Read Online Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready - Free Book Online

to care for you? Am I not doing what you need?’
    ‘You’ve
done more than I could ever ask. But for your own good, you—’
    ‘They
never delivered yer letters, did ye know that? Every
day for two months, I waited for them to come and tell me you were dead.’ I
don’t add that by August I would’ve welcomed it, or any words from another
human. ‘I didn’t know if I’d be released during my lifetime, much less yours.’ I leave the spoon in the bowl,
sticking straight up from the thick porridge. ‘So it’s true I’ve changed, that
I’m more afraid of losing you than ever. But that fear’s not from anything done
to me, other than being kept in the first place. I was not … harmed.’
    My
voice almost breaks on the lie. I feel harmed, whether I’ve a right to or not.
    ‘Okay.’
Dad picks up his fork. ‘You’ll talk about it when you’re ready. I won’t ask
again.’
    ‘Thank
you,’ I tell him, and mean it with all my heart.
    ‘But
please know this, son: you’re safe now. From the DMP, Nighthawk, all of them.
You’re safe.’
    Perhaps
I am. But Aura’s not. And if my silence can keep her safe, then it can shatter
me, smother me, slay me. I don’t care.
    I
will carry on.
     
    *    *    *    *
     
    The
next morning I’m awakened at 11.24 a.m. by a triumphant text from Aura: It worked! Details tonight.
    She
did it. She turned a shade back to a ghost, perhaps saving its soul in the
bargain.
    I
praise her with a Gaun yersel , hen! text, then try to sleep another half hour. But waiting for her ‘details’ makes
me restless. I need to run, burn off this nervous energy, or I’ll go mad.
    One
look out my wet window tells me the weather’s pure dreich today. It’ll only get worse as winter approaches with its cold, damp cloak. If
I’m to outrun the black dog of depression, I’ll need to find a new path.
    I
walk down the hall and pound on Martin’s door. ‘’Mon, ya lazy shite! Time tae join a gym.’
     
    *    *    *    *
     
    ‘Are
we to race?’ Martin asks as I lead him towards a pair of empty treadmills on
the far side of the large, fourth-story room. ‘Cos if so, you win, mate. I’ve
no ego whatsoever when it comes to fitness.’ Passing a well-built man doing leg
lifts, Martin adds, ‘which is not to say I’ve no interest whatsoever.’
    ‘I
thought you might change your mind once we came.’
    ‘Figured
we’d end up here one day.’ He hands me a pair of earphones with a very long
cord. ‘So I made us another playlist: good Scottish exercise music.’ As we
mount the treadmills, he plugs his own earphones into the other side of the
splitter. ‘This way we can listen to the same thing at the same time.’
    I
attempt to decipher the machine’s touchscreen, which features fancy animations
of an oval track, a mountainside, and a nature trail. ‘It’s trying to make us
forget we’re in a gym.’
    ‘Like
that’s possible.’ Martin examines the controls on his own treadmill. ‘Is there
a negative kilometres -per-hour setting, so I can do
less than nil effort, just be sorta carried along?’
    ‘You
said you wanted to join me.’
    ‘Never
said I’d do it without whingeing . That’s the best
part.’
    Soon
we’re off and running – literally. I lose myself in the whir of
hydraulics, in the rhythmic stomp of feet on rubber, and in the upbeat,
electronic thump of Martin’s music. Through the window twenty feet in front of
me, I can see south into the Partick section of town,
to the looming white facade of the closest hospital, Western Infirmary.
    My
breath is steady, in and out, in and out, and my legs and arms move smoothly.
After four weeks, running is finally starting to feel like something my body
was made to do. I can imagine myself a machine.
    But
here in the gym, something’s missing. There’s no wind against my face, only a
void. It’s almost like …
    The
rain-streaked window begins to blur. I blink, and it turns pale. I’m back in
3A, running in place,