“Where’s your sister?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath, making a face as if it’s difficult. “She’s … dead.”
“Dead?”
“No longer here. Moved on. Like those other girls your father brought here before me.”
Father told me those girls would never return, so does that mean her sister will never return either? That’s sad. Sad for Ella. Sad for her mother and father. Sad for the world. But why? Why would she go?
“Why?” I ask.
“She was murdered.”
I shake my head, not understanding.
She sighs out loud. “Do you know what life is?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know it can end. Someone else can end it too.”
Someone else? Snuff out life?
“It’s what you do when you fight,” she adds.
“Oh …” I growl.
Those bloody fights with my opponents always end with them not moving. If that is what it means to be dead, I hope I never end up like that. Then again, if it could happen to anyone, it could happen to … Ella.
“You can’t die!” I bark, infuriated.
“Well, technically, I can.” There’s a pause. “Your father could kill me.”
Rage boils up inside me at the thought of her being taken away from me. Especially by him.
“No.” He wouldn’t do that.
“You’re the only one who can stop him,” she says.
I feel so angry right now. I want to break things, fight an opponent, scream, anything. Just to get it out of me. But I don’t. I don’t want to scare her.
So I stay put and listen, despite feeling enraged.
“I get it; he’s your father.”
“Don’t …” I growl.
Her brows furrow. “Fine.”
She looks away, and so do I, and for a few seconds, it’s quiet again.
But I could never stay mad. Not at her. She didn’t do anything bad. Nothing about this is her fault. It’s all Father’s fault, which is why I’m so confused.
Thinking about it won’t help, though. I’d rather focus on her because she’s the one thing that keeps me happy. She makes me feel good about myself and my place in this world.
“More about you,” I say.
With folded arms, she just glares at me as if she’s mad at me too.
I don’t know what to do to make it go away, but I think girls like it when men are a little bit less commanding sometimes, so I opt with a question. “Please?”
This makes her face less grouchy and more relaxed again.
“All right …” She sighs. “I live on my own in a small neighborhood. I work as a freelance photographer.”
“Photogaf—fotho…”
“Photographer,” she repeats. “Someone who makes pictures.” She holds up the toilet paper she drew on. “Like this.”
“Oh …” No wonder she’s so good at it, if she does it all the time. It’s like me and my fighting skills. Only hers don’t involve blood, I think. Unless she normally draws pictures with the blood of her enemies. I’d like to see that.
“I don’t have any other family but my parents. My mom and dad always worried about me even when I moved out to live on my own.” She twirls her hair with her index finger and points at her mouth with her other finger. “Talking. You know. It’s difficult.”
“But you speak …?”
“Now. Yes.” She chuckles a little, and it’s the sweetest sound to my ears. Like that one time Father whistled. He called it a song. Her voice and laughter are just like that. Sweet and fun.
“My voice … disappeared when my sister died. It just became so hard to speak that I stopped entirely. They call it selective muteness.”
“Muteness …?” I repeat. Sounds difficult.
“I physically couldn’t bear my sister being gone, so my voice died with her.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because …” She sighs. “She spoke to a stranger, and he killed her. In my mind, speaking meant death. And I blamed myself for her death.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I could’ve gone after her sooner. Could’ve stopped him. Could’ve done something …”
I nod, swallowing. I can understand what she means. I, more than anyone, know what it feels like to feel guilt for something you didn’t do but could’ve prevented.
Her being here is one of them.
“My parents … also didn’t take it well when my sister died. Their screams made me pull back. I shut myself in,” she continues.
“But you’re here …” I say, not really understanding what she means with it.
I do know one thing, though … no one can change what happened. The past is the past.
But why her voice works now is a mystery to me.
“I don’t know why I can talk. My voice normally never works anywhere but with my parents. People I trust,” she says after a pause.
Does that mean she trusts me?
She gazes up at me with those pristine eyes again. I want to touch her so badly right now, but the glass is in the way, so I settle for placing a hand on the cage instead.
She reaches for my hand and lines her hand up against the glass on her side.