Free Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready Page A

and start under my left jaw. For some reason, that’s the only side where
the hair grows below my face; on the right side, it stops at my jawline.
Puberty is an odd, unfinished business.
    I
feel a slight sting, as if from the world’s smallest bee. A spot of red blooms
amid the white lather. As I stare at it, the mirror starts to cloud around the
edges, the creeping frost of a flashback.
    Look away , I tell myself. Do whatever it takes to stay here.
    But
I’m already lost.
     
    ‘Sorry about that.’ The barber – or whatever he is – wipes a spot of blood from the edge of my
jaw, near my left ear. ‘It’s hard not to nick someone who has three weeks of
growth.’
    ‘It’s alright,’ I tell him. I’m so happy
to have someone touch me and speak to me, I don’t care if he makes a thousand
cuts to my face. ‘Why am I being cleaned up? Is this a regular thing now?’
Perhaps the DMP has seen fit to treat me more humanely. Perhaps I’ll be let out
of my cell every day, for exercise or recreation or … anything. I’d even
welcome an interrogation.
    ‘You have a visitor,’ says a man behind
me.
    I start to turn my head, but the barber
catches my jaw. ‘Hold still so I can finish.’
    ‘An attorney.’ The voice comes closer.
‘She’s here with a representative from the British consulate.’
    My heart leaps. ‘I’m going home?’
    ‘No.’ The man steps in front of me, tall
and wiry, in a midnight-blue uniform with no insignia. I’ve never seen a DMP
agent dressed like this. His face isn’t a pleasure to look at, but at this
point, all I care is that it’s human. ‘They’re here to assess your welfare,’ he
says.
    So that’s why I’m having a shave. To be
presentable. To not look like a prisoner of war.
    ‘Why am I here?’ I ask the man in blue.
‘Why am I alone? Am I being punished?’
    The barber clucks his tongue. ‘Please
hold still.’
    Now I’ve started talking, I can’t stop.
‘If I’ve broken the law, then put me in a real prison. Put me somewhere with
people!’
    The man in blue holds up a finger and
pauses, looking like a professor about to expound on a theory. ‘Listen
carefully, Mr Moore,’ he says finally. ‘If you tell
the consul you’ve been kept in isolation for three weeks, he’ll be busting down
the door of our State Department demanding your release. The United Nations
believes that holding prisoners in solitary confinement for more than fifteen
days is, well—’
    ‘Torture.’ I’ve not said the T word out loud yet, and even now it hurts to
admit I’m a victim. ‘So if I tell the truth, I’ll be set free?’
    ‘Most likely.’
    ‘Why would you tell me this?’
    ‘If you were released, we’d need a
similar subject for our tests.’
    A
similar subject . A chill washes over me.
‘You mean …’ In my panic, her name slips further from my mind.
    ‘Aura. Yes. If you ever tell anyone the
first thing about your experience here, she will be taken.’ He leans closer,
enunciating each syllable. ‘Everything you’ve undergone, she will undergo too.’
     
    A dog
barks, high and sharp, bringing me back to the present. I blink hard. It barks
again, through the open window.
    Right.
The neighbour’s old Sheltie. Always has to piss at
3.05 a.m., like clockwork.
    I
grimace at my half-shaven face in the mirror. Why can’t that place stay in the
past? Why must it invade today? These flashbacks, they’re not like remembering,
not like seeing it Then. They’re like reliving, as if it’s happening Now. As
long as I remain silent – and I must, to keep Aura safe – 3A will
lurk inside me, attacking with no warning or remorse.
    I
must get it out.
    A
cramp comes over my hand, and I realise I’m still
gripping the razor, so tightly it’s pinching the skin at the base of my finger.
    Yes. That will fix it.
    I’m
not impulsive about the task. I finish my shave, then rinse and dry my face and
the blade, savouring what I’m about to do, knowing
I’ll feel better once