XXXII

Through Henry's eyes, Eleven looks at herself, sitting across from him, the chessboard on the table.

"Try not to show any emotion as I speak, okay? Just keep playing the game if you understand."

Eleven remembers sitting in front of him, intrigued and anxious. She remembers making an effort not to frown, pretending that the game of chess was the only thing on her mind.

"Two is still in the infirmary recovering. He's being watched now, but once he is released, he and the others are going to attempt to kill you. Right here, in this room." Henry pauses, inspecting her expression before declaring: "And Papa will allow it to happen.

"In fact, he wants it to happen. He's been planning it for some time now." Across him, the girl's breath seems to catch in her lungs. "Stay calm. Focus on the game," he insists in a gentle voice.

The girl looks down at the board and moves the pawn in front of her queen's rook two squares forward.

"There's a reason why Two and the others were able to escape their room last night." Henry moves the pawn in front of his queen one square. "Why the security cameras were turned off. Why Papa punished Two today."

Eleven remembers, too, her rapid heartbeat at each one of his words.

"They don't even realize it, but he is moving them like pieces on this board here." In tune with his words, Eleven moves her queen's knight in front of the rook. "Driving them to do exactly what he wants, which is…"

Henry captures Eleven's knight with his bishop—the message is loud and clear.

The key to achieve his objective.

"Why?" the Eleven in front of him inquires, the shock evident on her face.

He doesn't hesitate to answer her. And Eleven can't help but be surprised, now that she revisits this conversation from his point of view, understanding his true intentions.

"You frighten him," Henry lies. "He knows you are more powerful than the others. And he also knows he can't control you. That's all he wants: control."

Lie after lie after lie, Henry deliberately scares her. Because Papa isn't afraid of her, and he's still convinced that he'll be able to control her. This is an experiment, certainly, but he doesn't want to end her life.

He, however, in his inner self, has a justification for everything. I need to make her scared. I need her to believe that the situation is more dire than it truly is so that she makes the choice to run away. I need her to leave this place before it's too late.

"I saw all this happening. That's why I wanted to help you, but I only made things worse." This, at least, is true; now that she's the one saying them, she senses the sincere remorse in his words.

"Helping me… made Papa hurt you."

Henry nods almost imperceptibly.

"And it is why you must escape. Today." The emphasis on this word underscores its urgency. "But they are watching us. Closely," he whispers and casts a covert glance towards one of the cameras located in the corners of the room; the Eleven in front follows his movement with her head. "If you want to make it out of here alive, you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

Before responding, Eleven captures his bishop with one of her pawns.

"Why… do you still help?"

And this, this is true, she feels it deep inside her chest:

"Because I believe in you. It is time you are free from this hell."

Pleased with the dedication with which she has followed his instructions, Henry soon finds her in the basement. Raising his index finger to his lips so he can ask her to be quiet, he leads her to the exit he has found. Faced with the doubt in her eyes, he confesses that he does not intend to go with her. He even makes her touch the soteria over his skin and lists the limitations that the device imposes on him and the way it could foil her escape.

Eleven keeps quiet. Henry is about to tell her to hurry up, fully aware that these are their last moments together, that he won't be able to follow her once she enters the tunnel, when she offers him a shy look and asks: "What if I make it… go away?"

The shock leaves him speechless for a few seconds. A shiver runs through his entire body, bringing with it a warm feeling that takes him a moment to recognize and that Henry dares not name.

Eleven, however, does not give him time to compose himself before affirming: "You helped me. I help you."

Just like that, the feeling he had resisted so much explodes under every inch of his skin and brings a smile to his face.

Hope. It's hope, this feeling.

Henry doesn't let go of Eleven's hand—he never wants to let go of her again—instead, he grips it tightly.

The rest of the events play like a movie in her mind: Henry's euphoria at feeling his powers at his disposal once again, at subduing those who threaten him…

Those who threaten her, too.

She feels the smile on his lips as he tells her—the her Henry remembers—that they are alike.

Being certain—and wrong, she actually knows—that the girl he's asked to stay behind will be waiting for him, Henry leaves the room.

The terror she feels then isn't Henry's—it's hers, it belongs to her, she feels it in such a raw way…

No, she tells herself. No, not this, I don't… Henry, no, please, no…

Eleven's body is falling, collapsing, but when she opens her eyes…

When she opens her eyes, she finds herself tucked under her blankets in her own bed, as if it had all been a bad dream.

Except… Except that she can make out a silhouette in the dark. Judging by the angle, she knows it's Henry, sitting in the chair he'd brought to her bedside what seems like an eternity before.

"Hey."

Eleven can't see him, but she hears him whispering. She catches the scent of him, too; that characteristic smell of lavender and jasmine—aromas which she has recently become able to name, one of the fruits of her recent freedom. She feels his hand against her cheek and shudders…

Henry instantly lets go of her, misinterpreting her surprise as discomfort.

"Calm down," he whispers. "Don't worry, I'm not going to show you that. No, I…" A sigh, his breath warm in the darkness of the room. "I'm sorry. I lost control.

"Sometimes… Sometimes I forget that… my parents are no longer here. That Brenner is gone."

Eleven knows what he's really thinking—what he doesn't say—because she herself has thought it thousands of times without putting it into words: 'That they can't hurt me anymore.'

She feels the tears overflow. It's good that he can't see her in the dark, so she can at least pretend that she would rather not speak than reveal the truth to him… The truth: that she is collapsing under the weight of her life, under the weight of Henry's life, under the weight of all of their choices and under that of all the circumstances that have led them to make them.

She is barely nine years old: she is certain that other children, normal children, the ones who receive Christmas presents from their classmates and celebrate their birthdays with friends, do not know this terrible guilt, this disabling anguish that does nothing but corrode her heart. Her heart aches, burns at the thought of the Henry and Jane—yes, Jane, a normal name, not a number—that they never were.

That they will never be.

"It's… fine," Eleven murmurs. "You didn't… show me…"

"No, I wasn't going to," Henry assures her, and Eleven hears an unusual desperation in his voice. "I swear, Eleven, I wasn't planning to… No, I wasn't going to…"

Ah. Eleven smiles in understanding. He's desperate… for me to believe him. Because he is telling the truth.

In the silence that envelopes them, Eleven searches for his hand. At first, she barely places her own on top of it, but, finally, she squeezes her. Suddenly, she hears a strange sound, as if the air had suddenly vanished before Henry could draw it into his lungs.

"I believe you," she says then. "I believe you, Henry."

She barely notices the tremor that runs through the body of the man sitting next to her. Her head is spinning: it is late and she has barely slept. Her fever, although relegated to the background in favor of the conversation they've had, doesn't seem to have subsided either.

"Henry…" she calls weakly.

"I am here," he comforts her. "I am here, sweetheart."

'Sweetheart,' she thinks. He's called me 'sweetheart.'

"I'm sleepy…"

"Go to sleep," he urges, and his hand slips from hers to come to rest on her head with his characteristic softness. "Rest."

Her eyelids are heavy. She knows she's falling asleep.

"Don't go."

This time, her request isn't an accident: she is aware of it. It is exactly what she has wanted to ask of him. For a moment, she thinks that he will refuse. That he will reject her. That he…

"I'll stay by your side until you fall asleep."

It's progress, but it's not what she wants, so she says: "No."

This seems to take him by surprise, or so she thinks she notices in his voice: "No?"

"No," she repeats stubbornly. "Stay… please."

"Eleven…"

"Please…" she pleads.

Henry lets out a light sigh, infinitely different from the one from minutes before, and gives up; carefully, he settles next to her on the tiny bed. Eleven doesn't even need to think to find her place in his arms: the action comes naturally to her. Lavender and jasmine, now unusually warm, fill her lungs.

She closes her eyes.

She thinks, like a distant echo, that maybe Henry has lied to her anyway. That his lies—justified, as he has tried to make her see—in reality encompass all of the memories, and not just what he has shown her. After all, she doesn't know the true extent of his abilities—he may as well be able to fabricate memories, even memories that seem to fit reality.

In the end, believing him is not acknowledging the evidence that Henry has presented to her. No: it is recognizing what he carries inside him, what she sees. And she is content with that truth, the truth that she has decided to cling to: that Henry has survived as well as he could all these years, and that he has made decisions that he thought would be best for him.

That would be best, too, as he has shown her, for her.

Lulled by this thought, surrounded by the safety she has found in his arms, she drifts off to sleep. And she barely feels, like the brush of a feather, Henry's lips against her forehead.