Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Memories

Mya

I stand positioned over Six's shaking body. The room stands still, to the point that even the clock seems muted. The cold air grips my shoulders, running its fingers down my spine and causing me to shiver. I hold a dripping wet towel in one hand, and the water makes a spot on the side of my leg.

It's supposed to be for Six, but I can't bring myself to put it against his forehead.

The slightly curly black hair has been plastered across his head by the sticky sweat, rendering it stiff. The smell of his body fills the small room. Crumbs of vomit litter the corners of his mouth; chunks of bloody brown oats cling to his dry and cracked lips.

I want to run my fingers over the desert on their surface, to feel the craters and mountains of flaking skin. Yet, the blood on the inside of his lips warns me like the yellow hazard sign on the front door.

Danger. Warning.

The white squares are the same as yesterday, but the wires have been changed. What were once black are now red. I recognize the machine. I've been hooked up to it many times before.

Now, I know why his screaming shook my core. I feel his pain in my fingertips, the incredible ache that lingers from intense electric shock. Last time I was on this machine, Mom pushed me too far.

I faced death. I floated in the calm gray of nothingness. According to the reports, the machine proclaimed me dead for two minutes before Mom brought me back to the surface again.

The scars still shine against my chest from the burns, bright pink squares sandwiching my heart on all four corners. I spent a week recovering in the lab before Mom would let me go see Finn again. A week of being alone in a room with nothing to talk to but my own conscious.

I had been twelve at the time.

Three years ago.

Sometimes, I still wake up thrashing against the wires that haunt me, against the machine that killed me, against my mother's tragic accident. I was the first and last experiment of the month. She took a long time off, not returning to the house for a few weeks.

Like last night, Finn held me while I slept and sang his song to me. His voice was my medicine, my reassurance that I was alive and okay.

Six has no one to cuddle with him. He faced the nightmare of the experiment alone last night, and that's why the screams were so pained.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, reaching up with my empty hand and pushing his dripping hair away from his face. His eyes flutter behind his lips, and a moan escapes his lips.

Glancing towards the door to make sure I can still see Finn's shadow, I lift my other hand and dab at his skin with the cold rag. It wipes the sweat and vomit off his chest and neck, but I can't do much about the ruined sheets he sleeps on. Once he's cleaner, I dab medicine in the corners of his raw mouth, circling around the white squares in an effort to prevent future scaring.

Finn's comment about checking for a birthmark comes rushing back. My eyes fall past the wires to the edge of his waist line. His hip bones form a strong 'v' with his stomach muscles, and soft black hair stretches from his belly button down into his jeans. I search his skin for a scar or birthmark of some sort. Any distinguishing feature.

What I find is a large patch of discolored skin, pocked with freckles and hair. An actual birthmark. It's shaped like a flattened circle and runs from the left side of his belly button all the way around his ribs to his back. It's the only thing about him that doesn't portray perfection.

"So, you are Six," I whisper, coming back up to his face. I smile and say, "It's nice to meet you, Six."

As I move to wipe his chest with a clean rag, my hand grazes one of the white squares. The machine beeps, sending a shock through the both of us. I wince and jerk away from him, shaking my stinging hand in the air.

Six's body shakes with the bolt of lightning, but I'm still stunned by the sudden shock I received. I glance down at my fingertips, which quiver uncontrollably. They look unharmed, but the tingling runs up my arm. I grit my teeth.

When I'm sure I'm not going to lose a finger, I look back up at Six.

I suck in a quick breath, taking another step away from him. What I see are two huge dark eyes, two black pits of confusion and pain, bloodshot and pink. The irises blend into the pupil, creating a seamless orb of darkness. They match his eyelashes and shake me to my core.

The familiar emotion of fear creeps back up in my spine, extinguishing the curiosity I felt towards him before.

He opens his mouth slowly, and the cracks on his lips expand and begin to bleed again.

"Who are you?" he asks, in an accent unlike any I've heard on the podcasts. It's exotic, like the rest of him. His voice comes through forced and strained, like it takes huge amounts of effort. After the night he went through, I'm sure every word hurts.

"Mya," I say, stepping towards him again, "Mya Julien."

"You're supposed to be dead," he says without skipping a beat, and my face twists in confusion.

How does he know who I am? And why am I supposed to be dead?