‘How is it called? The colour of your skin,’ I ask, pointing at his face.
‘Olive.’
I knew it! Flavours of coffee and cream spread between my sinuses and my palate.
The kitchen door opens. Mother and Father look shocked and puzzled. They probably can’t explain why a Sequencer picked me over a whole village of non-idiots. Yet, they seem to believe this is really happening.
‘Tomorrow morning, six o’clock, at the upper turbine,’ he says when he walks through the corridor.
Weird. I’d expected he’d take me away at once.
‘Should we accompany her?’ my father asks, his voice unnaturally high.
‘She comes alone.’ He steps out, looks up at the night sky, and says, ‘It smells like rain.’ Then he turns away and the darkness swallows him whole.
Of course I’m to come alone. The door closes and I turn to my parents. ‘Did he show you proof of his identity?’
‘You didn’t show the man any respect!’ barks my father. ‘If you screw this up…’ He brings his face close to mine. ‘…you’ll be disinherited.’
There’s nothing I want from my father. I turn away from him and see Mother opening her mouth. I’m not in the mood for her good advice. Before she can say a peep, I mutter, ‘Need to sleep. Have to get up early.’
Or never.
Desperate for solitude, I push past the two, knees weak, arms shivering.
I roll up in my blanket, cocooning myself in, compressing myself as much as possible, trying to squeeze out the confusion and leave only clarity behind. It doesn’t work, of course. Hope sneaks in uninvited.
Get 1/2986 here
I’d love to hear from you!
Join the conversation
and receive free books,
chat with me, and be the first to know about
new releases, giveaways, and bonus scenes.
www.anneliewendeberg.com
Facebook
Instagram
Twitter
Pinterest
Tumblr
Acknowledgements
I’m indebted to my family for showing me what it means to love unconditionally. Without you I am nothing.
Many thanks to Tom Welch for proofing this piece, Damien Rice for the extraordinarily beautiful write-track, and my test readers, John Doyle, Sabrina Flynn, Nancy DeMarco, Luke Kuhns, and Malcolm Brodzinski.
Night: A Short Story Page 5