by Stacey Mac
I lean back on my pillow and run my fingers along the uneven edges of Julie’s baby face. A few hours ago, I would have thrown every last one of Tilly’s relatives into a fire, rather than have this burn bag belong to me. But now, I swear on my life, I wish it had of been mine.
Guilt beats grief.
Chapter Sixteen
Tilly sits on my bed, my cards in her lap. I gave them to her when it seemed like making eye-contact was an insurmountable task. Now, she shuffles them slowly, dropping most of them onto her legs. I lured her here under the pretence of a game, but we are yet to deal.
“Do you want to see? I think the photos are the ones that used to be in your locket. I remember when you told me that your locket used to have pictures of you and your sister.”
“Yeah, they are the same photos. And no, thank you, I already know what they look like.”
I nod. Stuck again. So far in the last fifteen minutes, this is the most I’ve gotten her to say. “Tilly, I have to ask about Julie.”
This makes her look up, and I notice the moisture in her eyes. “How do you know her name?”
I reach into the burn bag and clasp the tiny baby face. “It says so on the back of this,” and I turn it over. “Is there someone at home with her?”
Tilly shakes her head. “They won’t let me go to check on her either. I already asked. Flint told me that the council will send around someone to check on her, and they’ll bring her some rations and water every week, too…but….”
“Yeah,” I nod. “But…” But they won’t. But no one will bother. Plenty of orphans in Galore. The very young ones often die.
Suddenly Tilly’s sweet face becomes animal-like, and she punches the mattress. “It’s so unfair! Why won’t they let me go see her?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Tilly. I’m really sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything, and for a while she shakes with rage and her face becomes redder with each passing second, and I’m afraid she’ll explode. But then, the colour disappears completely, her tense arms become limp and she sags, her face falling onto the bed. A wracking sob escapes her, followed by another, and another. I am thankful that the dorm is empty but for us, because a display of crying like this would result in a certain amount of bullying from my fellow initiates.
I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how this feels, to have your insides torn up and to still have to live. I watch her break, again and again. I can’t stop it, I can’t slow it down, and I become angered that the powers that be can do this to her, and not have the decency to finish her off, too.
I don’t know how to help her, or how to get her to quieten, so instead I just hold her. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and absorb every shudder that wracks her body, as though I can take some of it away.
*
In the second week of weapons, we follow the same routine: we gear-up in the Compound’s armoury, trudge out into the snow and shoot what we are told to shoot. Sometimes it involves more red crosses, sometimes its live animals (rabbits, squirrels, etc.). Jiyah stays well away from my position at all times, which brings me a perverted sense of pride, and thankfully, no humans are shot in the making.
The thing about purgatory, is that you have no way of knowing how long it will last. The wait for the other shoe to drop is constant. The ache becomes monotonous, almost boring, until you start begging for that shoe to drop just so it can be over. It has been almost five days since Dean and I have been alone, and so there has been nothing to distract me from purgatory. He is stuck with his novices during the day, and he is supposed to be spending his nights supervising the Resolutes in the dorms. I only see him at lunch and dinner, where we are careful to keep a safe distance apart. Of course, I stray. I have never been a model student after all. My hand finds his under the table sometimes. Sometimes he touches me, not in an obvious way, but certainly not in the way a trainer touches an initiate. He’ll put his hand against the small of my back as I stand, or he’ll brush his arm along mine, and for a moment I don’t think anything of it, and then I remember that we aren’t supposed to and that we should be acting like friends. I worry that someone will notice. I believe the problem is how instinctual we are. I don’t think about what I’m doing until it’s done, and neither does he. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a love interest include quick make-outs with guys in the dorm during games of dare (please note that declining a dare is usually followed by a beat down. So yeah, I’d rather let some hard-up tough guy stick his tongue down my throat. Sue me). I have no comparison. I touch him when I let my mind wonder, when I forget to tell myself not to. I should be fucking terrified, and instead I couldn’t care less. Being near Dean is easy. Like breathing.
Now if everyone could just turn their backs when we are together…
So I am aching for a list of reasons, and not far from the top is the time unspent with Dean. My mood, therefore, brightens considerably when I find a sign of his presence in my locker after dinner one night.
A note:
Gaol break – 2100hours. Stay in your dorm.
Safe to assume this is from Dean, because (1) I can’t think of anyone else who would want to spring me, and (2): pretty much no one else can spring me, or (3) has access to pencils and paper the way superior personnel do.
A thrill grabs me, and I stuff the note into my pocket. Nine O’clock. A mere hour away. I manage to shove it into hiding just as Mia sidles up. I jump. “Whoa! Mia. Hi.”
Mia doesn’t smile. “Hi.”
I close my locker with a bang and turn to her. Her blonde hair is plaited down her back, and she wears a pair of track-suit pants and a black singlet. Very unlike her. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you.”
“Sure,” I answer, warily.
“It’s about Vince.”
Ah. Of course it is. At this point, I wait. I have my reservations with Mia. In fact, having this conversation sounds about as fun as shooting myself in the face.
“You probably already know…that he likes me and whatever…” She stops, wanting a reaction from me it seems.
I nod. “Yep, he mentioned it.”
“The thing is, I feel the same way about him,” her eyes narrow for some reason unapparent to me.
“That’s a good thing. You should tell him.” It seems rather cruel to me that she would lead him to believe otherwise.
“Yeah, I would, except it is no secret that you and Vincent have been a thing since the dawn of time.”
Jesus. Really? “Mia. Do you actually believe that? Or has the compound become so dull for you, you’re trying to stir shit up?”
She says nothing, but her jaw tenses, her eyes ignite, and the hostility rolls off her in waves. I try a different tact: calming. “Mia, you know that it has never been like that between Vince and me. He’s like a brother, nothing more. He’s smitten with you. Trust me, he doesn’t shut up about it.”
She defrosts. “Really? I don’t know. I’ve always been a little jealous of the way he always partners with you – ”
“To save my sorry ass.”
“ – and tells you things – ”
“To save his sorry ass.”
“ – and he won’t talk like that to me,” she finishes, as though I hadn’t interrupted.
I sigh. “Mia, I’ll say this, and then I’m backing out of this conversation. Talk. To. Him. He is in love with you.”
She seems to take her time absorbing this for a moment, but then, all at once, the tension is gone and her voice returns to that sickly sweet version of Mia that I find a little hard to stomach. She leans down to hug me, a landslide of gush escaping her: “Thank you, you’re the best! I’m so sorry about all that. Ha, ha, ha.” She carries on like this a while longer and then she’s gone.
I shake my head repeatedly throughout the next hour, even after the light has disappeared and the faceless bodies that surround me begin breathing in rhythm. I think up some colourful, albeit unkind things that I would have said to Mia if I h
ad the ability to bend time. The thought of having a romantic relationship with Vincent is like thinking of having a romantic relationship with a shoe. Not because I view Vincent as inanimate, but because I am severely un-attracted to shoes.
I find myself caring about the stupid confrontation with stupid Mia much more than I’d admit to, and as it always does in late hours, anger gives way to lethargy. I am in that state between awareness and unconsciousness where dreams begin to manifest, and so I am not so much thinking about those colourful words that I’d shout in Mia’s face as dreaming them, when someone gives my shoulder a gentle shake, and places a hand over my mouth.
My eyes fly open, and I begin clawing at the hand that tries to suffocate me when I see him. The ‘him’ being Dean, and not a night time assailant.
He whispers close enough to my ear that no others can hear through their sleep, “Hey, lazy, we had a date remember?”
He puts a finger to his lips, and takes his hand away from my mouth, offering it to me. I take it, and carefully, we navigate through the labyrinth of bodies in their cots to the door.
Dean shuts it carefully, taking care not to let the handle squeak as he turns it. He takes my hand again, and after signalling to me once more to be silent, we take off down the hall in a sort of walk-run. As we approach the stairwell I head towards the descending steps, but after a quick shake of his head, Dean tugs me towards the stairs that lead to the upper levels.
I follow him quietly up the stairs, first one flight and then the next. As far as I know, the only thing above this floor is a storage room and the exit door to the roof.
“Are you planning on throwing me off the roof? Because if you are, I have a speech prepared. It’s called: ten reasons why you should not throw Tessa off the roof.”
He laughs in whispers. “Your lack of trust in me is insulting,” he answers. He reaches the landing and pulls me over the last few steps. My foot comes down too heavily against the laminate floor and we both cringe as the sound echoes around us. After a few seconds, we unclench, and Dean puts his fingers to his lips again.
I pout at him, and he grins.
He pushes on the door to his right, and then we are stepping onto the roof.
There is nothing here to see, really. Just a gravel covered rectangular slap of nothing, interrupted by the odd pipe or manhole, as well as the landing we just left, inclosing the stairwell, hallway and storage closet.
I turn to Dean. He has his hands on his head, stretching. His eyes are closed. “You know, you take me to a lot of roofs,” I say. He grins waywardly. “I mean, this is really nice, but I think I liked the train’s roof better.”
“True,” he answers, “but I haven’t found a safe way out yet, so this will have to do.”
For some inexplicable reason, I suddenly feel nervous. “Um, what exactly was your plan?”
Thankfully, Dean misinterprets the look of apprehension on my face, and laughs. “I promise I ain’t going to murder you. Now, come on.”
Murder was not, in fact, my concern in that moment, but I follow him to the ledge splayed out before us, only knee high, and eroding. Dean seems comfortable here. His hands go into his pockets and he stops a foot away from open space, looking outwards. There really isn’t much to see. No stars, no lights, just darkness, and the faint outlines of hills in the distance. The slow breeze is still cold enough to sting my face, and I’m not wearing anything substantial enough to stop from shivering, just socks, long fleece pants, and a sleeveless top.
“Sorry,” Dean says, interrupting the silence. “I should have told you to grab a jacket.”
“But if it was your plan to murder me, you wouldn’t care if I had a jacket or not, would you?”
His hands are leaning against the ledge, as are mine, but he shuffles over, so that the length of his side is pressed against mine, and I instinctively lean into him as we stand there, stealing his warmth. Eventually, I find myself underneath his arm, burying my hands in the oversized pocket of his jacket. “So, why did we come up here?” I ask him.
Dean looks down at me. “It was the only place I could think of where we could be alone for a little while without anyone coming to look.”
“Oh.” I probably should have thought of that. “Good.”
“Good?” he questions.
“Yes, this is good.”
He grins again. “Good.”
We are quiet for a little while longer, and I follow him when he finds a less gravelly spot to sit down, stretching out his legs and leaning back on his hands. I watch his collarbone adjust under his skin, I watch his face turn up and his eyes close. His long legs are spread just enough, and because I’m not the timid type, I follow him to the ground, and sit in between his legs, curling my legs to my chest, my face inches from his; so that I’m close enough to breathe him in.
His eyes open when he feels me move against him. “Tell me your speech,” he says, watching me, “The ten reasons why you should not throw Tessa off the roof.”
“Well, the first one is obvious. If you throw me off the roof, Galore will be crippled by the loss of me.”
He nods, “obviously.”
“Number two is also obvious. You stand a chance of being caught for my murder, and with the way you’ve been unable to leave me alone lately, people are likely to ask questions.”
He rolls his eyes. “That one is easy, I’ll just mope around for a few days and no one will suspect a thing. What is number three?”
“Number three: you’ll have no one to drag around the sector with you if I die.”
“Number four?”
“Fourthly, I sort of like you, and it would be a shame if you killed me.”
He grins. God, that grin. “And Fifthly?”
“Um,” I go blank, “I don’t know.”
“I’m disappointed, you could be moments from death, and you can’t think of ten reasons why you shouldn’t die?”
I shake my head. “I’m all out.”
“I’ll finish. Fifth, is, of course, the time and energy I have spent turning you into a deadly soldier, gone to waste if I push you from this roof.”
I smile, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Number six: Vincent won’t have anyone left to make him look good.”
“True.”
“Number seven,” he says, “I would miss you.”
“You would survive, though. Next?”
“Tilly would be without her fearless protector.”
I roll my eyes.
“Number nine is that your parents may hunt me down to kill me as revenge. And finally, number ten, I would miss you.”
“You said that already,” I say, as seriously as I can.
“I did. But you dismissed it the first time,” he says, “and I am going to miss you.”
I know he isn’t referring to the roof-throwing. I watch him, watching me, and I remember what Delilah had said, about breaking this off, about preserving myself, so that I won’t be hurt later on. So that it will be easier when he leaves, and I leave. Try as I might, I am finding nothing that is easy about uncurling myself from him, telling him that we are being stupid. There is nothing easier about leaving earlier. I stretch to push my lips to his, and I kiss him instead of leaving.
When we break apart, he holds the back of my neck to keep me from getting too far away. “Come with me.”
I blink. “What?”
“Come with me. When we have to leave, you can come with me.” He says it in earnest. There is no hint of humour in his tone or expression. His dark eyes are tensed.
There is no funniness to this, but I laugh anyway, trying to ease the rejection. “Yeah, right. Become a jumper? As much as I dislike Galore, I would also dislike being caught and shot for treason, but thanks.”
“You wouldn’t come with me, even if it meant you could avoid being deployed?” His eyes slacken with disappointment, like he knows he has already lost the argument.
I frown. “Who says I’ll be deployed? They already have all
the soldiers they need. More than what they need.”
Dean stares at his feet, running a hand roughly over his face. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “What if I told you that I think you will be deployed…soon?”
I narrow my eyes. “Been spying some more?”
He shrugs.
I shake my head a little. Perhaps I am being stupid. I’m sitting on the roof of the compound while armed soldiers circle beneath us, with an apparent spy of Resolute.
“Tomorrow, I think your Command Unit will make an announcement. Maybe then you’ll change your mind.”
I grin. The doubt, I’m sure, is shown clearly in that grin.
“I’m serious, Tess. Just think about it. You won’t be caught, I’d make sure.”
I shake my head again. “It’s a nice idea, but it’s a fairy-tale. I can’t. We can’t. You need to go back to your own sector, and if my parents make it back to Galore, I need to be at home to meet them.”
For a few seconds, I think he’ll continue to argue, but his shoulders slump, and the grin returns. “Yeah, you’re right.” But he’s lying.
I sigh, laying my head down on his chest. I touch his hand, absent-mindedly collecting gravel. It stills. I steal myself. “Should we be doing this?”
He frowns. “Why shouldn’t we?”
“For any of the reasons we just discussed?”
He appears to think about it for a few seconds, and then shrugs. “Life is short.”
When I don’t say anything, he takes my chin in his hand, lifts it up. “Should I be worried about you bailing on me?”
But before I can answer, his lips crush into mine, possessively, like he is trying to convince me to stay. My arms wind around his neck, and his around my waist. And we fit.
*
With my back against his chest, we watch the empty night. From out of the blankness, a snow flake falls to my face. Before the next person speaks, my hair and shoulders are covered in them.