The front door opens and Henri and I both turn. For half a second, I fear that Grey Eyes has come looking for Henri, but it turns out that it's just Brandon coming home for lunch. He pauses when he sees the two of us sitting, his eyes bouncing from me to Henri and back to me again.
Henri turns back to me and continues his attempt to make me see reason. “It's disrupting to his relationships to have you here.”
Brandon doesn't move. He leans back on the door, and I know his eyes are still on me though I can't bear to look up at him. My eyes stay down on my hands in my lap holding onto the letter.
"What'll you do with me?"
Henri sighs. “I'm not sure yet."
My stomach twists and pokes my insides at the thought of leaving with Henri. Once I'm in his hands, he can do anything he wants with me. He's the leader here; who could stand up to him or stop him if he really wanted to get rid of me?
The quiet in the room takes on a painful edge and I grip the small envelope in my hands tightly. It doesn't feel as if I have any other options but to go with Henri.
Brandon stands up and steps towards me and Henri, but stops a couple of feet away with his hands at his sides. “Can she stay here a bit longer?”
Henri turns towards Brandon with his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Jimmy won't like it.”
Brandon gives a shrug that doesn't roll off his shoulders easily. “It hasn't been that long for her. Let her get used to things. I'm going to the village in a few days. That'll help."
Henri sighs again as if my staying with Brandon is an inconvenience for him. He rises slowly. “Fine. Another week. But you tell Jimmy.”
Brandon nods and moves out of the way to let Henri pass. His eyes stay glued to the ground until the door has shut and we can both hear Henri stomping down the stairs. Then he looks up at me with a small smile.
I unfold my legs and stand up while trying to think of a way to thank him. A hug this early in our relationship seems inappropriate, but a simply spoken thank you doesn't seem to be enough.
He seems to sense my unsureness and lifts a hand. “It's okay. I know.”
I'm not sure how he knows, but I'm grateful all the same. Still, I find I have to ask. “Who's Jimmy? Why won't he like this? I'm not getting you in trouble, am I?”
He actually laughs at that. “It's complicated. But don't worry about it. We've got a week to get you ready to live with Henri.”
A week is a ridiculously short length of time. I bring my hands together and the letter brushes against my skin. My throat tightens at the reminder in the face of this small victory. It's only been days and it will be a few days more before things will change again.
Six
A wind kicks up blowing my hair into my face and I shove it back behind my ears as I stand on the balcony, leaning over the rail while watching the people below. I’m alone. Mitchell hasn’t shown himself in the last couple of days and I don’t exactly blame him. The leader of the Southlands was here, looking for me.
The letter from my mom still sits on the table next to the bed where I put it right after he left. I keep hoping for more strength to face the truth, but I've reached my limit and if I try to take any more on I will probably just explode. It's ridiculous. What if her letter contains some important information? Maybe there's an explanation or a warning in it or even just a last "I love you" inside.
The people below all stand around like they normally do. I'm not quite sure what their function is or even if it's the same people every time. I scan the crowd down below again, my fingers resting lightly on the cool rail, and I try my best to start picking out details of people that I can see from stories up so that I can start noting if I see them every day or not. Staring and studying people is rude to do back home, but here no one looks at me. Who would notice a girl three stories up observing everyone?
But someone does. Or perhaps I notice him first. The sunlight catches in his eyes and from three stories up I can spot the impossible green of his irises as he walks forward. I can't look away from him. A dark tank top exposes his arms and the dark spots of tattoos against his tanned skin.
My breath catches for a moment, and in the space it takes to not exhale, another man is attacked.
The crowd below moves suddenly, forming a circle around the man on the ground. At first I think that they're all going to attack him, but then I notice the shirtless man standing in the center.
Muffled pleas are absorbed by the bodies surrounding him who do nothing but watch. But then he manages to call out loudly, "Please!" It bounces into the air and off the tall buildings around us. In response, his attacker kicks him in the face.
My hand falls over my mouth. I'm transfixed, unable to move away from this scene until I know how it ends even though there is only one way this can go.
An object in the attacker's hand catches a glint of sunlight. He holds it down by his side, the shiny sharp point facing down towards the ground. It's a knife he holds, waiting for the moment that he will bring it to use against the man on the ground. He steps to the man with his head lowered, strands of his hair falling forward over his forehead and face. Many of the people in the crowd remain stoic, but some of them fidget, rubbing at their arms as if to press down the goose bumps or stop the chills. A few step back while keeping their eyes on the scene before them. The man in front, the attacker, is someone even they fear.
The attacker kneels down and lifts the hand with the knife to the man's throat. My stomach curdles, and I turn away with a gag and a cough, the image burned into my mind. I know what's happening even if I turned away instinctively, unable to watch.
My one hand is wrapped tightly to the railing. When my eyes open again, I see the attacker finish wiping his blade on the bottom of the man's shirt just before he stands and looks right up at me. I gasp and step away from the rail, those gray eyes, cold and merciless, float to the surface of my memories.
It's Gray Eyes. Even from three stories up, I know it's him. I step back further and bump right into someone behind me.
I hop forward, but an arm reaches out, gently turning me around. Brandon searches my face as he pulls me near. "It's okay." He repeats it twice before my muscles relax enough that he can wrap his arms around me and pull me against his chest.
That breaks me. I slide my hands up to cover my eyes just as the tears start pouring down my fingers. My mouth opens to fight for air, but it only makes the sobs sound louder. Brandon gently pushes me into the apartment, and I go, trying to wipe the fat droplets from my cheeks with my bare hands.
Inside the apartment, the sobs stop, but the tears still flow. I step over to the kitchen sink to pour cool water over my hands and splash my eyes. Brandon stands behind me, a hand on his hip, another on the back of his neck as if he were trying to come up with something to say though there isn't really anything that can be said.
"I'm sorry." Brandon doesn't make a move towards me, but he stands in that space between the kitchen and the living room. I'm essentially blocked in the small space of the kitchen. "I didn't know that today was--"
He stops and I turn around to look at him. "Today was what?"
Brandon sighs. "I didn't know he was doing that today."
I don't know what I expect from Brandon. It wasn't as if he were the one down there. But he knew that would happen. He just didn't expect it was going to happen today. I'm at a loss for words in my disappointment.
Brandon looks at me, the muscles over his brow slightly tensed. “Paula, I don't know what to tell you. We protect the border from the Lost Territory. We also protect the village and all the people in it. There isn't room for disobedience."
At the mention of the Lost Territory, my breath becomes shallow. As bad as this place is, there are places that are worse. Lost Landers are so savage and far from human that they eat each other. There is no safe place left for me. This is it.
My gut tightens. "Or else that?"
He doesn't say anything. His mouth is a hard line reminiscent of the Special Ops
soldiers I saw when this entire nightmare began.
I step back from him and brush against the sink. "Or else you just kill them out in the open, in broad daylight, in front of everyone?"
There's a silence that passes swiftly before he quietly says, "I know we seem harsh, but we have to be."
They hate us. Wildlanders blame the Neutrals for what was done in the past, and if this is what they do to their own people what will they do to someone like me? My own father doesn't even know what he wants to do with me. "But that's-- that's so savage. Isn't there a better way?"
"Like banishing them and letting someone else do the dirty work?"
That does it. He still blocks the way, but I try to walk past him and out of the enclosed space of the kitchen by bringing my arms up and pushing. Brandon grabs me, each of his hands wrapping almost all the way around my forearms. I shove with all my weight, but he doesn't budge. I try to rip my hands away, but he doesn't let go. The fingers wrapped around me are like enclosed wire and impossible for me to pull off.
As I struggle with him, he puffs the words out. "I didn't mean-- I shouldn't have said that. Paula, I'm sorry."
I don't let up. Though I know I can't push past him, I still keep trying until he finally lets me go and I can walk into the bedroom and shut the door. I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe deeply, refusing to cry. My cheeks are hot and swollen, but my eyes are dry.
I don't belong here. I won't survive here. I can't even fight here. Brandon goes to training for hours every day. He could have overpowered me easily if he'd really wanted to. I wouldn't have been able to do much more than the man who got attacked if Brandon had really tried. Even now, there's nothing but a door that doesn't lock between us and only his willingness to give me privacy.
The letter sits on the bedside table. Avoiding it for so long has been the stupidest thing I've probably ever done in my life. I've been stalling, trying to avoid the fact that everything has changed. There is no going back.
I pick up the envelope and slide my finger along the top seam, popping it open with small jerks. The couple sheets of papers I pull out are so small and thin in my hand that it almost feels as if the paper will melt from the heat of my body or the ink disintegrate with my tears.
The paper shakes as I open it. Mom's hand writing, normally neat and large, is now small and mashed together. I have a hard time adjusting to this new version of her handwriting, and so I have to sit and stare at it for a while before I start actually seeing the words.
Dearest, I'm sorry. I keep wanting to find the words to explain, something that will make everything clear, and I don't know what to say. I don't have much time, and what I have to say requires time and space.
I should have told you everything. I should have prepared you. But I had hoped that if I kept you clean, they would at least spare you and only punish me. Of course the best punishment for me is to hurt you.
Henri Smith is your father. He is the leader of a very large and substantial tribe in the south that makes the real people in power here nervous. He'll protect you, and he'll be the one to find you a place there where hopefully you can be happy. Trust him.
I don't know how long I'm going to be here, or what's going to happen. But we have to do the best we can. Please try. For me. And I will do what I can for you. Maybe someday we can be together again.
As soon as I reach the last line-- a blatant lie-- I fold the paper up again neatly and put it on top of the envelope that sits on the table. I don't lie down. I just sit still and stare at the letter.
Maybe there's some part of her that believes it. Maybe there is hope. Or maybe we just need that illusion to keep going, and so that's part of her last gift to me. An illusion that will possibly keep me going and doing what I have to in order to adapt and survive.
I don't move for a long time. I don't cry either. I just stare at the blank wall while sitting on Brandon's bed. The light in the room shifts, lengthening the shadows of the old bed posts as the sun works itself past noon.
Things are quiet in the living room. I glance towards the door and listen for sounds of Brandon in the kitchen, but there's nothing. Suddenly I feel very alone.
I get up and open the bedroom door. There's no use peeking if he is out here; I'll just feel silly. But he's not. The living room is empty. On the counter there's a sandwich on a plate left for me. The other plate is cleaned and drying next to the sink. My throat tightens. He didn't have to. I didn't ask him to. He could have just left me nothing.
I sit down to eat the sandwich at the table, taking small bites of the soft bread I watched him make just the other day. I'm not hungry but I eat it anyway because Brandon made it for me. These things don't keep and he's sharing his resources.
This world scares me. The people scare me. But I can't imagine that it'll be better anywhere else.
Seven
Brandon comes home late. The sun has already gone down, and I've managed to figure out how to light the oil lantern on my own by the time he walks in the door.
I'm in the kitchen with the lamp still sitting on the kitchen counter where I found the matches. When he enters, I take a quick look at him. The strands of his hair over his face are wet, and his shirt has a ring of sweat around the neck and a spot on his chest. His breaths are even yet shallow, but his eyes are bright.
We both take the other in, trying to pick up clues as to where this dance will go next. Brandon is the one to start it.
"Sorry I'm late. Let me take a shower and I'll make dinner." He steps further in heading to the bedroom to grab clean clothes.
I step around the kitchen counter intent on changing the dance. "Uhm, I can make dinner."
His back is to me. Through the already thin shirt now soaked with sweat I can see the two light eyes of the dark skull across his back. He stops and turns halfway to face me, the eyes of the skull turning away. "You don't have to do that. I'll be quick."
We're both teetering on an edge, waiting for the other to show their colors. It's time for me to step forward and allow myself to be seen. "You basically heat up canned food for dinner. I can do that."
I brace myself for a misunderstanding, waiting for him to get angry at me for belittling what he does, but he doesn't. Brandon actually lets out a short quick laugh as he runs his hand through his hair. Emboldened by this positive reaction, I add on to my list of abilities. "And I figured out how to light the lamp on my own."
He smiles again and rubs at his chin. "All right. Fine. Just don't blow anything up."
I wasn't even aware that was a possibility.
It's strange to dig through his cupboards and the refrigerator pantry. I settle on some canned meat and potatoes as the main course and heat up some green beans for the side. Nearby the cans are a couple of spices I recognize, and I use them sparingly in the food to help bulk up the flavors the way Uncle Wiley taught me to do. By the time Brandon is done with his shower, the food is finished.
He takes a seat at the table and I hand him his plate. It lingers before his eyes as he closely inspects it before setting it down. Then he notices me watching him. He slides his fork in and takes a bite.
As he's chewing, he doesn't say anything. Then he actually smiles at me before taking another bite. "All right. You can make dinner from now on."
Things seem to break during dinner, rearranging themselves into something more comfortable, and yet something still feels off. Brandon does seem to try. We don't speak about earlier, and he doesn't ask me anything personal. It's just topical conversation about the food and what I did to it while carefully avoiding asking where I learned how to do it.
We clean up the plates and the pans I used, the two of us side by side in the small kitchen at the sink. By then a silence has grown over us and we don't fight it. It's easier to deal with than trying to make small talk without touching on something that will set us both back. Once we're done, I take a seat on the couch. This has been the after dinner spot the whole time I've been here. We sit here and try to th
ink of things to awkwardly talk about, but I don't think I can take it this time. I need to get out, or at least learn something new.
I keep my eyes down on my toes as I stretch them out. "So what do you do for fun?"
Brandon sits on the couch next to me and smiles. I get the sense he's been waiting for me to ask. "We hang out usually." He lifts a hand and motions towards the door with his thumb. "Out there."
Out there in the dark with the only source of light the glow from the fire pits. The thought creeps me out, but that's the old me from a different territory and days ago. I need to learn more about this place to survive.
"Are you seriously thinking about going out there?" he says as he raises an eyebrow.
It surprises me that he picks up on that so quickly, but I don't bother mentioning it. It's just more proof that Brandon is the sort of person who notices small details which means that there's no point in trying to lie to him. "Maybe."
That makes him grin. "I'll take you if you say so."
It's the first choice I've had since our house was invaded in the middle of the night. I can stay hidden here in the apartment or I can go outside with Brandon and see the others I've watched from the balcony up close. I lift my chin and take a deep breath intending to make the choice that's the obvious right one, the one that is most beneficial to my learning to live here and beginning to accept my fate, but instead I find myself blurting out, "Is it even safe for me to be out there?"
By the dim light of the lamp, his eyes are clear as the corners of his mouth curve up. "Well, yeah. I mean, I am Henri's son."
True. He is Henri's son. No one's going to hurt the leader's children. That alone isn't enough to make me feel safe even if it is enough to make him feel it's okay. But I find that I don't want to stay hidden. If I'm going to learn to survive, I need to face this new reality and learn more.
"I want to go." My voice is small. Despite this new strength and determination, my voice quivers and so I speak softly in an attempt to hide it.
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