter. Go figure.”

There are things in motion, Bjorn spoke inside me, things happening the whole world over for our people, things that will redefine our race—

I waved a hand at him as though he were a fly I could shoo away, and I tucked my head down and ran a finger through my frizzed, tangled hair. “And I told you I don’t care.” I paused. “Or at least I told one of you I don’t care. Just assume I’m speaking to all of you when I say something, because I want nothing to do with any of you friggin’ convicts that are imprisoned in my brain.” I took a breath through my nose and nearly gagged. When I got control of my breathing again, I took shallow breaths through my mouth. “If I had it my way, I’d empty you all out, and my own brain, too.” In a flash, I thought of a gun, of what it could do for me—

There was only a second’s silence before Wolfe spoke into the void. I could sense the terror of all three of them, scared shitless at the prospect of me killing myself—and them by default, for a second time. Little doll, so natural to have these feelings after what you’ve been through—

“And you’d know how? Other than because you caused them in others over and over throughout your sick, pathetic life?” I looked up, as though I could see him standing over me while I spoke. “Watching other people have emotions, feelings, loving and caring doesn’t make you an expert by some sort of study or proxy, you psychopath.”

Not helpful, though, Little Doll, Wolfe went on. Wolfe watched, Wolfe saw, Little Doll is right—

“I have a name, you ass.”

—Wolfe inflicted more pain and death than Wolfe can speak of, he said, and his voice was smooth and plying. But Wolfe saw pain, and Wolfe knows pain, has lived in pain like the Little Doll is feeling.

“Bull,” I laughed. “Bulllllllshiiiiiiiiit.”

There was a flash in my head, of something that happened long ago, far away, on another continent, and it was followed by a seering sense of loss, of agony. I felt bile well up in the back of my mouth and I wanted to heave—again. Wolfe is not a liar.

“Just a murderer, rapist and torturer,” I said, leaning my head back against the inside of the box. There were eyes in the darkness, their eyes, peering at me. “Forgive me for failing to make that subtle distinction.”

Wolfe has been through what the doll is going through, and the pleading was gone, I could feel the heat of his emotions now, he was feeding me the vision—of a house, with a family, screaming in pain, the air thick with the smell of a stew, and then blood everywhere, and the agonizing pain of loss, of heartbreak. I nearly vomited as a flash gave me a vision of a snowfield outside, a lone figure lying in the middle of it with flakes coming down around him. I felt a burning in my chest at the memory. Wolfe knows how to make it better.

“I know how to make it better,” I said, resting my head on my palm. The weight of my skull was intense, and I wondered if my wrist could hold it up, it was so heavy. “I told you, I just take a pistol and—”

No no no no no—A chorus of the voices lifted up, and I heard just a hint of one far away, the one I wanted to hear, as though he were on the distant edge of a crowd, shouting to me across it. I tried to look for him, but it was as though I levered myself up, and by the time I did so, he was gone, slipped out of sight.

Zack.

Wolfe knows how to ease the loss, to … salve the pain.

“Please, tell me this is a solution that involves cannibalism,” I said with a disgruntled laugh. “Because I could use some humor in my day.” I looked around soberly. “Actually, I am hungry. If you ruin that with a tale of human flesh being eaten, I will never forgive you.”

No no no, Little Doll, nothing so dirty, I caught the hesitation in the way he said it and I knew he was putting on the show for me. Still, I listened because although I kind of didn’t want to, I kind of did. Age-old remedies for these sorts of wrongs, you know, older than anything, the idea of what to do when someone makes you hurt, makes you suffer. Little Doll, you are stronger than you know—

“And yet you keep calling me a little doll,” I said with a sigh.

—stronger than anyone knows. And the Little Doll knows what she could do, but maybe … is afraid to do it. I could almost sense him looking around in my head, as though drawing on the support of those around him, his fellow prisoners. But we … we three … we have all done it. Have all done things to those who wronged us, can be … guides for the Little Doll who isn’t a murderer … who doesn’t want to hurt anyone—