Read Online Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin by Kristen Lippert-Martin, ePUBator - Minimal offline PDF to ePUB converter for Android - Free Book Online

 suddenly feel like they’re a hundred degrees warmer than
 the rest of me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s okay.” He gives me a cocky grin. “I get that a
 lot.”
He puts his ski hat back on and raises his eyebrows at
 me.
“Going somewhere?”
He points at my hat. “Didn’t want you to feel all alone.”
I touch the acrylic cap, which, now that it’s wet from
 sweat and melted snow, is very itchy. I take it off, but once
I do, I feel naked in front of him.
“So,” I say. “What were you doing up there, to the
 computer system?”
He shrugs.
“What did you do to end up in that head lab back
 there?”
67
    I shrug.
“What did they tell you?” he asks.
“Not much. Telling me why I was there would sort of
 defeat the purpose of erasing my memory.”
“They had to have told you something.”
“Just that my parents are both dead, and that I have
PTSD. Like everyone else there. I guess we couldn’t get
 over whatever it was, so we needed help forgetting.”
“Help? You don’t seem like you need help with any-
 thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, those treatments don’t change your personal-
 ity.”  
“How do you know?”
“I told you. I’ve done a little reading about what they do
 here. Point is, PTSD or not, you are who you are.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means—how can I put this? You and your
 nailer don’t seem like the kind who’d have trouble dealing
 with anybody’s hurt feelings, including your own.”
His words hit me hard. All I’ve feared, all I’ve sus-
 pected . . . could it be that obvious? Even to this stranger?
Maybe that’s what I really am.
Perpetrator.
I look up, expecting him to be disgusted by me, but
 instead I see a flicker of . . . not sympathy. Understanding,
 maybe? It’s strange.
He stands up and moves toward me. I spring to my feet,
 slightly crouched, my hands already hardened into fists.
68
    “Hey, relax, will you?”
“Sorry. I’m not very good at relaxing.”
He pulls something out of his jacket pocket, and now
I see what it is: a flash drive. “I need to do a few things.”
He takes me by the shoulders and moves me over slightly
 so he can skirt past. “This may take a while. Feel free to lie
 down and rest.”
“I don’t want to lie down,” I say, even though all I want
 to do is lie down.
“Okay, tough girl. You can stare at the wall if you pre-
 fer. But you look exhausted.”
He rolls his eyes a little, like he’s known me forever and
 this is just the kind of thing I’m always doing, forever put-
 ting up a brave front. It makes me feel a little better about
 him. And about myself, too. The nurses were always so
 cautious and wary around me, but he’s not. Even after I
 punched him in the face. And shot his computer with a nail
 gun. I’m very relieved to imagine that I might be whatever
 he thinks I am. Being plain old all right would be a huge
 step up for me.
Pierce sits down at one of the computers and takes out
 his heinous, thick-framed glasses. He hesitates a moment
 before putting them on.
“They’re really, you know, not that . . . bad,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“You’re right. They’re completely hideous.”
He begins tapping away. I can tell that even if I ask
 him a question, he won’t answer, because he won’t even
 hear me. Whatever he’s doing, though, it’s clear that it’s not
69

making him very happy. Finally, my curiosity overpowers
 my exhaustion, and I get up and look over his shoulder.
He’s staring at a screen filled with nothing but lines of
 numbers.
In the blackness of the screen, I see the dark reflection
 of my own face. I jerk my head back, averting my eyes. I’m
 not ready to look at myself.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
He holds up his index finger momentarily and then
 keeps typing, grimacing in disgust. I wait another minute
 for a response, but he seems to have