by Elle Park
The voice is low and smooth, and it has everyone's heads snapping in the same direction. Tan skin, blond hair, and light brown eyes that are framed by a chiseled, expressionless face. Stoic Man. Either everyone forgot he was even here—including me—or they're simply used to hearing silence from him. To his credit, the sudden attention doesn't seem to faze him in the slightest—which is a lot more than I can say for the others.
"Yes," Arturo nods, "you can see for yourself."
The screen turns on to, once again, show the video of me fighting the fear orb. This time, however, it's from a different angle, and it captures the moment when I turned to cower in the corner of the cube, hiding my face from Nolan and Arturo.
I was wrong when I thought my choking episode to be the cause of my few seconds of blindness. I may not have been able to see then, but I can see all too clearly now—and it's a revelation that I wish was never unveiled. Unfortunately, the short feed is repeating on a loop, and each time it does, I'm forced to watch as the vorak I imagined myself to be reveals itself from within me, filling the sockets of my eyes with a familiar slimy black.
"This is her orb before and after I ran my tests."
Now the display is split into two sections. Both sides are playing the slowly rotating view of my orb, but the one on the right—the after—has more black than before, and parts of it look scratched, almost broken.
"As you can see, the more she responds to the attack of an orb, the more her own orb becomes like that of a vorak's.
The silence lasts even longer this time.
Minutes pass without a word being said or a sound being made—I know because I've been counting the seconds in an effort to distract myself. Eyes are rounded and jaws are slack, but there's a tightness around the brows that indicates something more than shock. It takes me a moment to decipher, but the slight clamminess on their foreheads makes it more clear.
Fear.
They're scared—but of what, exactly? Me? Surely, that can't be it. I'm the one who should be afraid of them because that's the only dynamic that makes sense.
And right now, possibly more than ever, I need things to make sense.
Someone clears their throat, and I can tell by the gritty sound that it's Frederick. "I think this makes clear what the next course of action must be," he says, even more tense than before.
"Yes," Alan agrees, sighing heavily. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this."
"I told you we should have just killed her and gotten it over with," Lei says, though it doesn't sound like the usual "I told you so." He's not gloating—just stating a simple fact.
Zion shakes his head. "You know that's not how it works."
"And yet here we are."
"Wait, wait, wait," Nolan says, waving his hands as he stands abruptly. "You guys can't seriously be considering execution," he spits out the last word, as if it left an odd taste in his mouth.
It has bile rising in mine.
"Son..." His father is looking at him with what I think is pity, but I can't be sure because there are tiny black dots crowding my vision. It sure sounds like it, though.
"There's nothing left to consider," Frederick says. "The decision is final."
"Boo," Octavia drawls, cradling her chin with her palm. She seems far from upset, but I take the dry protest as a protest nonetheless.
"I'm a member of The Union, too," Nolan practically shouts. His fists are clenched and his knuckles are white. It's weird seeing him this way. I was beginning to think he couldn't be serious enough to get angry. "I have a say just as much as any of you." A vote, I remember him saying.
I guess, sometimes, not every vote counts.
"I'm sorry, Nolan," Alan shakes his head, "but this is for the good of more than just us. She—" He pauses when his head swivels toward me, meeting my unsteady gaze. When he doesn't resume talking, the others turn to see what has caught his attention.
"She can see us?" Frederick says incredulously, his nostrils flaring dangerously. "Can she hear us, too? Why hasn't her cube been blinded?" He demands, flicking his steely eyes from me to Arturo.
"I'm sorry, sir," he bows his head, "I must have forgotten to—"
"Enough! Send her down to the cells."
I don't know where the cells are—or what they are, for that matter—but I know I don't have a lot of time. When I scan the room, though, searching for something I'm not yet aware of, I know that what I'm met with isn't it.
Nolan is still standing in the same spot, his hands now hidden in the front pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders tightly hunched into himself. The sight of him brings an unexpected pressure to my chest, but it's not his defeated posture that stuffs a lump down my throat or causes the unexpected hitch in my breath.
The frost of his eyes has shattered.
And for some reason, a part of me feels like it did, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NO ONE IS born to do anything.
No one is born to be anything.
We're born because we were created, we exist because we were born, we live because we exist, and we die because we lived.
So, why do we bother? What's the point? Why are we so attached to something that can be taken from us at any point in the day? Why do we invest so much and work so hard for something that will be taken from us eventually? Why is everyone so eager to live out their tragedy?
Life is not a gift. It's a contract that we're forced into and, ultimately, are forced out of. We don't know how many pages are bound, nor do we know what's written on those pages. We aren't privy to the fine print. Anything can change at any time and any date. Nothing is set in stone until the contract is terminated, after which our blood will dry and we will crumble into ash. If we're lucky, we'll have the testimony of witnesses to prove that we did once exist; to validate who we once were and what we once did; to put a life to the name and numbers stamped into the slab of stone we are buried under.
But who do I have? What have I done? Who will remember me once I'm gone? I have no real friends, I have no remaining family. If life really is just a series of choices, then where exactly did I screw up? Where did I go wrong? Was it the decision to risk danger for the sake of my job? Was it when Jack died and Anna met Manny? Or does it go back further? Was it when my parents were killed? When I was left alone and, between the volatile abuse and blatant neglect, I was forced to raise myself in a house of barely controlled violence?
Those choices weren't mine, though.
So, whose life is it that's about to end? Was it ever really mine, or was I just faking it?
There are always what if's and maybe's, but death is always engraved in our minds as a someday. Now I know that my someday is soon. And contrary to what I thought I'd be feeling, acceptance is not it.
I have yet to decipher the specific emotions bubbling inside of me, but before I can even attempt to, something makes me bounce from my world to the real world.
A knock—three, to be precise.
"So, what you do to come down here?" The voice is male but a little on the high side, as if he's constantly on standby to release a giddy cackle. I also notice his rigid accent. "Come on, I know you are there." Chinese? Japanese? When I don't respond, he chuckles, the sound light and hearty. "All right, all right. You drive a hard bargain, Celly. How about," he drawls, waiting a beat or two before continuing, "I will tell you, if you tell me? I think that is fair. Don't you think that is fair?"
"No one wants to hear it, Toshiro." A British accent eerily similar to Frederick's has the hairs rising on the back of my neck. It's not as deep, but sounds equally as snooty.
"Well, I did not ask you, Oscar, now did I?"
"No, of course not. Considering the volume of your voice, I'm fairly certain you were speaking to the entire universe. Our eyes may no longer have much to see, but I'd like my ears to maintain their full hearing, thank you very much."
"You boys better shut it right this instant," a woman snaps, her warning dripping with sass. "I'm trying to catch up
on my beauty sleep."
"Oh, but you are already so beautiful, my dear Charise," Toshiro says, his tone oiled and unnaturally deep. He reminds me of one of those old-time movie stars. And not in a good way.
"You haven't even seen her before," Oscar reminds with a grunt.
"I do not need to. I just know," he defends himself, and I can tell he honestly believes it.
"You're sleeping? But it's not time yet!" The younger voice—one I'd guess belongs to a boy in his early teens—sounds almost offended. But however old he really is, he doesn't sound young enough to have scheduled naps. "Seriously?" he says as an ear-splitting snore reverberates through the air.
"Ah, Charise," Toshiro sighs dreamily, "what you call it—ah, yes, bursting with character, that woman." He proceeds to sing an off-tune, repeating her name as the only lyric. I can't help but think he'd get along well with Nolan.
The three of them continue bickering like that, their throats probably burning as they try to speak over Charise's snoring. I think they've forgotten about me, but I'm not complaining. If anything, I'm thankful. This is all so bizarre, and I don't yet know what to make of my situation, let alone all these people I seem to be stuck with.
I haven't decided if I should feel comforted by the fact that I'm not alone. I think I did, at first. But then I noticed the familiarity between my faceless neighbors—they have scheduled group-naps, for God's sake—which leads me to wonder just how long they've been caged here. How long am I going to be caged here? Days, months, years? Is there a set time and date for when they execute people? How do they do it—a bullet to the orb and between the eyes? The questions only breed more questions, and the pounding in my skull worsens with each one.
"Hey, newbie," the boy hollers. "What's your story?"
One that doesn't end in a happily ever after.
"Oh, that is right, Willy, we no hear what Celly do," Toshiro chirps.
"How many times do I have to tell you? It's just Will, not Willy. Jeez."
"That's all right, Willy." Ignoring the boy's clear huff of annoyance, he prompts me again. "Go on, Celly."
I hesitate, chewing on my lip. I still don't know if it's a good idea to talk to them, but at this point, I can't think of any reasons not to, either. "I didn't do anything," I mutter quietly, knowing it's a lie even as I say it.
"One does not get sent here by doing nothing," Oscar says, almost in accusation.
"That is right, Celly. We all do something."
"All I did was borrow some money," the boy, Will, confesses. "Then they, like, completely overreacted. The rest is history. Or is it the present? Since we're, like, here right now." He pauses. "Or is it the future? Since we'll still be here later."
"You mean you hacked into their accounts and funneled millions of dollars, pounds, yen, won—just to name a few," Oscar corrects.
"The details are irrelevant."
"Right," Toshiro clears his throat, "well, I am here because—"
"Here we go again." I can practically hear Oscar rolling his eyes.
"—of my good nature. I like to have a good laugh, you see, because what is life without laughter, you know? I say a few jokes, I play a few pranks—you know? But you know what? The Union has no sense of humor, that is what." He sighs. "I do nothing wrong. It's all misunderstanding." He seems to go back and forth between speaking fluent English and broken English—whether it's out of habit or limited ability, I can't tell. "Now, your turn. Why you are down here?"
It's quiet, and strangely enough, I find myself missing their distracted chatter. "Because I'm different," I finally say, though I'm not sure why I even bothered. They won't understand, and I'm not in the mood to elaborate.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asks.
I'm in the middle of contemplating a reply, but am interrupted by what sounds like a squealing pig—and I seem to be the only one surprised by it.
"I'm up, I'm up!"
"How long were we asleep for?"
"Shh! I'm going to forget my dream."
"Are we all awake?"
The voices—each new and unfamiliar—are a jumble of male and female, young and old, and accents that I'll have no chance of placing if they keep talking at the same time. I stop myself before I can try and guess just how many people are down here. Scratching a small itch isn't worth it if it'll break me out in hives.
"Everyone, everyone," Toshiro claps, "we have a new friend." An echo of murmurs erupts at once, and the collective volume suggests it's coming from a lot more than eight people. "Say hello to—Celly, what is your name?"
It's weird. I can't see anyone, and no one can see me, yet I feel their stares as if they're right in front of me. Clearing my throat, I succumb to the imagined pressure. "Kaia."
"Kaia," he repeats, tasting my name on his tongue. "Yes, Kaia. I bet you are cute like kitten."
"What?" It's Charise, if I remember correctly. The commotion must have woken her up. "What did I miss?"
"I can't believe this," Will whines. "How could you have all gone to sleep? It's supposed to be a group activity!"
"Don't mind Willy, Kitten. He is upset. Temper tantrum, you know?"
"Why do you have to sleep at the same time?" I ask, unable to suppress my curiosity.
Getting off of the chair, I move myself to the corner of the cube and draw my knees to my chest. I feel a little pathetic for inching closer to the wall that Toshiro first knocked on, but I think I'd be more comfortable if we had at least some semblance of privacy. Maybe it's because he reminds me of Nolan, but the strange man is already beginning to feel a little familiar—at least, more so than the rest of the nameless, faceless crowd currently imprisoned in their own spotless cubes. And I think he understands, because his voice is considerably lower than before.
"Ah." He releases a short, quiet chuckle. "These white walls, they make you go crazy after a while. So we sleep. And we dream." He pauses, and although I can't be sure, I can picture him shrugging. "They feel real. We like talking about real things. It reminds us that there is a bigger world outside of these walls—even if they are inside of our minds."
There's a sober quality to his words, and apparently our conversation wasn't as private as I let myself believe. No one is laughing or even talking, and the silence is louder than anything they could've said.
It's deafening.
It reminds me of the nights when I would lie awake, lost in young, vulnerable contemplation. I liked staying up until the early hours of the morning, when everyone else was fast asleep. It was like the world and I had our own secret pact, our clubhouse so vast and yet so intimate, the still, dark sky my perfect confidant. I felt like I finally had someone on my side—and who better than the world itself? It was a rare part of my day that I would truly set aside for myself, the isolation making it easier for me to lick my wounds and to feel something other than what others expected me to feel.
Then I outgrew the world.
And instead of licking my wounds, I rubbed them with salt.
Some of my scars have long since faded, but others are so deep that they're etched into my soul. Unfortunately, they will probably stay with me for as long as I'm alive.
Even more unfortunately, it seems I won't stay alive for very long.
"What do you like to dream about?" The question comes out as a whisper, and it takes a second for me to realize that I'm the one who asked it.
When there's no response, I almost feel relieved, thinking he didn't hear me. But then his voice pierces the wall I'm now leaning against, and it's as if he's speaking directly into my ear. "Living," he finally says. This time, his soft tone has little to do with me. "Breathing fresh air. Talking to someone face-to-face. Visiting my mother's grave..." He snickers. "We say that if we ever escape, we meet in the center of the world. We drink, eat, laugh. All day, all night. Say Cheers. Then we say goodbye. Go separate way." His voice started out wistful, but now it just sounds... sad. Defeated. "It is nice to think about the impossible, sometimes, because there i
s nothing more inspiring than the impossible."
I do. But instead of saying that, I go with, "Where's the center of the—"
Footsteps.
And I'm not imagining them, either, because it's as if everyone suddenly dropped dead. I don't even think anyone is breathing. Then, of course, my brain has to think of the worst possible scenarios, which means I'm forced to wonder if this is how their executions work. Do we all just die before we know what has hit us? It can't be this soon, can it?
The longer the silence grows, the harder it becomes to hear through the buzzing in my ears and the harsh thudding in my chest. The steps are even, measured. But then there are breaks in their stride as they approach. They're close, I can tell. And now there's someone standing in front of my cube.
It might be in my best interest not to find out who.
I wait. Or maybe it's them that's waiting. I don't know. But there's no movement from either side.
When I can't take it anymore, I slowly pick myself up. As quietly as I can, landing first on my toes for each step, I make my way toward the adjacent wall—the wall I know is standing between me and... someone. When I can go no more, when the tips of my shoes touch the glass panel, I swear I can hear a sharp hitch in someone's breath. I know it's not me, because I've been holding mine since the moment I got up. And I don't know what makes me do it, but my hand raises of its own volition, my fingers less than an inch away from brushing against the white in front of me. But before I can, the wall slides open, revealing the same face that could barely look at me just a short while ago.
Nolan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FOR A SECOND, we just stare. I don't think we've ever stood this close to each other before; nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, toe-to-toe. The air between us is thick and charged with emotions I've yet to identify but can feel tingling across my skin. In this proximity, his eyes appear even icier, and I can see that the shattered frost has once again settled and hardened over the pale blue, destroying any chance of me peeking into his mind, his soul.