Текст книги "The Evolution of Mara Dyer"

Автор книги: Michelle Hodkin

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

45

I’M SORRY,” I STARTED TO SAY. “ I DIDN’T—”

“Yes, you did,” Noah said, his voice cold. He looked at the ocean. Not at me.

“I just thought—”

“Must we? Must we do this?”

“Do what?” I asked softly.

“This.” The word was a splash of acid. “This—whatever.” His voice had slid back into flatness. “You told me to write what I see. I did. Then you read it without asking. Fine.” He dropped a viciously indifferent shrug. “I suppose part of me wouldn’t have left it there if I hadn’t wanted you to. So, done. It’s over.” He stared ahead into the darkness. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

He turned to me with predatory grace. “All right, Mara.” His voice lacerated my name. “You want to hear how I first learned about my ability? About being told that we were moving into yet another miserable home two days before we left by my father’s secretary, because he couldn’t be bothered to tell me himself? About feeling so numb to it and everything that I was sure I couldn’t actually exist? That I must be made of nothing to feel so much nothing, that the pain the blade drew from my skin was the only thing that made me feel real?”

His voice grew savagely blank. “You want to hear that I liked it? Wanted more? Or do you want to hear that when I woke up the next day to find no trace of any cut, no hint of a forming scar, all I could feel was crushing disappointment?”

There was nothing but the sound of deceptively tranquil waves and my breath in the stillness before he shattered it again.

“It became a kind of game, then, to see if there was any damage I could actually do. I’ve chased every high and low you can imagine,” he said, underscoring the word every with a narrow look to make sure I understood what he meant. “Completely without consequence. I wanted to lose myself and I couldn’t. I’m chasing an oblivion I will never find.” And then he smiled; a dark, broken, empty thing. “Have you heard enough?”

He was terrifyingly cold, but I wasn’t afraid. Not of him. I took a step toward him. My voice was quiet, but strong. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?” he asked tonelessly.

“What you did before.”

“I haven’t changed, Mara.”

I stared at him, at his expression. I still want to lose myself, it said. And I began to understand. Noah craved danger because he was never in it; he was careless because he didn’t believe he could actually break. But he wanted to. He wasn’t afraid of me—not just because he believed I couldn’t hurt him, but because even if I did, he’d welcome the pain.

Noah was still chasing oblivion. And in me, he found it.

“You want me to hurt you.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

He took a step toward me. “You can’t.”

“I could kill you.” The words were edged in steel.

Another step. His eyes challenged mine. “Try.”

As he stood there in his exquisite clothes, his flawless features staring me down, he still looked like an arrogant prince. But only now could I see that his crown was broken.

The air around us was charged as we stood opposite each other. Healer and destroyer, noon and midnight. We were silently deadlocked. Neither of us moved.

I realized then that Noah would never move. He would never back down because he didn’t want to win.

And I wouldn’t lose him. So all I could do was refuse to play.

“I won’t be what you want,” I said then, my voice low.

“And what do you think that is?”

“Your weapon of self-destruction.”

He went still. “You think I want to use you?”

Didn’t he? “Don’t you?”

Noah inhaled slowly. “No, Mara.” My name was soft now, in his mouth. “No. I never wanted that.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want—” He stopped. Tore his fingers through his hair. “Never mind what I want.” His voice was quieter, now. “What do you want?”

“You.” Always you.

“You have me,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “You inhabit me.” His face was stone but the words issued from his lips in a plea. “You want to know what I want? I want you to be the one wanting me first. Pushing me first. Kissing me first. Don’t be careful with me,” he said. “Because I won’t be careful with you.”

My heart began to race.

You can’t hurt me the way you think you can. But even if you could? I would rather die with the taste of you on my tongue than live and never touch you again. I’m in love with you, Mara. I love you. No matter what you do.”

My breath caught in my throat. No matter what. The words were a promise, a promise I didn’t know if anyone could keep.

“We’re only seventeen,” I said quietly.

“Fuck seventeen.” His eyes and voice were defiant. “If I were to live a thousand years, I would belong to you for all of them. If we were to live a thousand lives, I would want to make you mine in each one.”

Noah knew what I was and what I’d done and he wanted me anyway. He saw me. All of me. With my skin peeled back, my heart bare. I was inside out for him, and trembling.

“All I want is you,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now or ever, but when you choose, I want you free.”

Something inside me stirred.

“You’re stronger than you believe. Don’t let your fear own you. Own yourself.”

I turned the words over in my mind. Own myself. As if it were that easy. As if I could walk away from grief and guilt and leave fear and everything behind.

I wanted to. I wanted to.

“Kiss me,” I whispered.

Noah’s fingers traced the column of my spine, exposed in the dress. Heat bloomed beneath my skin.

“I can’t. Not like this.”

Noah started this chase and I stood before him, waiting to be caught. He could have me, but he refused to move.

Only now did I realize why.

He wanted to be caught. He was waiting for me to chase him.

I lunged for his shirt and pulled him to me. Against me. My hands became fists in the cloth but his were stone on either side of my rib cage; they rose and fell with each hard breath I took but didn’t move. Mine did. My fingers wandered beneath his dress shirt; his breath quickened when they met his pale gold skin. They traveled over ridges of muscle and sinew, hard and hot beneath my palms. I tried to reach his mouth with mine, but he was too tall and he wouldn’t bend.

So I backed down onto the sand. And I pulled him down with me.

The hem of my dress touched the water but I didn’t care, not then. The earth gave way beneath my body as Noah moved over me and slid his knee between mine, stoking my flame. His arm slipped beneath my back and his mouth moved over my neck, his lips brushing my collarbone and the hollow beneath my ear. My arms twined around his neck, my fists curled in his hair. My heartbeat was wild. His was still calm.

And then I slid over him. Above him. His ribs moved under my hands, now. His waist was between my legs. I was breathing hard and feeling reckless. Noah watched me, and if I didn’t know him as well as I did, I wouldn’t have known that there was anything unusual about this. But I did know him, and still though he was, there was something different about the way he looked at me now.

I placed my hands on his chest. His heart beat faster. His control was slipping.

Chase.

I leaned closer, my hands moving lower down his stomach, my back arched above him. I kissed his throat. I heard a sharp intake of breath.

I smiled against his skin, moved my lips along his jaw, his throat, marveling at the point where the rough became smooth. My hands wandered slowly to his waist and he slid my dress up, his fingers hot on my bare skin, making me breathless. Making me ache. I pressed into him harder, my body bent, bowstring-tight over his. His mouth was just millimeters from mine.

“Fuck,” he murmured against my lips. The feel, the word, sent a hot little shock through my spine. It skittered through my veins, danced through every nerve.

And then I brushed his lips with mine.

I knew Noah worshipped Charlie Parker and that his toothbrush was green. That he wouldn’t bother to button his shirts correctly but always made his bed. That when he slept he curled into himself and that his eyes were the color of the clouds before it rained, and I knew he had no problem eating meat but would subtly leave the room if animals started to kill one another on the Discovery Channel. I knew one hundred little things about Noah Shaw but when he kissed me I couldn’t remember my own name.

I was starved for him, for this. I was a creature of need—soaked in feeling and breathless. There was a pull, furious and fierce, and part of me was frightened by it but another part, low and deep and dark, breathed yes.

Noah whispered my name like a prayer, and I was free.

I moved his jacket off of his shoulders. Gone. Unfastened the buttons on his shirt in seconds, loosened the tie at his neck. His skin was on fire under hands that traveled the slender muscle and bone beneath them of their own volition. Over his abdomen, his chest. Over two slim lines of silver that rested against his throat—

Colors burst in my mind. Green and red and blue. Trees and blood and sky. The sand and ocean vanished; they were replaced by jungle and clouds. There was a voice, warm and familiar but it was far away.

Mara.

The word filled my lungs with a rush of air and I breathed in sandalwood and salt. Then there was strong pressure on my hips, shifting me away. Down. Gray eyes pinned me to the earth and the sky changed again above them; the blue chased by black, the clouds chased by stars. Noah was above me, his breathing quick, his pupils blown. He looked down at me.

Differently.

My thoughts were hazy, and it was difficult to speak. “What?” I managed to say.

Noah’s eyes were lidded, and there was a storm beneath them. “You—” he began, then stopped. “I felt—”

“What?” I asked again, louder this time.

“I believe you,” he finally said.

Heat rose beneath my skin as I understood what he meant. “Did I hurt you?” I asked in a rush. “Are you okay?”

A slight smile turned up his mouth. “I’m still here.”

“What happened?”

He considered his words. “You sounded different,” Noah said slowly. “I was listening for a change and I heard it but didn’t know what it meant; I’ve never heard you like that before. I said your name but you didn’t respond. So we stopped.”

I didn’t know what it meant either and I didn’t care. “Did I hurt you?” I asked again; that was what I cared about. That was what I needed to know.

Noah helped me up and we rose from the sand together. His words and eyes were soft. “I’m still here.” He laced his fingers through mine. “Let’s go home.”

Noah led me along the water, looking forward, not at me. I studied him closely, still unsure if he was all right.

When I arrived on the beach, Noah was flawless. Now his tie was loose, his cuffs were undone, sand and sea had ruined his five-thousand-dollar suit, and his hair had been ravaged by my hands. His gray sapphire eyes were blazing and his velvet lips were swollen from mine.

This was the boy I loved. A little bit messy. A little bit ruined. A beautiful disaster.

Just like me.

46

IT FELT LIKE THE WEIGHT OF MY WORLD DISSOLVED with that kiss.

It wasn’t feather-light, like the others. It was wild and dark. It was incredible.

And Noah was still here.

I wore the goofiest grin on the ride back to the marina; I couldn’t stop smiling and didn’t want to. After both of us had changed into our normal clothes and I returned his mother’s necklace so that it would stay safe, what we decided was this:

I was right. Something changed in me when we kissed.

But Noah was also right. I didn’t hurt him the way I was sure I would.

I didn’t know if it was because he was listening for something this time, for that change, maybe, or if it was because I really couldn’t hurt him, just like he said. I was thrilled that he was okay, obviously. Deliriously so. But it shook my confidence in my memory a little—I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, after all this, I had dreamed or imagined or hallucinated that first kiss in his bed. I told Noah as much, but he took my hands and looked into my eyes and told me to trust myself, and to trust my instincts, too. I tried to coax more out of him but then he kissed me again.

I could spend the rest of my life kissing him, I think.

I was buoyant the rest of the weekend. We had answered one question out of a thousand, but it was a happy answer. I wanted to believe that after everything I’d been through, I deserved it.

Noah seemed different, too. He told me he brokered a deal to buy the security tapes from the carnival people to resolve one way or another whether Roslyn Ferretti was bribed, and if so, by whom. He also wanted to fly to Providence and try to find out more than his investigator, to see if he could learn more about Jude himself. I was happy to let him go. Nothing had happened since John started watching the house, and I didn’t need to be attached to Noah every second. The fake fortune-teller’s words mattered less to me now that I knew I couldn’t hurt him, and so I in turn cared less about them. I didn’t feel afraid.

I felt free.

Noah’s hands lingered on my waist when he kissed me good-bye on Sunday night, and I smiled at the two charms that now hung around his neck. I loved that he was wearing mine for me.

My good mood was obvious to everyone, including my parents, apparently.

“We’re really proud of you, Mara,” my father said on the drive to Horizons on Monday morning. “Your mom and I were talking about the retreat this week and we decided that if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”

The Horizons retreat; part of the evaluation I was signed up for—to see if I would be better suited to the residential program than the outpatient one. I’d forgotten all about it, but I guess now it didn’t matter because I didn’t have to go.

I was shocked but thrilled by this development. “What brought this on?”

Dad shook his head. “We never wanted you to live somewhere else. We love having you home, kid. We just want you healthy and safe.”

A worthy goal. I had no protest.

The thing about happiness, though, is that it never lasts.

When I walked into Horizons I was handed a worksheet, which turned out to be a test. A sociopath test, if the questions were any indication. It was obvious which answer you were supposed to provide when prompted to choose—those tests always are—so I answered benignly, growing slightly uncomfortable about the fact that most of my real answers were not particularly nice.

Do you lie or manipulate others when it suits your needs or to get what you want?

A) Sometimes

B) Rarely

C) Often

D) Never

Often. “Rarely,” I circled.

Do you feel that the rules of society don’t apply to you, and will you violate them to accomplish your goals?

Sometimes. “Never,” I chose.

Do you easily talk your way out of trouble without guilt?

Often. “Rarely.”

Have you killed animals in the past?

Sometimes, I was loath to admit. “Never,” I chose.

And on it went, but I tried not to let it sour my mood. When I sat down for Group, I was able to maintain my golden bubble for a little while longer, even though everyone’s tiny miseries kept pressing up against it. I clenched my mouth against the snark and made sure my inner monologue stayed inner; I didn’t want anything to derail my Get Out of Inpatient Treatment Free pass.

Jamie looked like he was having as hard a time with all the sharing today as I was after one of Adam’s standard narcissistic diatribes, so when we broke for snack time I edged over.

“I hate that guy,” I said, grabbing a cookie.

“Yeah,” was all I got out of him, quite uncharacteristically. He filled a glass with water and sipped it very slowly.

I sat on the couch beside him. “Who died?” I asked.

There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead, which he wiped with the back of his sleeve. “Anna Greenly.”

“Wait—Croydian Anna?”

“The very same.”

I stared at him for a beat, waiting for the punch line. Then realized there was none.

“Seriously?” I asked quietly.

“Careened off an overpass. Drunk.”

“I’m . . .” But I didn’t know what I was. I had no idea what to say. You say you’re sorry when someone loses a person they love. Not a person they hate.

“Yeah,” Jamie said, though I hadn’t said anything. He did not look well.

“You okay?” I asked softly.

He shrugged. “I have a stomach thing. Don’t get close.”

“Well, now you’ve spoiled everything,” I said casually, working hard to fake it. “I was planning to seduce you in the broom closet.” I pointed. “Right there.”

A joyless smile appeared on Jamie’s lips. “We are far too screwed-up for a goddamned love triangle.”

That’s my Jamie.

After a minute of silence, he said, “You know how every now and then there’s a news story about kids being bullied into suicide?”

I did.

“Someone always says, ‘Kids are mean.’ ‘Kids will be kids.’ Which implies that the kid bullies will grow out of it someday.” The muscles in his jaw tightened. His stare was unfocused and far away. “I don’t think they do. I think kid bullies turn into adult bullies and it pisses me off that I’m expected to feel sad because one of them is gone. Anna was like . . . like a social terrorist,” he said, staring at the floor. “Aiden too.” His nostrils flared. “I was in that cesspool of douchebaggery with them for seven years and there was a lot—whatever. Let’s just say beating the shit out of me and having me unjustly expelled from school wasn’t the worst of it.” A wave of something passed over his face but he said nothing else.

I tried to catch his eye. “Misery’s no fun if you keep it to yourself.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said, but didn’t look up. “My parents asked if I wanted to go somewhere else for ninth grade but”—he waved his hand—“you know it doesn’t matter. There’s always one or two or five of them and I was short and a nerd and a minority in every major way and that’s more than enough reason to be picked on.” He exhaled through his nose. “But you know what their real problem with me was? I never wanted to be one of them. That’s what bothers bullies the most.”

Jamie stared at the near empty glass in his fist, gripping it tightly. “Of course, you can’t say any of this out loud, or people will clutch their pearls and call you a monster.”

I thought of my less-than-honest answers on this morning’s assignment and nudged my friend with my shoulder. “Not me. I took the sociopath test this morning. I only got three out of ten non-sociopath results.”

“That’s plenty.” Jamie flashed a weak half-smile, deepening his dimple, then went on. “I’m sure she had a redeeming quality or two and her family and sycophantic friends will miss her dearly. And if she were sitting here now talking about me, I’d probably feature in her narrative as a Moor out to steal all da white ladies.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I just can’t muster up the energy to feel shitty. I don’t really want to. She wouldn’t want my pity, even if she had it. You know?”

“I do,” I said, because I did.

He looked at the wall in front of us, at a ridiculous motivational poster with an eagle skimming the water, triumphantly clutching a fish in its talons. “A little dark for dear little Jamie?”

“No,” I said.

“No?”

“Your love of Ebola tipped me off,” I explained. “And you’re not so little, either.”

He inclined his head slightly, with a smile to match. Then he stood. “I am going to go throw up now. Enjoy your cookie.”

Jamie left but I just sat there, feeling vaguely nauseated myself.

His words unlocked something inside of me and images of corpses bobbed up in my mind.

Morales. Would I have killed her for failing me if I knew what I was doing? No. But was I sad that she was dead?

The brutal, honest answer was no. I was sorry that I might’ve killed her, but I barely thought about her at all.

And Mabel’s owner. If he was alive, she wouldn’t be. Or she’d be suffering still, with gaping wounds in her neck infested by maggots as her body consumed itself, as she died slowly in the miserable heat. But because he was dead? She was spoiled and fat and happy and loved. Her life was worth more than his.

And then, of course, there was Jude. Who trapped me. Pushed me. Forced me. And tortured me, now that he wasn’t dead after all.

I wasn’t sorry that I tried to kill him. I was sorry he was still alive. I would kill him again if I had the chance.

47

JAMIE WAS SENT HOME EARLY AFTER ONE OF THE counselors heard him throwing up in the bathroom. I was not so lucky. At lunch, I sat down next to Stella, who picked idly at her loaded sandwich. I started inhaling mine; the cookies from snack time were stale and store-bought, but the food they served in the dining room was addictive.

But then Phoebe sat across from us and began watching me intently. She scribbled in her journal, chewing on her fingernails as she scratched away, creating a little pile on the table.

Appetite gone. “That’s gross, Phoebe.”

“It’s for the voodoo doll,” she answered, her smile spreading like a stain. “It looks just like you.”

You can’t respond to a statement like that. There’s just nothing to say.

A weird look settled over Phoebe’s weird face and she leaned forward. “Gimme your hair,” she said to me.

Stella stood suddenly, and pulled me away from the table.

“I’m telling my boyfriend!” Phoebe shouted after us.

It was all so screwed up that it was almost funny. I told Stella as much and she dropped my arm. That was when I noticed the bruise. An oil slick of colors, peeking out from beneath her sleeve.

“You okay?” I asked her, staring at it. She tugged her sleeve down, and when I met her eyes, her face was a mask.

“It’s nothing,” she said blankly. “Are you okay?”

I must have looked confused, because she nodded at the table. “Phoebe—” she said.

“Oh. I’m getting used to her shenanigans, I think.” I shrugged.

Stella didn’t say anything. Then, “She was getting intense.”

“Phoebe’s definitely not one of my favorite people.”

Stella looked at me for a beat and said, “Be careful, okay?”

I was about to ask what she meant, but Dr. Kells appeared behind us and called out my name.

“Mara. Just the person I wanted to see.” She looked from me to Stella and then back to me. “Are you busy at the moment?”

Stella offered a small wave, and walked away. Damn.

“No,” I said. Wish I was.

“Can you step into my office for a sec?”

Let’s get this over with.

“I wanted to check in with you,” Dr. Kells said with a benevolent smile. “How are things?” She lowered herself into her chair.

“Fine.” I said nothing more. She said nothing more. A common psychologists’ trick, I knew—she who speaks first loses. I was an expert at this game now.

I felt the urge to yawn. I tried to stifle it, but eventually biology took over.

“How are you sleeping?” Dr. Kells asked.

“Okay.” It was kind of true. I’d woken up in my own bed two days in a row. That should count for something.

She studied my face. “You look pretty tired,” she said.

I shrugged. A non-answer.

“And thin. Are you dieting?” she asked me.

I shook my head.

“Maybe you’re having difficulty adjusting? Do you think you could use something to help you rest?”

I wanted to throw my head back and groan. “I’m already on a lot of pills.”

“You need your sleep.”

“What if I become addicted?” I challenged her.

It didn’t work. “The pills I’ll prescribe for you are non–habit forming, don’t worry. How are your other medications working out for you, by the way?”

“Great.”

“Any hallucinations?”

None that I’m going to tell you about.

“Nightmares?”

None that I’m going to share.

Dr. Kells leaned forward. “Nothing unusual at all?”

“Nope,” I said, smiling. “Completely normal.” A complete lie.

“And what about being here at Horizons? How do you like our program?”

“Well,” I said, feigning thoughtfulness, “I really like Art Therapy.”

“That’s wonderful, Mara. Have you been writing in your journal?”

The journal I couldn’t even remember receiving? Admitting that meant admitting to losing time. Blacking out. Big red flags that I Am Not Okay. I might as well tattoo my forehead with the words INSTITUTIONALIZE ME.

So I told Dr. Kells it was lost. Normal people lose things all the time. No big.

“Have you been more forgetful lately?” she asked.

“No,” I said, acting surprised by the question.

“Well, some of the medications could be responsible for that. I want you to pay attention and see if there’s anything else like that that you’ve noticed.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Even if you don’t think something is important. I think maybe I will adjust some of your dosages,” she said, writing that down on her notepad. “What about emotionally?”

“What do you mean?”

“How are you getting along with the other students?”

“Good.”

Dr. Kells leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs; her nude pantyhose crinkled over her knees like a second, artificial skin. “How about Phoebe?”

So that was where this line of questioning was going. I sighed. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Does Phoebe have any friends?” I asked her.

“Well, Mara, I’m more interested in hearing why you and she don’t get along.”

“Because she’s certifiably insane. And she’s a liar.”

“It seems like you don’t like her very much.”

I rubbed my chin. “That’s pretty accurate, yes.”

“Phoebe said you threatened her.”

“She said I threatened her?” I told Dr. Kells about the sinister I see you note Phoebe left in my bag, but, “I’ll have a talk with her,” was all Dr. Kells said.

Then she asked, “How about Adam?”

I shifted uncomfortably. I couldn’t stand him, either.

“Have you made any friends here, Mara?”

The air conditioning clicked on as the silence stretched out. “Jamie,” I suggested.

“You two knew each other from Croyden, right?”

“Yeah . . .”

“How about Tara?”

Who the heck was Tara?

“Megan?” Dr. Kells asked hopefully.

Megan. Megan of the bizarre phobias. We’d barely spoken to each other, but when I saw her I said hello—I decided to nod in response to Dr. Kells’s question, and tossed out Stella’s name for good measure. Dr. Kells didn’t seem particularly impressed.

“All right,” she said then, and waved her hand at her office door. “You’re free to go. Let’s talk again before the retreat.”

“Actually,” I said, drawing out the word. “I might not be going.” I tried not to sound smug.

“That’s too bad.” Dr. Kells looked disappointed. “Our students tend to find it rewarding. Maybe you’ll join us on the next one?”

“Definitely,” I said before grabbing my bag, thanking her for the chat, and making my escape.

It would have been nice if Anna’s death and Phoebe’s fingernails had been the worst parts of my day.

Dad drove me home and the house was quiet when we reached it—school had started again for Daniel and Joseph, and they weren’t home yet. Mom was probably still working. With Noah in Rhode Island until tomorrow, I found myself confined in the house with nothing to do.

So I settled on research. I passed my grandmother’s portrait in the hallway on the way to my room and resolved to give New Theories in Genetics the old college try, as Daniel had said. Six hundred pages be damned.

But it wasn’t on my bookshelf.

Or in my closet.

I started taking down boxes from my closet shelves, wondering if maybe I put it in one of them to keep it safe and just didn’t remember. But even after I emptied their contents on the floor, nothing.

I grew increasingly frantic until I remembered that the last time I saw it was in the family room before the carnival, and that before I left it there, Daniel insisted on borrowing it. It was probably just in his room. I felt a little relieved and a little crazy for freaking out. Normal people forget things like that all the time.

I went into Daniel’s room and scanned his shelves; there were some books missing from one, leaving the remaining spines slanted against one another at a sharp angle.

I wouldn’t have noticed the composition notebook otherwise. Wouldn’t have noticed the fact that my handwriting was on the front cover. Spelling out my name.

The notebook was completely, utterly unfamiliar to me, and the realization etched my mind with fear.

I remembered Brooke’s words:

“Mara, where’s your journal?”

“I never got a journal.”

“Of course you did. On your first day, don’t you remember?”

I didn’t, but now I was looking right at it. I opened it up.

There was nothing on the first page, and I almost felt relief.

But then I flipped it over.

Panic rushed in, tidal and fierce and tugging me away. My knees almost buckled beneath me. I sat on Daniel’s bed, folding into myself as I stared.

Each line on the second page was filled with words. Hundreds of words on thirteen lines, arranged into the briefest of sentences.

Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me

The words stopped in the middle of the line. I passed out.