Saving Me (A SHATTER ME FANFIC)

U N I N V I T E D

A MONTH PASSES IN a blur.

I'd say it was like watercolors fading into a canvas ... But it wasn't.

It was horrible.

Living an asylum is not easy. Sleeping on weird springs not good enough to be called mattresses, served amorphous lumps as an excuse for food can't be anywhere near any sort of humane living standards. I almost burnt my hand touching the food tray once, but Juliette had saved me at the last moment. They served it hot on purpose, knowing that driven by our starvation we would hurt ourselves touching the tray. The soaps in the showering section feel like slime. My hair is getting frizzier and my skin rougher.

But being with Juliette here makes it better.

Juliette and I talk. She tells me stuff about herself. I tell her about me. It wasn't easy at first, she used to stay silent only making small talk occasionally. Like she didn't believe me to exist. I'd pinch her to show that I was alive. I had to stay patient with her so that she could actually let me in.

And I felt as if she wasn't used to talking much.

We fell into a pattern. Her talking. Me talking. Sometimes we're both silent. Listening to the shrill screams that echoed around our little room. They gave me shudders and I covered my ears. Sometimes our cell, which I don't know why Juliette calls a room, is filled with our giggles and laughter.

Sometimes.

She tells me the stories she's read, the books and novels. I tell her about movies, books and games. Even songs. And my certain empathy towards early twenty-first century songs. The first time I genuinely saw sadness in her eyes was when I told her about how the Reestablishment plans to destroy all of history, languages, books and all the historical places to get a fresh start.

You can't make a fresh start without keeping your history with you. Not the burden of it but what you've learned from it.

And throughout my stay, Juliette's been the perfect sister, companion and cellmate.

Well, sort of.

"It goes like 'La la love me like—'" I start to sing.

Juliette groans and puts her hands over her ears. "Please don't."

I feel offended because she only does that when the screaming starts. And my voice isn't professionally good or anything but it's not that bad. And the fact that she didn't even fake that it's good is stinging.

"Hey!" I whine. "It's a nice song."

"It is." She admits. "But it's getting boring, listening to you hoarsely sing songs from the twenty-tens."

"I love the twenty-tens music." I retort. "And I don't have a hoarse voice. I mean, come on. Juliette. I'm no professional singer. Cut me some slack."

"That's not what I meant." She rolls her eyes. "Tell me a story instead."

"Speaking of stories, did you throw away that journal?" I ask, innocently. "I haven't seen it around."

She smirks. "Still trying to find it so you can read it?"

Yes, I'm guilty. I have been trying, with all my power, to get my hands on my sister's journal. But unfortunately, my sister is very good at reading people because she can definitely see through me when I think of some plan to get my hands on it. I have been trying for a month, it is not easy. Even though we both happen to live in the same cell, there is never a chance where I can even get a sneak peek at the journal.