Destroy Me (9 page)
Authors: Tahereh Mafi
Want more from Warner? Get a peek inside his private log, as well as confidential files from The Reestablishment.
She is currently sleeping in my bed.
I finally provided her with the perfect opportunity to display her abilities and she
fainted
. The tiny, frail thing—I must make sure she eats more—just collapsed in my arms. I’ve seen my fair share of horrified persons in my nineteen years—emotions competing on the faces of my dying enemies, my own men, even myself. But the kind of terror and paralyzing fear on her face was so unexpected as to be remarkable. Jenkins, yes, I expected him to be perhaps mildly concerned for his own welfare. But this girl. The insanity I’ve been told about was all over her face only in that moment.
She perplexes me.
Every account I’ve read of her—every record, report, every incident on file—claims that she is vicious and delusional. But she is neither. She does not seem to understand the breadth of her abilities; she can’t see the limitless potential in who she could become; she doesn’t even seem
interested
. She is not at all like how she was described. I thought I was enlisting a willing warrior—someone eager to unleash herself—and I was wildly mistaken. This is going to be much more difficult than I anticipated.
It should also be noted that the photos I found in her medical records are ridiculous. They are such a misrepresentation of this girl as to be laughable. She is scared and broken, yes. But she is also angry—and
stunningly
beautiful. I’m certain I’ve never seen such a beautiful creature in my life. This comes as a great surprise, actually, as I was prepared to be at least mildly repulsed by her. Unfortunately, not only did her beauty immediately distract me—such odd blue-green eyes—but I noticed a sweetness in her features that I’m afraid might actually be sincere. I’m not sure yet if it’s just a clever facade designed to fool her enemies (I doubt it), but I can’t take any chances with her safety.
I’ve decided that she cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to communicate with my men. They’ve been isolated for too long; a generous smile from a beautiful girl would ruin the best of them. And this is precisely why I decided her incident with Jenkins had to be public. I needed to make sure the men knew exactly what she was capable of; they cannot be allowed to think of her as a meek and vulnerable girl—I do not want her to be harassed while she’s here. I’m confident that it will be much safer for her if she is feared, if they think she is a wild, uncontrollable monster. It’s better for her that way. I don’t think she’d listen if I were to simply instruct her to be unkind to the soldiers.
A belated
(
see below
*
)
She is a very stubborn creature.
She fights me over dresses and shoes and refuses to eat her food, like some kind of petulant child. She falls apart at the sight of lavish decor and doesn’t seem pleased to have an actual bed to sleep in. It’s absurd. Who but a child would fight over food and outfits? What rational being refuses a warm meal and an armoire full of clothes? It’s becoming increasingly apparent to me that not only does she not know how to fight but she doesn’t even know how to fight for the right things. Food and clothing are staples, necessary items; it didn’t once occur to me that she would be unhappy to eat solid meals or be unwilling to change out of the same ragged outfit she’s worn for almost a year.
This is not the mind of a vicious human being.
This is the mind of a broken girl who thinks she is showing strength by refusing the very basic components of survival: Food to give her energy. Clothes to protect her body. Sleep to revive her spirit. She does not think like a fighter. She does not know how to equip herself, how to take advantage of her surroundings in order to dominate her opponents. If she were thinking like a predator, she’d be attempting to break out of here—she would’ve used dinner as an opportunity to kill or disarm as many of my men as possible. She would not have sat at a table laden with food, refusing to speak, refusing to eat, refusing to answer my questions, as though she were a wounded little girl mortally offended to be ordered to eat her vegetables and wear a pretty dress to dinner.
She is, in a word, harmless.
I’ve only known her for less than one day, so I hope my later observations will prove these early hypotheses wrong, but it seems abundantly clear that she has no idea what she’s capable of. So much so, in fact, that I’m confused as to how she even got to this point. She is no more of a danger to society than a pair of scissors locked in a drawer. How could her parents look at her in fear? How could they—why would they—give her up to the authorities? How could the doctors not see that she is probably more afraid of herself than they are? She has been outrageously wronged in her life. Misjudged. Mistreated. Locked away and labeled insane for no reason. She may have killed that little boy, but even I can see now that it was very likely an accident. I tested her—I gave her an opportunity to embrace her true nature, to be the terror she’s accused of being, and instead she stood screaming in front of me, tears streaming down her face, looking like the pain she’s been carrying might actually kill her—
I’m surprised by my reaction to her.
Surprised that my hands shake just a bit as I type this, that I want to give in to my own rage, this blind anger I feel in knowing that there’s been a great injustice done to her. She is so innocent. So small. But I see the hurt, the pain simmering just under the surface of her skin, this fierce stubbornness that gives me hope. In time, I’m sure I can coax the emotion out of her. I can help her. She can be so much more than what they’ve done to her. Years of abuse and neglect and unfounded cruelty created this cowering girl, but I can attempt to undo the damage. It will be more work than I had anticipated, but I think in the end it will be worth it. She has so much potential—such tremendous, extraordinary power she’s unaware of—and I will teach her how to use it. She’s been wronged by the world, and the anger she undoubtedly feels (and that I will endeavor to provoke out of her) will be the fuel she’ll require in order to fight back, to exact revenge in a satisfying manner. She will be perfect, and perfectly suited to my needs. I know it.
But I have a lot of work to do.
