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Everyone is exactly like me.
There is no one like me.
The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still. They say my discomfort comes from being built like one accustomed to niceties. How is that fair when I myself have never experienced anything but copies of the real thing?
My entire life is an imitation.
I am an Imitation.
I’ve been here five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting.
And now I have a letter.
My assignment has begun.
I am a prisoner.
I am not Raven Rogen.
I am here to die.
There is no one like me.
The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still. They say my discomfort comes from being built like one accustomed to niceties. How is that fair when I myself have never experienced anything but copies of the real thing?
My entire life is an imitation.
I am an Imitation.
I’ve been here five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting.
And now I have a letter.
My assignment has begun.
I am a prisoner.
I am not Raven Rogen.
I am here to die.
Chapter Three Excerpt
A maid brings me dinner on a rolling
tray. Other than her, I see no one. I hear nothing outside the door of my room.
I can only assume that means they have some device set up to monitor me from
inside. I’m not surprised. Or deterred. Being watched is inevitable in Twig
City; it’s no different here.
After eating, I spend a full hour
reveling in the silkiness of the sheets on the bed that I’m sure would sleep
five comfortably. When I sit up, a carving made in one of the posts catches my
eye. I lean closer and run my fingers over it, trying to identify the shape.
The lines are rough and jagged close up, as if they’ve been carved by hand with
a dull knife or some other blunt instrument. Small shavings come away when I
brush my hand over it, and I wonder how recently this cut was made. It looks
like a version of my own mark but this tree is different, with branches
sprouting into the trunk instead of around it.
I change into the pajamas laid out—a
silky, smooth fabric that feels amazing against my abdomen and arms. I am
reminded of the chafing cotton I wore just last night and try to take comfort
in the benefits, small as they are, of my new life.
The luxuries of this place, combined
with the utter silence that rings in my ears, has me wide awake. I decide to
explore my expensive prison. I find a refrigerator stocked with bubbly water
that sighs when you twist open the lid and some sort of creamy frozen treat in
the freezer. The box says “ice cream,” though it tastes nothing like any ice
I’ve ever had.
After eating the entire container of
pecan ice cream, I lie down and pretend with all my might that I really am
Raven Rogen and there is no danger here. It doesn’t work but I succeed in
sleeping.
The morning comes too fast.
I feel sluggish and slow when the lock
clicks and the door opens. I don’t bother raising my head as Gus pokes his head
into the room. He is already frowning.
“Get dressed. I’ll be back in ten
minutes.”
In Twig City, ten minutes is twice the
time we’re expected to take for showering and dressing, but here, where nothing
is familiar, I’m almost positive I should demand longer. He is gone before I
can argue.
I scavenge the dresser and closet—and
discover the latter is large enough to stand inside and stretch my arms out to
both sides and still not touch the clothes hanging on the racks around me. This
makes me almost smile. I pass by silk gowns and chiffon skirts and gawk at the
shelves of shoes that I can only hope I’ll live long enough to wear. Ida would
love this.
Near the back, I find tailored pants and
a blouse. Not exactly the bland jeans and T-shirt look that we all share in
Twig City, but then I don’t expect Raven Rogen owns a pair of jeans, especially
ones with holes in the knees. I used to fuss at Lonnie for purposely ripping
her pants but after a while, I caught myself doing it too. In a sea of
sameness, I needed to do something to feel individual. I suspect that was
Lonnie’s reason also, although she would say she just liked the ventilation.
Twig City’s lower levels can be stuffy.
Upon mirror inspection, I find that my
blond locks have graduated from bedhead to zoo animal. I do my best to smooth
it and then decide I don’t care. According to Titus, no one but staff is going
to see me today. While I’m still playing a part, the pressure feels lessened
within the confines of these walls.
Gus is waiting for me when I emerge from
the bathroom. I follow him out, refusing to allow myself to be afraid of Titus
this morning. I am prepared this time. I tell myself that makes a difference.
Heather Hildenbrand
Author of the Dirty Blood series
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