Imitation (11 page)

I head for the door where a lone
security guard stands. He holds it open for me as I approach. I
look up to nod him thanks, but he is looking so far through me, I
wonder how he even knows I am here. I pass by without a word and
fresh air, crisp and cold, hits my face in a blast of
wind.

My elation is so sharp it hurts my
chest. I had no idea I was so close to outside or I would’ve tried
harder to get here. Set before me is a track, exactly as Gus said.
The far side juts up to a railing and then a drop-off where this
portion of roof ends. To my left are giant air handlers. Their purr
reminds me of the humming pipes of Twig City. To my right is a set
of stairs that leads up to the next level of rooftop. I can just
make out the net of a tennis court as I pass by onto the
track.

It takes me a moment to realize I am
alone. I’m so used to a shadow. Between a room full of Imitations
in Twig City or my full escort of guards and cameras at Rogen
Tower, privacy feels foreign. Out here with the wind blowing, the
expanse of blue sky so big I feel dwarfed under it, the aloneness
is so amazing I can taste it on my tongue.

My feet hit the black
rubber of the track and immediately I pick up speed. My head aches
from the strain of the fencing match. The security guard watches me
through the small window in the door, but I am alone out here. The
only warm body, the only heart beating on this roof, and it makes
me
want
to
run.

After three laps, my headache
graduates to explosive.

Another dozen yards and I cannot put
one foot in front of the other without wincing. The pounding of my
feet is like a gong between my temples. I’ve never experienced such
horrific pain, not even when the plugs were pulled and I was woken
from the incubator. Even then, the very air on my skin stung;
everything felt raw and new. But this … this is like nothing else.
All I can think is how to make it stop.

Two more steps. Could Titus have hit
my kill switch? I wonder if this is what it feels like to
terminate.

Imitations do not die because,
scientifically speaking, we do not actually live. But I know
termination must be painful or why would we fear it? If all that
exists on the other side is oblivion—no consequences, no higher
power, no answering for wrong actions—then why else would I care
whether I stay or go? It must be pain. Fear of pain. The staggering
headache that beats in my skull makes a convincing
argument.

I make it to the gate that leads off
the track and stumble. I grab onto the railing and hang over it,
gasping and blinking profusely against the white-hot agony that has
taken up residence behind my lids. My chest heaves, pulling oxygen
in and out while I try to maintain a standing position. My knees
threaten to buckle. It seems all my body’s energy is being sent to
the nerve center in my brain, so it can scream at me lest I forgot
how much this actually hurts.

Someone’s hands close around my arms,
guiding me slowly toward the door. I am vaguely aware how
disappointing it feels when I pass through the doorway and the feel
of the crisp air against my bare skin evaporates, replaced by the
faux warmth of the gym. I let the hands direct me and fight the
urge to scream. Every footfall feels like a hammer inside my
head.

One foot in front of the other. Again
and again.

I end up inside a small room on a
narrow cot that is covered in a thin layer of white paper. It
crunches and crinkles as the hands push me down against it. I lie
on my back and wince against the light that penetrates from
overhead and threatens to burn through my lids.

I hear a whimper and it takes me a
moment to realize it belongs to me. The hands on my shoulders
disappear. I have the sense I am alone.

Minutes later, footsteps sound against
the linoleum and someone shuffles in, fabric rubbing against fabric
as they sit and scoot toward me in their chair. I wince and turn
away from the sound, curling onto my side. A cool hand lands
against my cheek, gently pressing as it moves upward inch by inch
until it caresses my forehead. The fingers are thin and dainty, and
somehow I know it is a female. The pressure disappears and the
chair scrapes back. The noise grates on my nerves, but I don’t
utter a sound.

Papers are shuffled and the chair
returns. “Raven?” a woman’s voice asks. Tentative, soft.

I don’t move. I don’t
speak.

“
Raven, I am Josephine.
I’m a doctor. Can you open your eyes?”

I turn her words over in my heavy
brain. A doctor. After everything I’ve been through, been left to
heal from on my own, now they send a doctor? What does this mean?
Am I terminating? The urge to ask these questions is drowned out by
my fear. I am terrified that if I speak, whatever small part of
sanity left will snap and the pain will overtake me and I will end.
So I keep my lips firmly clamped against my teeth and remain
silent.

“
Raven, I’m here to help.
I—I know what you are.” She lowers her voice and leans closer as
she adds, “I have been to the City.”

That gets my attention. I strain my
lids, forcing them open. My left one cooperates but then slams shut
again as light penetrates. I let out a cry and roll
away.

“
I understand if you
cannot speak. Maybe you can nod so I know your symptoms. Does your
stomach hurt?”

I manage to shake my
head.
No.

“
Your head?”

I nod emphatically, desperate to
communicate the problem and hoping she can fix it. She knows what I
am, where I’m from. She must know how to cure me.

“
Your head hurts,” she
repeats, letting me know she understands. “Anything else?” she
asks. It is a more open-ended question than the others but again, I
simply shake my head. The pain behind my forehead is the priority.
“Give me a moment.”

I hear her stand and move around the
room. Cabinets are opened, items are shuffled. I can hear her
muttering but the words sound foreign. My fingernails dig into my
arms where I’ve clenched them around me but I do not let go. The
pressure is an outside stimulus that counteracts the internal
pain—however minutely effective it is.

Josephine returns and her cool fingers
land lightly on my arm. I shrink back but she doesn’t let
go.

“
It’s all right,” she
murmurs over and over until the sound of her voice lulls me into
stillness and I give her silent permission to touch me if it means
making me better.

Something beeps overhead. It’s not
worth risking a peek, so I lie still and wait for whatever’s next.
Josephine is extending my arm, straightening it and exposing my
veins. Her fingertips pat gently at the crook in my elbow. She rubs
something against my skin and I wrinkle my nose at the sterile
smell it leaves behind. Then something sharp pricks at my
skin.

The pain is quick and biting. I suck
in a breath and hold it until the pinching subsides. The entire
episode is reminiscent of something, somewhere … I cannot quite put
my finger on it but I know I must’ve experienced this very feeling
before.

Before I can guess, the pain in my
head lessens. I imagine a wave receding from the shoreline and
brace myself for the impact of the next one but it never comes.
Gingerly, I pry an eye open. I find Josephine staring down at me
expectantly. Her face is round and framed by strands of brown hair
that have come loose from her bun. Though older than her voice made
me think, she is very pretty.

The pain dials back another notch and
I lick my lips; a strange sweetness coats my mouth. Josephine
continues to watch me without a word. “What was that?” I ask when I
find my voice.

“
The drug? It’s a
painkiller. It’ll taste funny for a bit.”

“
No, I mean, the prick I
felt.”

She holds up a plastic tube with a
needle attached to one end. “You mean the injection?”

“
Yes, that. What is
it?”

“
It’s a syringe. The
medicine I gave went into your vein. It’s more effective that way,”
she explains. I take her word for it. I don’t remember ever having
been administered medicines this way, but I’m grateful for how
quickly it has worked.

“
Do you know what caused
my pain?” I ask.

I’ve rarely experienced physical
ailments and when I have, they are always short-lived. Twig City
spares no expense on medicines but their first priority is making
us so healthy in the first place that we have no need for
treatment.

“
I’m not sure, but I took
a quick scan before I injected you. I should have the results back
in a day or two and I’ll let you know if I find anything.” I nod,
assuming she refers to the beeping I heard. “You have a pretty
significant bump on your head. That probably contributed.” She
hesitates and then asks, “Has this happened before?”

“
No.”

Her voice softens as she asks, “And
the bruise on your cheek?”

I look away. I’m more angry than
ashamed but I’m fighting both. “It didn’t cause my
headache.”

“
No, it didn’t,” she
agrees. I sense she’s waiting for more but I don’t offer further
explanation.

“
The scan you took, it
will tell us why this happened to me?” I ask.

She rises, offering me her hand.
“We’ll see. Do you feel like you can stand up?”

“
I think so.” I decline
her help and push to my feet. I am standing toe to toe with this
woman and we are close enough to the same height that we are also
eye to eye. There is something trustworthy in her, but just the
same, I am cautious. “How do you know what I am?” I ask
quietly.

She glances toward the closed door and
then back again. “I have been to the City. I have treated
Imitations there for Mr. Rogen on occasion.”

“
Is that why you’re here?
To treat me?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes.”

There is something behind her simple
answer but I don’t know the right question to ask. The door opens
and Gus pokes his head inside. “Better?” he asks.

“
Seems so,” Josephine
answers for me.

He grunts and swings the door wide,
motioning for me to exit. I share a look with Josephine. I have so
many more questions and she knows it. None will be answered now, if
ever, so I make my way past her and out the door.

I am delivered to my room where Maria
is waiting with a drawn bath and fresh clothes. I don’t argue or
wave off her attempts to help me. I am too afraid of my own
thoughts if I were left to them.

“
I heard you fenced with
Sofia earlier,” Maria says when I’m dressed and seated at the
vanity. She is methodically running a soft-bristled brush through
my wet hair.

Between that and the lingering drugs
in my system, I am so relaxed I answer without thinking, “Yes, she
is much better than I am.”

Maria’s hand hesitates only briefly
before continuing her even strokes with the brush. “Truly,” she
agrees. “She is most gifted.”

I curse myself for my
admission. Even with Maria, I must continue to be
her
. Haughty,
condescending, confident. If Titus finds out, I am positive I will
have another bruise to match the first—or worse. Still, I can’t
help but recognize the note of pride in Maria’s voice.

“
She is special to you?
Sofia?” I ask.

She nods as she brushes. “She is my
daughter.” I can hear her reluctance to admit this. I wonder if she
is afraid Raven Rogen would use that sort of affection against her.
Probably.

“
She is very lucky to have
such a caring mother,” I say.

Through our reflections, our eyes
lock. Finally, after what feels like a million years, she nods. Her
expression never changes. “Thank you,” she says, and I know it is
the only nice thing I have ever said to her.

By the next morning, my cheek is
jaundiced from the fading bruise. No amount of makeup will fully
cover the damage, so I give up and walk to breakfast with my hair
in my face. No one in this house will care but I hate that evidence
of my slavery is so prominently displayed.

Halfway to the dining hall, someone
steps out of a doorway and I stop abruptly to avoid a collision. I
recognize his boots and look up into the face I’ve missed the past
twenty-four hours despite all efforts to the contrary.

“
Linc,” I say as my hair
falls away.

“
Rav…” My name—my
Authentic’s name—dies on his lips. His brows lift in surprise and
then it’s as if a mask falls over his features, effectively hiding
his thoughts from me. “What happened to your face?”

“
I … was struck.” I am
suddenly unsure of how to explain my injury. Or how he will react
if I do. He shouldn’t care how I’m treated. I hope he
does.

“
Did that happen on the
rooftop?” he asks. “I don’t remember seeing any mark the other
night.”

“
Yes, the rooftop,” I say,
grabbing hold of the flimsy explanation.

He stares for a long moment and I am
positive he doesn’t believe me. My heart races as I wait for him to
demand the truth, but he doesn’t. He nods toward the hallway, a
muscle in his jaw working. “Breakfast?” he asks.