Imagine Me

Still, I see Anderson turn away again, appraising the boy with another single, careful look. “These powers were wasted on him anyway.”

He removes the touchpad slotted into a compartment of the boy’s bed and begins tapping the digital screen, scrolling and scanning for information. He looks up, once, at the monitors beeping out various vitals, and frowns. Finally, he sighs, dragging a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. I think it looks better for being mussed. Warmer. Softer. Familiar.

The observation frightens me.

I turn away sharply and glance out the window, wondering, suddenly, if I will ever be allowed to use the bathroom.

“Juliette.”

The angry timbre of his voice sends my heart racing. I straighten in an instant. Look straight ahead.

“Yes, sir,” I say, sounding a little breathless.

I realize then that he’s not even looking at me. He’s still typing something into the touchpad when he says, calmly, “Were you daydreaming?”

“No, sir.”

He returns the touchpad to its compartment, the pieces connecting with a satisfying metallic click.

He looks up.

“This is growing tiresome,” he says quietly. “I’m already losing patience with you, and we haven’t even come to the end of your first day.” He hesitates. “Do you want to know what happens when I lose patience with you, Juliette?”

My fingers tremble; I clench them into fists. “No, sir.”

He holds out his hand. “Then give me what belongs to me.”

I take an uncertain step forward and his outstretched hand flies up, palm out, stopping me in place. His jaw clenches.

“I am referring to your mind,” he says. “I want to know what you were thinking when you lost your head long enough to gaze out the window. I want to know what you are thinking right now. I will always want to know what you’re thinking,” he says sharply. “In every moment. I want every word, every detail, every emotion. Every single loose, fluttering thought that passes through your head, I want it,” he says, stalking toward me. “Do you understand? It’s mine. You are mine.”

He comes to a halt just inches from my face.

“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice failing me.

“I will only ask this once more,” he says, making an effort to moderate his voice. “And if you ever make me work this hard again to get the answers I need, you will be punished. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes narrow. “What were you daydreaming about?”

I swallow. Look at him. Look away.

Quietly, I say:

“I was wondering, sir, if you would ever let me use the bathroom.”

Anderson’s face goes suddenly blank.

He seems stunned. He regards me a moment longer before saying, flatly: “You were wondering if you could use the bathroom.”

“Yes, sir.” My face heats.

Anderson crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s all?”

I feel suddenly compelled to tell him what I thought about his hair, but I fight against the urge. Guilt floods through me at the indulgence, but my mind is soothed by a strange, familiar warmth, and suddenly I feel no guilt at all for being only partly truthful.

“Yes, sir. That’s all.”

Anderson tilts his head at me. “No new surges of anger? No questions about what we’re doing here? No concerns over the well-being of the boy”—he points—“or the powers he might have?”

“No, sir.”

“I see,” he says.

I stare.

Anderson takes a deep breath and undoes a button of his blazer. He pushes both hands through his hair. Begins to pace.

He’s becoming flustered, I realize, and I don’t know what to do about it.

“It’s almost funny,” he says. “This is exactly what I wanted, and yet, somehow, I’m disappointed.”

He takes a deep, sharp breath, and spins around.

Studies me.

“What would you do,” he says, nodding his head an inch to his left, “if I asked you to throw yourself out that window?”

I turn, examining the large window looming over us both.

It’s a massive, circular stained glass window that takes up half the wall. Colors scatter across the ground, creating a beautiful, distracted work of art over the polished concrete floors. I walk over to window, run my fingers along the ornate panes of glass. I peer down at the expanse of green below. We’re at least five hundred feet above the ground, but the distance doesn’t inspire my fear. I could make that jump easily, without injury.

I look up. “I would do it with pleasure, sir.”

He takes a step closer. “What if I asked you to do it without using your powers? What if it was simply my desire that you throw yourself out the window?”

A wave of searing, blistering heat moves through me, seals shut my mouth. Binds my arms. I can’t pry my own mouth open against the terrifying assault, but I can only imagine it’s part of this challenge.

Anderson must be trying to test my allegiance.

He must be trying to trap me into a moment of disobedience. Which means I need to prove myself. My loyalty.

It takes an extraordinary amount of my own supernatural strength to fight back the invisible forces clamping my mouth shut, but I manage it. And when I can finally speak, I say,

“I would do it with pleasure, sir.”

Anderson takes yet another step closer, his eyes glittering with something— Something brand-new. Something akin to wonder.

“Would you, really?” he says softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you do anything I asked you to do? Anything at all?”

“Yes, sir.”

Anderson’s still holding my gaze when he lifts his wrist to his mouth again and says quietly:

“Come in here. Now.”

He drops his hand.

My heart begins to pound. Anderson refuses to look away from me, his eyes growing bluer and brighter by the second. It’s almost like he knows that his eyes alone are enough to upset my equilibrium. And then, without warning, he grabs my wrist. I realize too late that he’s checking my pulse.

“So fast,” he says softly. “Like a little bird. Tell me, Juliette. Are you afraid?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you excited?”

“I— I don’t know, sir.”

The door slides open and Anderson drops my wrist. For the first time in minutes, Anderson looks away from me, finally breaking some painful, invisible connection between us. My body goes slack with relief and, remembering myself, I quickly straighten.

A man walks in.

Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He’s young, younger than Anderson, I think, but older than me. He wears a headset. He looks uncertain.

“Juliette,” Anderson says, “this is Darius.”

I turn to face Darius.

Darius says nothing. He looks paralyzed.

“I won’t be requiring Darius’s services anymore,” Anderson says, glancing in my direction.

Darius blanches. Even from where I’m standing, I can see his body begin to tremble.

“Sir?” I say, confused.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Anderson says. “I would like you to dispose of him.”