Exposed by Jasinda Wilder

  "I remember how wet it was," I whisper. "I remember the darkness. I remember hurting. I remember being so cold. I remember being on the sidewalk and seeing this patch of light and wishing I could just make it to the light, because maybe it would be warmer there. And then you . . . and flames. I feel like--I feel like there was more in the dream, but I can't remember it. I can't see it now."

  "But you're safe now. You're okay."

  I shake my head. "No. I'm not safe. Not with you. You do not tell me all of the truth. There is no truth. And I'm not okay. I'm a splintered ghost of a person. And I don't know how to put the pieces together. I don't even have all the pieces."

  "Isabel--" you begin.

  I chop out with my hand to silence you, and make contact with your leg. "No. Shut up. You are an incubus. You lie."

  A moment of silence. And then your voice, cold and distant as you stand up. "Dr. Frankel is here. There's a clinic a few floors down. He's setting up there."

  I stand up, let the blanket fall to the floor at my feet. "I'm ready. Let's go."

  "Do you want anything to eat?" you ask.

  "Do not suddenly begin pretending as if you care, Caleb." I breeze past you.

  You seize me in a vise grip. Spun around. Fingers pinch my jaw, as if to pry the mandibles apart. "You will never comprehend how deeply I care." You release me.

  "No, I will not." I stare up at you. Your eyes are blazing, hot, open, wild, glinting with fury and agony. "Nor do I wish to." This is a lie.

  You stare down at me, jaw muscles clenching and pulsing, eyes darting, seeking something in my gaze. Not finding it, I do not think. "I do not know how--I don't know how to make you understand. I am not that man."

  "You have not tried."

  "I have. For so long, for--"

  "How long, Caleb? How long?" My understanding of my own life's time frame doesn't make sense.

  The years, the dates, how long I was in a coma, how many years of memory I have, how reliable the memories I do have are . . . all of this is in doubt. Nothing I know, nothing I think I know, is necessarily true.

  "How old am I?" I ask.

  "They weren't sure exactly how old you were when the accident happened," you say.

  "And what year did the accident happen in?"

  "In 2009," you say, immediately.

  "And I was in a coma for how long?"

  "Six months."

  I push past you. "I think you are a liar."

  "Isabel--"

  "Take me to Dr. Frankel."

  Your teeth click together, your head tilts back, your eyes narrow. "Very well, Ms. de la Vega. As you wish."

  We wait for the elevator in tense silence. As the doors open, I turn to you. "Tell me the truth, Caleb."

  "About what?"

  "About me. About what happened. About everything."

  You twist the key. "Dr. Frankel is waiting."

  Not another word is spoken. We transfer elevators one floor down, and go from there to the thirty-second floor. Bare hallways, featureless, identical doors differentiated by alphanumeric designations. A sparse white room, a bed with white paper laid over hard, plasticky leather. Dr. Frankel is a short, pudgy man at the unforgiving end of middle age, a man to whom time and gravity have not been kind. Jowls hang and sway, a pendulous belly covers a belt buckle, khaki pants are tight around thighs and loose around calves. Brown eyes reflect a quick mind, with hands that are small and quick and nimble and gentle and sure.

  "Ah. The patient. Very good." A pat of a hand invites me to sit on the paper, which crinkles and shifts under my weight. "Yes, yes. I remember you. A rather remarkable work I did, if I say so myself. Not a trace of your old injuries remains. Very good, very good. This will be quick and easy. A local anesthetic, a quick incision, and it'll be done. No pain, no mess."

  I lie down on the bed. "Let us proceed then."

  A clearing of the throat. "Well, the incision is in your hip, you see. So I'll, ah, need you to disrobe. From the waist down, at least."

  Without hesitation, I hike my dress up to my waist, staring at the wall, and work my underwear off. "Better?"

  "Um. Yes. I would have left the room, you know."

  "I want this over with. I want the chip out."

  "I didn't think you knew."

  "I didn't," I say. "I do now."

  A bob of a heavy head. "I see. I see. Well. I'll just spread this over you . . ." Dr. Frankel drapes a large square of blue tissue over my waist, a square in the middle left open.

  The square encloses the scar on my hip, and the doctor uses medical tape to make sure the tissue remains in place. Dr. Frankel dons a pair of blue exam gloves from a packet, very carefully not touching any of the glove except the very ends near the wrists as he slides them on.

  Lifting a syringe, the doctor casts a glance to me. "A little pinch now." There is a brief sharp poke, coldness against my skin, and then nothing. "Some iodine to sterilize your skin . . ." A small white carton has its lid torn off, revealing a brown liquid and a sponge.

  The iodine is cold and turns my skin orange.

  Another packet is opened, revealing a scalpel and a pair of forceps. Dr. Frankel lifts the scalpel and prods my scar with it. "Can you feel that?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  "Very good. I'll begin. Look away, perhaps? And if the anesthetic wears off, let me know right away and I'll administer some more. I don't want you to feel a thing."

  "All right. Carry on then."

  I watch in curiosity as Dr. Frankel presses the tip of the scalpel directly over my scar, free hand keeping my skin taut. After a glance at me to make sure I'm not experiencing any pain, the incision is lengthened, precisely to the size of the previous one. Blood wells after a moment, and a cloth smears it away, and then forceps delve into the opening of my skin. I am morbidly fascinated, watching as my skin is parted. The scar isn't actually directly on my hip, but nearer to my buttock, just behind the bone, which explains how something like a chip could be inserted subcutaneously without leaving a bump. A moment of searching with the forceps, and then Dr. Frankel withdraws them, pincering a tiny red-dripping square of plastic. The chip is so small I wouldn't have suspected anything amiss even if it had been placed where it would leave a bump. It clatters in a bowl, and then Dr. Frankel deftly sews the incision shut with a few quick loops of black thread and tapes a bandage over the area.

  The entire procedure took perhaps five minutes from start to finish.

  "Wonderful. That's that." Snapping the gloves off, Dr. Frankel wraps up the entire mess, sans surgical instruments and syringe, and discards it in the trash, and the instruments are deposited in a box on the wall labeled SHARPS.

  "Thank you very much, Dr. Frankel," you say. "Your balance should reflect your payment by the end of business today."

  "I have no doubt." A quick glance at Caleb. "And this evening?"

  "A limo will be waiting for you at your hotel, with your companion for the evening already in attendance." You pause. "I must remind you of the rules regarding my employees. They are companionship for the evening only. And, of course, your complete discretion regarding the procedure you just performed is expected."

  "Don't have to remind me on either score, Mr. Indigo. I know the rules. I signed an NDA years ago, and besides, I didn't get where I am by having loose lips."

  "Of course not," you say.

  A glance at me. "Take it easy on those stitches. There aren't many, and they'll come out on their own in time. But try not to get them wet for forty-eight hours at least."

  "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Doctor."

  "Pleasure. Next time, try to give me more than a couple hours' notice, will you?"

  "Hopefully there won't be a next time," you say.

  Dr. Frankel laughs. "Ah yes, the plight of the doctor. Happy to see us show up, happier yet to see us leave. And happiest of all to never have to see us in the first place." With that last quip, Dr. Frankel is out the door.

  When the good doctor i
s gone, you glance at your watch, and then at me. "A rather expensive seven minutes, I'd say."

  "If you hadn't put it there in the first place, you wouldn't have had to spend three million dollars to have it removed." I frown. "Why did you have him put a tracking chip in me, Caleb?"

  A breath that isn't quite a sigh. "A last-minute quirk, you could say. A means of ensuring I could protect--"

  "Your investment?"

  "Are you so determined to believe the worst?"

  "Yes." I step into my underwear and allow my dress to fall back into place as I stand up. I wobble, as my hip is still numb. "With reason."

  "You misunderstand me, and the situation."

  "Because you do not tell me the truth. Thus, I have no way of truly understanding the situation." I prop myself on the bed in an attempt to find my balance. "Or of understanding you. You, most of all."

  You merely stare at me. At a loss for words, perhaps? I wait, but you say nothing.

  I shake my head and walk away, or try to. I have to cling to one surface or another, have to surf from bed to door post, door post to wall, wall to elevator. I have to lean against the elevator wall and focus on breathing. The local anesthetic is beginning to wear off, and my body is now reminding me that I just had my skin sliced open and sewn shut. It isn't a pleasant sensation. At no point do I stop to wonder if you'll follow me, because you won't. This isn't new.

  I had a cell phone, at one point. But I am unaccustomed to carrying any possessions with me, and I've misplaced it. At Logan's home, perhaps? I don't know. I wish I had it now. I would call him. Beg him to come get me.

  I make it outside, where the world is bright and loud and chaotic. I feel panic creeping at the edges of my mind, lurking at the bottom of my lungs, stealing my breath. I focus on walking, clinging to the wall of the building. It is a laborious process, made all the harder when I run out of building and must totter to the intersection and pretend I am not about to collapse. The light turns, the crowd around me surges forward, and I am swept off balance. I nearly fall several times but rebound off those around me and manage to stay upright. Reaching the far side of the intersection feels like a miraculous accomplishment. I still cannot breathe, and the edge of my vision darkens, narrows, but each step requires such focus and determination that I cannot allow myself to falter, or I will fall.

  And then I feel peace wash over me. I look around, and there he is. Tall, golden-haired, golden-skinned, eyes gleaming indigo. Striding toward me, arms swinging freely, the smile on his face a tender one, calm joy at merely seeing me. He's wearing the same tight dark blue jeans as the first time I saw him, this time with a red T-shirt, on which is written in large black letters: VOTE "NO" ON DALEKS, STOP EXTERMINATION TODAY, with a picture of some kind of robot covered in black knobs and armed with a gun. I do not understand many of his T-shirts. References to pop culture, I believe, things I've not seen either pre-or postamnesia.

  He wraps me up in his arms, pulls me to his chest. He is warm and solid and comforting, his scent now familiar, cinnamon gum and cigarette smoke. I rest my ear over his heart and listen to his heartbeat, and I merely breathe for long moments. He doesn't speak, as if understanding without needing to be told that I am fragile right now.

  His palm skates down my waist and comes to rest over my hip, over the stitches. I gasp in pain, and his hand flies away.

  "Shit, are you hurt?" He holds me by the shoulder and examines me for signs of injury.

  I shake my head. "No. Well, yes. I just had the microchip removed from my hip. No more tracking me. Not that way, at least."

  "When did this happen?"

  I shrug. "Ten minutes ago, perhaps?"

  "Damn it, Isabel," he sighs. "You shouldn't be on your feet." He suits action to words, scooping me up in his arms and cradling me against his chest.

  "Put me down, Logan," I murmur, hiding my face in his neck. "I'm fine. And besides, you can't carry me down the streets of Manhattan."

  "The hell I will, the hell you are, and the hell I can't." He moves through the crowd with me in his arms as if I weigh nothing, and he is careful to make sure my head doesn't bump into anyone. "If a man carrying a woman down the street is the strangest thing these people see today, then they're not paying attention."

  I don't want him to put me down. Not really. So I let him carry me. I enjoy his presence, his heat, his strength. Being taken care of. Cared for. Cared about.

  "So . . . you and Caleb." It's a gentle prod, a hesitant inquisition.

  My throat seizes. "I can't, Logan. Not just yet."

  His lips touch my cheek. My forehead. "When you're ready. Or not at all. I'm here, okay? That's all you need to worry about. I'm here, and I've got you."

  His big boxy silver SUV is parked a couple of blocks away, and he carries me all the way to it, never faltering or shifting his grip or acting for even a moment as if my not-insignificant weight is a burden. He sets me on my feet, opens the passenger-side door, and helps me in, closes the door after me.

  Slides in behind the wheel, touches a button to start the engine. Immediately, loud, wild, raucous music fills the cabin. The music is chugging yet melodic, the singer a woman, her voice sweet yet full of rage, moving easily from singing to screaming--I am the dark you created, I am your sin, I am your whore. Logan moves to turn it off, but I stop him.

  "Wait." There is something in the way she sings, the way she screams. Something in the lyrics. Something visceral in the madness of the instruments. "What is this?"

  "The band is In This Moment. The song is called 'Whore.'"

  "It could be about me."

  We sit and listen. I am moved, deeply. The rage she so obviously feels, her ownership of the darkness within her, the demand for an answer to a question that has none . . . I empathize in some vulnerable corner of my soul.

  And then the next song comes on. Are you sick like me? . . . Am I beautiful? There is more ire in this song, more deeply felt hatred and self-loathing and understanding of one's own filth.

  It is all too close to the state of my existence, too near to who I am. I could devolve into a creature carved from fire and rage. I have been lied to and possessed and forced into molds that do not fit me; I have been brainwashed and made to be a thing I am not. My past has been hidden from me. The truth of all that is me has been kept buried. Even still, my desires are used against me. My needs made into weapons, forged into blades slicing open my own flesh.

  I tremble, like a dry leaf in a long wind.

  "I think that's enough," Logan says, when the song ends.

  "No. One more."

  He turns on a song called "Blood," and I focus in on the lyrics. Dirty dirty girl . . . everything you ever took from me . . . dominate and you violate me . . .

  I close my eyes and fall into it. Give in to it. Scream with her. Sing with her. Lose myself to it.

  He plays another one, "The Promise," and this one has a male voice added, and the promise of the title is that they will hurt each other.

  I know that feeling. I feel it now. I risk a look at Logan, and I know it's true. I'll hurt him. I have hurt him. He just doesn't know it yet.

  He drives, and I let him play whatever he wants. He tells me what each song and band is as they come on, one by one. He plays Halestorm, Flyleaf, Amaranthe, Skillet, Five Finger Death Punch--how do they come up with these names?

  The one constant is rage.

  This . . . this I understand.

  We reach his house, and I've had a brief introduction to music that can reach the secrets in your soul and turn them real and give them voice. It turns out my voice is angry.

  "My girl likes metal," Logan says, as he shuts off his truck.

  "I'm not your girl." I hate how harsh I sound when I say this, and a look at Logan tells me I've hurt him. "That came out wrong. I'm sorry."

  "No, it's true."

  "But it's not what I meant. Or--it is, but not the way it sounded. I can't be your girl. I want to be, I wish I were. But . . . I can't. Lo
gan, I just . . . can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm broken. I'm all sharp edges and fragments. I'll just cut you to pieces if you try to keep hold of me."

  "I don't mind bleeding for you."

  "You shouldn't have to." I swallow bitterness in my throat. "Not for me. I'm not worth it."

  "Not worth--?" He seems to choke, but I can't look at him. "Not worth it? God, that bastard's really done a number on you, hasn't he?"

  "I did it to myself."

  "I was right, wasn't I?"

  "Yes." I step out of his vehicle, and he follows. He takes a seat on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to his home. "Why were you there, Logan? Just now, I mean. How are you always just . . . there . . . when I need you most?"

  "I just . . . knew. I don't know. I can't explain it without sounding like a whacko. I just . . . knew I should be there. I knew you'd need me. I couldn't sit around and do nothing. We finished the acquisition and now we're off for a week, and I just . . . I was going crazy without you. And I knew you needed me." He digs in a pocket of his jeans and pulls out my cell phone. "Also, you left this at my place, so I was going to return it."

  "Thank you."

  A shrug. "What happened, Is?" He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

  I take it from him, smoke with him. It tastes horrible, but the lightheaded dizziness is worth it, the sense of floating above it all, the momentary sensation of freedom. And it binds me to him in some way.

  "More stories, more half truths, more lies." I stare at the concrete under my feet. "More of my weakness. More of all the things I've always known."

  Logan is silent for a very long time, the cigarette pinched between forefinger and thumb, lazy tendrils of smoke curling up around his face. "But I was right."

  "Do not mince words, Logan. Not to spare my feelings." I take the cigarette from him, inhale, watch the cherry glow brighter. Hand it back. "Or your own, for that matter."

  He just blinks at me, takes one last drag, and with a violent flick of his hand sends the butt flying a dozen feet into the street, where it lands with an explosion of sparks. "Did you fuck him?"

  I can barely manage a whisper. "Short answer . . . yes."