Restore Me (Shatter Me, #4)

by Tahereh Mafi

I don’t wake up screaming anymore. I do not feel ill at the sight of blood. I do not flinch before firing a gun.

It’s been sixteen days since we took over Sector 45—since I crowned myself the supreme commander of The Reestablishment—and it’s been quiet.

The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing,

“Until you touched my hair.”

“You asked me to give you a haircut—” “I said nothing of the sort! I asked you to trim the edges!” “And that’s what I did.” “This,” Warner says, spinning around so I might inspect the damage, “is not trimming the edges, you incompetent moron—”

I gasp. The back of Warner’s head is a jagged mess of uneven hair; entire chunks have been buzzed off.

WAY TO START US OFF HERE

Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says “I think the cut looks cute, actually” and Warner slams the door in his face.

Welcome to my brand-new life as supreme commander of The Reestablishment.

“I’ll have to shave my head, you know”

My face is only dimly reflected in my direction, but it’s enough for me to see that I’ve lost weight. My cheeks are hollow; my eyes, wider; my cheekbones more pronounced.

But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care.

“I miss you,” she says. It’s a whisper I almost don’t catch. “I’m right here,” I say, gently touching her cheek. “I’m right here, love.” But she shakes her head. Even as I pull her closer, even as she falls back asleep, she shakes her head. And I wonder if she’s not wrong.

I put a cookie on a plate in front of him just to see what would happen. He glanced up at me, glanced back at his work, whispered a quiet thank you, and ate the cookie with a knife and fork. He didn’t even seem to enjoy it.

This, needless to say, makes him the polar opposite of Kenji, who loves to eat everything, all the time, and who later told me that watching Warner eat a cookie made him want to cry.

It’s a safe space for me here, with Delalieu, where I can pretend that things in my life have changed very little.

I am still chief commander and regent to the soldiers of Sector 45;

We never talk about the fact that Delalieu is my grandfather. That he is the only kind of father I have left in the world.

This was my life for a very long time. On Tuesday, a playdate in Europe; on Friday, a dinner party in South America. Our parents insane, all of them.

One swift appraisal is all I need to know that he’s not okay. In fact, he looks terrible. Thinner than ever; dark circles under his eyes. Thoroughly worn-out.

I wonder whether I look just the same to him.

“I don’t know who else to talk to about this,” he whispers. “I don’t know anyone else who would even understand—” And I do. All at once. I understand.

“Of course,” I say, surprising myself. “Come with me.”

“Her name was Leila,” he says. “Leila Warner. And I only know this because Castle does his research. We had files on all persons of interest back at Omega Point. Never knew she had powers that made her sick, though,”

Warner was designed for this life. Everything he does, is, breathes— He was built to lead.

The rest of the world could so easily destroy me. And sometimes I’m not sure I’ll make it out of this alive.

“God, why am I so messed up over him? Why do I care?” “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m having the same problem.” “Yeah?” I nod.

Kent drops his head in his hands. “He really screwed us up, man.” “Yes. He did.”

He says, “It’s okay, you know.” “What is?”

“You and Juliette,” he says. I freeze.

“So I guess I got what I deserved. But it wasn’t actually about her, you know? All of that. It wasn’t about her.”

“I’d been drowning for a while, actually. I was just really unhappy, and really stressed, and then”—he shrugs, turns away—“honestly, finding out you were my brother nearly killed me.”

“I’ve got issues with people leaving me behind.”

for once an one time only im saying poor adam

“Anyway, I ran away from an orphanage when I was eight, so I don’t remember much

There’s so much left to learn about the people I care about.

my dad got a little too brave. They used his own gun against him. Dad got shot. Mom got shot trying to make it stop. I was seven.” “You were there?” I gasp. He nods. “Saw the whole thing go down.”

“I’ve never told anyone that story,” he says, his forehead creasing. “Not even Castle.”

I’m still thinking about Kenji’s story—and how much more there is to know about him, about Warner, about everyone I’ve come to call a friend—when

This enormous space dedicated only to our efforts? This was all Warner’s doing.

“Hey—I’m right here.” He’s crossed the room in just a few strides, by my side in seconds. “You’re coming with me, right?” I whisper, tugging at his sleeve like a child. Kenji laughs. “I’ll be wherever you need me to be, kid.”

I have a great fear of drowning in the ocean of my own silence.

In the steady thrum that accompanies quiet, my mind is unkind to me. I think too much.

my goal in life is to outrun my mind, my memories. So I h...

My father taught me to shoot a gun when I was nine years old.

When I was ten he sliced open the back of my leg and showed me how to suture my own wounds.

At eleven he broke my arm and abandoned me in the wi...

At age twelve I was taught to build and defus...

He began teaching me how to fly planes when ...

He never did teach me how to ride a bike. I figured t...

First, the disarming realization that I have a brother whose heart is as complicated and flawed as my own.

Second, and perhaps most offensive: the impending, anxiety-inducing arrival of my past.