I remember the pissed-off skies and the sequence of sunsets collapsing beneath the moon. I remember what the world looked like when I left it. And somewhere is in the chaos all around us. We are inevitabilities of the perverse manipulations of our Earth. Our abilities are taken from the universe, from other matter, from other Energies.

Matter is never created or destroyed, he said to me, and as our world changed, so did the Energy within it. I’m supposed to harness my Energy, Castle said. Ideas are carried in pockets, thoughts propped up on the tips of every tongue eyes are narrowed in concentration, in careful planning I should want to know about.īut nothing is working and all my parts are broken. If I listen closely I can hear the sounds of brains working and foreheads pinching and fingers tap tapping at chins and lips and furrowed brows. It’s busy here, busy with bodies, busy with halls stuffed full of whispers and shouts, pounding feet and thoughtful footsteps. The air is icy, the mats are orange the lights and switches beep and flicker, electronic and electric, neon bright. My new world is etched in gunmetal, sealed in silver, drowning in the scents of stone and steel. Life around here isn’t what I expected it to be. Now my mind is a traitor because my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and tightening I made so many promises when I arrived here. Every day I stare at these 4 walls and remind myself I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner but sometimes the old fears streak across my skin and I can’t seem to break free of the claustrophobia clutching at my throat. It’s a million degrees below zero in my blood and I’m buried 50 feet underground in a training room that’s become my second home lately. Maybe it’s snowing, maybe it’s raining, I don’t know maybe it’s freezing it’s hailing it’s a hurricane slip slipping into a tornado and the earth is quaking apart to make room for our mistakes. Maybe it’s dark and wet today, whistling wind so sharp it stings the skin off the knuckles of grown men. The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Shatter me book free