“Alixter, please,” I beg him. “Please let me keep it.”
His face remains impassive. Blank. “It doesn’t belong to you.” He pauses, extends his hand, effortlessly pries the slippery heart from my grip, leaving me with empty, red-stained fingers.
Then he smiles—that sickening slithery smile—as he lovingly strokes the still-beating heart. “It belongs to me.”
* * *
With a gasp, I sit up. Panting, choking, battling for air. I clutch my chest, feeling the skin for a fissure. A crack. A scar. I collapse in relief when I find that it’s fully intact.
It’s still dark outside.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and bury my head in my hands, attempting to catch my breath. When I open my eyes, my gaze lands directly on my left wrist. On the hideous razor-thin line that stretches across the crease. The mark that Mrs. Pattinson called Satan’s mark.
My brand.
An ink-black stain on my existence.
It might as well say Property of Diotech.
I feel anger rising up inside me. Deep, uncontrollable rage.
I rise to my feet and march across the room, not caring about the cacophony of creaks and thumps I’m making along the sensitive floorboards. I yank open the door to the bedroom and hurry down the stairs.
Once in the kitchen, I sweep my gaze left and right until I find what I’m looking for. I move hurriedly over to what’s left of the two-day-old bread loaf and draw the serrated knife from its heel.
I exit the front door and head for the chopping block. I crouch down and lay my arm flat against the thick tree stump, palm up. Then I carefully place the tip of the knife against my wrist bone. Small droplets of crimson squeeze out as the blade drags across my skin. My scientifically perfected life force. I curve around the edge of the tattoo and continue up the other side, peeling my skin away in one long, gruesome strip.
The blood flows instantly. I press the hem of my nightdress to the wound, to stanch the bleeding.
I set the knife down, and with the ribbon of jagged flesh in my hand, I stride up the hill onto the knoll where I normally watch the sunrise. As hard as I can, I chuck the tainted, blackened strip into the valley, watching in the darkness as it flutters in the wind before landing by the edge of the wheat field.
Then I collapse to the ground and I wait.
The sun peeks above the horizon an hour later, just as it always does. As though nothing has changed. As though nothing will ever change.
The first glints of daylight illuminate the neatly plowed rows of the wheat field, showing off Zen and Mr. Pattinson’s hard work from the day before.
The sky is gray and overcast this morning, a sign of storms to come. Probably later in the afternoon. Chores around the farm are always more difficult in the rain. Wagon wheels catch in the mud. Thunder puts the animals on edge. Wet clothes are heavier and harder to move in. And they take forever to dry.
For the first time since I sat down, I take a deep breath and glance at my left wrist, still covered by the cloth of my nightdress, which is now stained red all along the hem. That will have to be explained to Mrs. Pattinson somehow.
I slowly peel back the fabric, cringing slightly at the way it sticks to my skin.
I let out a heavy, surrendering sigh when I see what’s underneath.
Fresh pink flesh has grown back over the wound, merging with the jagged edge of the cut. It will only be a matter of time before it will blend in seamlessly.
The most disconcerting part, however, is not how fast my body healed itself—I suppose that was to be expected based on all the other “enhancements” I’ve been given—but the sight of the thin, black line that looks freshly drawn across the pale new skin.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Or disappointed. Zen already told me that the tracking device was a permanent part of my DNA. Like my skin color, or the shape of my nose. No matter how many times I attempted to carve it out, burn it off, or scrape the skin clean, it would always grow back. Exactly the same.
But I suppose I just had to see it for myself.
I had to witness firsthand the one piece of Diotech that I will never be able to fully erase. That I will never be able to escape from.
I run my fingertip across the new tattoo. Now darker than ever.
A shiver runs through me and for the first time, I notice the brisk morning air. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was. Or how little this nightdress does to stave off the chill. Despite my body’s ability to protect itself from extreme weather better than any normal human being’s.
I glance up at the foreboding sky, watching the grayness gather and condense. If I hope to finish my work before the downpour starts, I should probably get moving. Plus, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my bloodstained nightdress. How will I manage to wash it without Mrs. Pattinson noticing and throwing a fit?