Unplugged: The Beautiful World (#3, Unplugged Trilogy)

Chapter Fifty Two

Matthew doesn't recognize his apartment. Even if he does, he doesn't say anything. Nothing.
    "So, this is the kitchen, and the living room, and the bedroom, and the bathroom..." I hardly think about how odd it is that I'm giving him a tour of his own home. "What do you think?"
    Matthew stares at me, and I stare back at him. His ghostly skin clings to his bones; Fake Enna must have starved him.
    "Matthew," I whisper, hoping beyond hope that some flame of awareness will flicker in his eyes. But nothing happens. I sigh and take his hand, leading him over to the bed. He quietly sits down on the edge. Sighing, I sit beside him. The decision I have to make tomorrow dances on the edge of my mind like prickling lightning strikes testing the durability of a weather vane.
    "Can you talk?" I whisper, tilting my head so I can see his face. Nothing. I cup a shaking hand behind his warm neck. "Matthew, say something. Please."
    The muscles in his neck tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen, and for a moment I think he might be about to speak. I'm right. He opens his mouth and whispers something. It's too quiet for me to hear. Excited, I gently squeeze his neck and ask him to repeat himself.
    "I want to sleep." I don't take my gaze away from his face, not even for a millisecond. I hardly dare to blink. I want to sleep...
    "You're tired," I mutter, deflating. "Is that it?" He nods, and then a tear falls from his right eye. I purse my lips and watch in fascination as Matthew starts to cry.
    "What's wrong?" I ask softly, running a hand against the side of his face. He just stares down at his clasped hands, which lie still in his lap.
    "Sweetie, what's going on?"
    "I don't know," he splutters. Tears trail one after the other onto his clenched fingers. I hold his warm, stiff body to me and close my eyes. Each time his shoulders shake, pain lances deeper into my chest.
    This is the true torture; this is the true extent of the Regional Government's evil. How could I have ever resented Mark--or anyone--for feeling so helpless?
    I bury my face into his neck and breathe him in. I kiss him. I tell him that he's loved; more loved than he will probably ever know.
    None of that recalls him. I didn't expect it to, but it hurts all the same. It hurts because I know what I must do. Every tear that Matthew sheds only solidifies my choice for me.
    "Let's go to sleep," I whisper against his ear. He starts to grow calm. Slowly, as if he understands me, he reclines and gently lies his head against his pillow.
    I take a deep breath, turn off the bedside lamp, and rest my head on his sternum. A warmth that was once comforting soaks into my skin and my throat constricts. Slowly, drifting ever upwards from the depths of his chest, I can feel the soft pulsing of his heart. I close my tear-filled eyes.
    It's the only part of him that I recognize.

* * *

    I get out of bed before Matthew rises and aimlessly wander the Depot's tunnels, fighting to clear my mind. Of war, of pain, of death. Of myself. The farther I walk, the more I realize I need Father's guidance. He says that good and bad things are only tools that mold us into who we're meant to be. But what could Matthew's death possibly do for me? What good can come of that?
    He told me that I had to learn to let go of things in order to move on, but that they'd come back to me eventually. What could that mean? Will Father somehow resurrect Matthew, like he did at the Base? Is the actual making of this decision the real test? Suddenly, I see a burst of hope at the end of the tunnel of my worries. That has to be it; that has to be what Father meant!
    I continue to walk for several hours, trying to process the war-in-hiatus and Burbank's proposition and everything else. One detail sticks out in my mind: the fact that Fake Enna still refuses to use my name. The Hidden Allies believe that she's been telling the truth all along. What if--when they find out I'm still alive--they start to rebel against their former allies? The thoughts bring me peace for the moment.
    Only when Leah approaches me in the Dining Room later that day does my mood falter.
    "Hey, Enna," she starts, glancing anxiously over at Matthew, who silently, robotically eats his food once again. "Um, Dr. Patel sent me to find you. She'd like to know if you've reached a decision before the Labs close for the night..."
    I suddenly set down my fork and glance at Matthew. His fresh new scar gleams under the Dining Room's light as he shovels down his plate of vegetables and nuts. My stomach flips and for a moment I fear I might hurl over the tabletop.
    "It's okay if you want to... wait," Leah whispers fearfully. I shake my head and swallow down the bile that rose from my gut.
    "No, no. I..." I push my tray away and stand. "I'm ready."
    The walk to the Labs is a glum procession. All the while I squeeze Leah's hand in mine and Matthew's in the other. The living and the dead.
I've learned a lot about myself in the past few months, especially the last few days. Somehow, I've realized that life goes on. It may not be tangible or quantifiable, but I don't think that there's an end. Even if it's the thing that kills him, I want Matthew to die as himself. That's important too, I realize.
    Soon Dr. Patel approaches us, mouth tightened into a straight, white line. She nods at each of us.
    "Enna?"
    "Yes?" She slightly lowers her dark eyebrows.
    "Have you made a decision?"
    "I want the surgery done." Dr. Patel's face grows a little more white, and she starts to ramble.
    "Now, remember what I said yesterday. The odds of his survival are astronomically small. I mean, when you take into account the strength--"
    "I know exactly what's at stake," I snap. Like they always do when I'm in pressure, my hands start to tremble. I ball up my fists.
    "It's true," Leah advocates. "Her reasoning is sound." Even though I've never explained my reasoning to Leah, she still sticks up for me. Gratitude grants me strength and I take Matthew's arm, leading him into the Labs. We wait in the small waiting room for a few minutes while the doctors get everything ready in the back. When Dr. Patel tells us that she's ready, I stand and pull Matthew into one last hug.
I wish for his hands to fit into the small of my back, for a comforting whisper against my ear, for a shaky breath to skirt across my neck. Not this robotic, loveless stiffness.
    "Don't be afraid," I whisper. I kiss him goodbye and Dr. Patel carefully leads him back into the Labs.
    We're separated by one-way glass.