Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

ever accidentally put my hands on someone I’d always
pulled away. I’d pull away as soon as I remembered I wasn’t
supposed to be touching anyone. As soon as I heard the first
scream escape their lips.
The little boy was different.
I wanted to help him. I felt such a surge of sudden anger
toward his mother for neglecting his cries. Her lack of
compassion as a parent devastated me and it reminded me
too much of my own mother. I just wanted to help him. I
wanted him to know that someone else was listening—that
someone else cared. I didn’t understand why it felt so
strange and exhilarating to touch him. I didn’t know that I
was draining his life and I couldn’t comprehend why he’d
grown limp and quiet in my arms. I thought maybe the rush
of power and positive feeling meant that I’d been cured of
my horrible disease. I thought so many stupid things and I
ruined everything.
I thought I was helping.
I spent the next 3 years of my life in hospitals, law offices,
juvenile detention centers, and suffered through pills and
electroshock therapy. Nothing worked. Nothing helped.
Outside of killing me, locking me up in an institution was the
only solution. The only way to protect the public from the
terror of Juliette.
Until he stepped into my cell, I hadn’t seen Adam Kent in 3
years.
And he does look different. Tougher, taller, harder, sharper,
tattooed. He’s muscle, mature, quiet and quick. It’s almost
like he can’t afford to be soft or slow or relaxed. He can’t
afford to be anything but muscle, anything but strength and
efficiency. The lines of his face are smooth, precise, carved
into shape by years of hard living and training and trying to
survive.
He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s not afraid. He’s in the
army.