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

“What did you do with James? Where’s Kenji?”
He stops. Looks up. He can’t be more than 30. He has a
crooked nose. A day of scruff. “Can I at least make sure
you’re doing all right? Then I’ll answer your questions. I
promise. Just let me get through the basic protocol here.”
I blink.
How do I feel. I don’t know.
Did I have any dreams. I don’t think so.
Do I know where I am. No.
Do I think I’m safe. I don’t know.
Do I remember what happened. Yes.
How old am I. 17.
What color are my eyes. I don’t know.
“You don’t know?” He puts down his pen. Takes off his
glasses. “You can remember exactly what happened
yesterday, but you don’t know the color of your own eyes?”
“I think they’re green. Or blue. I’m not sure. Why does it
matter?”
“I want to be sure you can recognize yourself. That you
haven’t lost sight of your person.”
“I’ve never really known my eye color, though. I’ve only
looked in the mirror once in the last three years.”
The stranger stares at me, his eyes crinkled in concern. I
finally have to look away.
“How did you touch me?” I ask.
“I’m sorry?”
“My body. My skin. I’m so . . . clean.”
“Oh.” He bites his thumb. Marks something on his papers.
“Right. Well, you were covered in blood and filth when you
came in, and you had some minor cuts and bruises. We
didn’t want to risk infection. Sorry for the personal intrusion
—but we can’t allow anyone to bring that kind of bacteria in
here. We had to do a superficial detox.”
“That’s fine—I understand,” I hurry on. “But how?”
“Excuse me?”