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

My skin is cold-sweat, my fingers trembling with disgust,
my legs unable to withstand the waste the waste the waste
the selfish waste in these 4 walls. I’m seeing red
everywhere. The blood of bodies spattered against the
windows, spilled across the carpets, dripping from the
chandeliers.
“Juliette—”
I break.
I’m on my knees, my body cracking from the pain I’ve
swallowed so many times, heaving with sobs I can no longer
suppress, my dignity dissolving in my tears, the agony of
this past week ripping my skin to shreds.
I can’t ever breathe.
I can’t catch the oxygen around me and I’m dry-heaving
into my shirt and I hear voices and see faces I don’t
recognize, wisps of words wicked away by confusion,
thoughts scrambled so many times I don’t know if I’m even
conscious anymore.
I don’t know if I’ve officially lost my mind.
I’m in the air. I’m a bag of feathers in his arms and he’s
breaking through soldiers crowding around for a glimpse of
the commotion and for a moment I don’t want to care that I
shouldn’t want this so much. I want to forget that I’m
supposed to hate him, that he betrayed me, that he’s
working for the same people who are trying to destroy the
very little that’s left of humanity and my face is buried in
the soft material of his shirt and my cheek is pressed
against his chest and he smells like strength and courage
and the world drowning in rain. I don’t want him to ever
ever ever ever let go of my body. I wish I could touch his
skin, I wish there were no barriers between us.
Reality slaps me in the face.
Mortification muddles my brain, desperate humiliation
clouds my judgment; red paints my face, bleeds through my
skin. I clutch at his shirt.