As I stared wide-eyed at the young boys, I wondered how many would make it through the incubation period. The first thirteen years of their lives were spent in this fashion. The creators had to make sure they were flawless, with no sign of deformities or illness. From ages thirteen to seventeen, they trained.
Should I have felt sorry for these things? They had no knowledge of the world. They had no parents. They had no God. They were soulless.
“Through the next door,” a voice called out, startling me from my observations.
An older natural looked at me over the chart he was holding. A creator. The chosen ones may have been wielding the power, but the naturals created them. We gave away everything. I wondered how I didn’t notice him when I first entered the room.
“You’re in for a treat,” he said with a chuckle. His laugh sounded odd as it echoed off the walls. He worked directly with the chosen ones. How did he have time to laugh? His job was so important.
I said nothing as I pushed past him and headed through the second door. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I dreaded going inside this room. I actually feared it. And I didn’t embrace fear—it was a harmful emotion. Yet some part of me had awakened, now screaming to turn away.
The bucket I was holding fell out of my hand.
I had entered hell.
There was blood everywhere. It was spilled onto the floor and splattered against the walls. I vaguely heard a low cough somewhere in the room, and it reminded me of my sister—the way the blood had gurgled up from her throat. The beating of my heart inside my ears made it difficult to determine where the nagging, wet sound was coming from.
I could see the outline of a man hunched over a table, could make out what appeared to be red-stained handprints on his white coat. He didn’t stop whatever he was doing to instruct me. He merely called out, “I’m almost done here.”
I couldn’t move. I drew breath in ragged increments, hoping to force air inside my quickly closing lungs.
“There. Finished.”
It was as if these words suddenly wiped out the mysterious sound of coughing.
The man turned to me. A smile graced his face.
“Sorry for the mess, darling. But that’s how these things go sometimes. It must be your first day. They always send me the newbies.”
As he moved away from the table to come and shake my hand, I saw it.
The body was so small, so lonely. So pathetic. I could see in the structure of its face that someone had wanted this thing to be perfect. I could see the attempt. But it was a monster.
One arm, obviously longer than the other, was covered in cuts and bruises. It hung halfway off the medical table. The legs, which appeared to be broken, lay at such jarring angles that it seemed geometrically impossible they should exist. There were fresh scars and stitches covering the small thing’s abdomen.
And the blood. It was everywhere. A memory whispered to me. I had seen something like this before. Something to do with my father.
I couldn’t turn away, unable to deny what I saw. I noticed the dirt and blood that lingered under its fingernails. This thing had tried to fight back. There was no way it had been allowed to be awakened, not fully, but somehow it knew to fight.
“If you could just clean up the mess, please. Someone will be down for the body.”
He didn’t wait for me to shake his hand.
I wanted to scream at the man, beg him not to leave me in this room, but he was gone before I could produce the words. I hadn’t been alone in years. Living in a compound with hundreds, I was never able. Here, just me and the body, I couldn’t fight the growing sense of panic, no matter how hard I tried. If fear were going to devour me, it would be in this place.
I stumbled to the floor, pulling my bucket closer to me. I didn’t reach for the rag, but placed my hand directly into a puddle of blood. I let it ooze through my fingers. It looked and felt just like our blood. It was nothing to be afraid of. You must face your fears in order to conquer them. My father had always told me that. It was only blood.
But I couldn’t stop the images.
I thought of her, my sister. I thought of the dead thing they ripped from inside her.
I wondered, was this what life was?
Blood.
I let it drip from my fingers.
Nothing to be afraid of.
With a shaking hand, I grabbed the rag and began to scrub.
After I was done, I somehow made it back to the main floor of Templeton, where my supervisor was waiting. She was a natural just like me; I vaguely remembered her saying her name was Gwen. Everything about her was perfectly tailored, from her starched skirt to the gray hair she had tightly pulled back. I wondered how long she had spent at Templeton. What sin had been committed for her to work here long enough to be promoted? Not that it was really a promotion.
A slave’s still a slave no matter what you call her.
“You are probably thinking I sent you down there as some cruel joke,” she said, leaning against the wall. It was the first time I noticed how tired she seemed. When she’d met me earlier in the day, she’d snapped out her commands, barely looking at me. Now, it was as if she was too exhausted to even put on an act of disdain.
I said nothing, just looked at my hand. There was still blood there. I began to furiously wipe it against my skirt.
Gwen sighed. “Down this hall and to the left. That’s where you must go. The room needs dusting.”
I continued to rub my hand against the fabric.
She shook her head and started to walk away. “Welcome to Templeton,” she called out. As she moved down the hallway, I noticed there were two slash marks burned onto the back of her neck.
I wondered if the old saying held true: three strikes and you’re out.
Chapter 3
As my hand met with the doorknob, my heart beat faster than normal inside my fragile body. My blouse stuck to my sweaty back. I gripped the doorknob harder to stop the shaking of my hands.
God. Please let me be able to breathe.
The moment I shut the door behind me, the feeling ended, done as suddenly as it had began. I’d read about these symptoms in the pamphlets they used to pass out to us girls. I just didn’t expect to ever feel them after an event that had nothing to do with me. What did I care if a chosen one died? They were making new ones every day.
It was then I noticed how dark the room was—the curtains had been pulled closed. No wonder my job was to dust the place. I bet the moment I turned on a light, I’d notice piles of the stuff draping itself over the room. I ran my hands against the smooth walls in search of a light switch. I knew I could simply pull the curtains open, but somehow the thought of the sun shining into this room felt wrong.
In my attempt to find the switch, I bumped into a small end table. I could barely glimpse the outline of a lamp. I was sort of impressed I knew what a lamp was. I must have come across a picture of one in a book when I’d still been allowed to read. Not something you would ever see in the compound—only fluorescent lights for us. As I clicked on the lamp, I could barely contain the gasp that threatened to escape my lips.
I never wanted anything more in my life than to stay in this space forever.
The room was a mixture of browns and greens, marble floors and wood. Rows and rows of books covered the walls. A leather couch with giant olive green pillows sat next to the end table. And then I saw it. I went still.
A piano.
It had been years since music and books were outlawed. But there stood a piano against the oversize windows that protected us from the outside world.
I wanted it.
Was this another lesson? I knew my supervisor had sent me below to show me that beneath the façade, Templeton held many secrets. But what did she mean by sending me here? Unless she wanted me to understand the chosen ones made the rules, but did not have to follow them?
I had already known this truth a long time.
The thought of them having music so readil
y available was oddly worse than what I’d seen below, and my heart began to pound again. I couldn’t stop myself from taking a step toward the instrument. I sat down on the bench, my toe slithering its way onto the pedal, somehow securing myself to the piano.
A brief and shadowy memory swept before me—my father, his hands guiding mine along white keys. I inhaled sharply.
“Why does Mom always sing that song?” I remembered asking him.
“Because it means something to her, Tessie,” he’d replied with a heavy sigh, glancing toward the door to their bedroom. Mother was having another bad night. I could hear her humming the song most days, but when she got to drinking, she sang it full out.
I’d rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the piano. My father took one of my hands in his and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t be mad when she sings, Tessie. We all want something we can pretend is ours. You’ll understand some day. When you’re older, you’ll want your own song, too.” Emma had sung my mother’s song at her funeral. I found out it was an old one from some place named England. The song was called “The Snow They Melt the Soonest.” I never really knew my mother, so I never really knew what the song meant.
No kid likes to imagine getting older, but with the war changing life for us every day, it was hard not to think of the future. “Will they take the music?” I’d asked my father. Somehow, even at five, I knew things were ending.
“Of course not,” he replied. These were the early days, before I saw my father defeated. He placed my hands back on the keys. “But why don’t we start with your song now?” The first one I ever learned to play was “Moonlight Sonata.”
I couldn’t hold onto the memory for too long. It wouldn’t be healthy. Besides, thoughts of my father didn’t belong in the home of the chosen ones.
It was madness. Sitting there in that room, so close to music. If this was a test, I was going to fail. I couldn’t help it. I would rather receive another slash mark than give up touching the keys. I would volunteer to work below for every minute of my sentence if I could play just one song.
My aching fingers grazed the keys, and then I quickly pulled my hands back from the slick coldness. I considered touching it again. It might help to block out thoughts of the many things I had lost. It would be like medicine.
I gently, hesitantly, pushed down a key. It quivered slightly under my touch. The hair on the back of my neck shot up, and my skin tingled. I imagined this was what it felt like to fall in love. In that moment, I was ready to fall.
I plunged recklessly into my newfound freedom, pushing and caressing the keys. The council had gotten rid of music along with the books. My mind, and my fingers, never forgot either.
It was a freedom the darkest part of my soul sought out. How long had it been since I’d experienced anything close to that? I felt deep down I was allowing the emotions that simmered to dance freely, but somehow I knew I could both have this and remain in control. I found it easy to ignore the shame I should be feeling, as long as I continued playing. I began to put more force into my fingers.
I repeated the same movements over and over again; it was the only song I could recall. The song my father had taught me. How long had I been playing? I couldn’t tell. Somewhere in the middle of my dark euphoria, I heard it, a quiet, intruding noise that stirred my senses from their hypnotized state and made me freeze in place. I had trained my instincts to be sharp. Never as sharp as a chosen one’s, but useful all the same.
Someone, or something, had cleared his throat.
I was aware of him behind me. I could hear him breathing. From that noise, I tried to determine my fate. Did it sound angry? Disgusted? I couldn’t move as I heard the noise of steps getting closer. I knew I wouldn’t be able to escape—not because my body wouldn’t work. Not because I wasn’t brave enough to make a run for it. I couldn’t leave the piano.
That was when I saw him. It was the chosen one from my branding. Not the one who held me down as the iron burned into my skin. This was the one who was beautiful. While I knew it was wrong to admit, even if only to myself, some part of me liked seeing him.
As I looked to the chosen one beside me, I saw past the perfection the creators intended when constructing him. Behind his alluring appearance laid danger. His artfully sculpted cheekbones, curly black hair, and dazzling mismatched eyes didn’t impress me. Those weren’t the things that stirred something inside me the way playing the piano did. It was the flaw. The small scar on his chin. It was glorious.
Sometimes it felt too difficult to look on the chosen ones; they were so far superior to us naturals in every conceivable way. It was as if that scar allowed me to see him, begged me to see him.
How silent it was. I was so used to the hustle and bustle of the compound that it startled me. I could almost hear the air weave itself around everything in the room. He was silence itself. And in that stillness I was more aware of myself than I had ever been. I could feel the way a few stray strands of my red hair were brushing against the branding on the back of my neck. I could sense my pulse beating quickly against my wrist, my body craving to touch the keys again. Or maybe to touch the boy. I could even taste my breath sticking inside my throat. But for one brief moment, I couldn’t feel fear. It was only a second. I saw his hand twitch and suddenly the moment was lost forever.
Without wasting another minute, he was sitting beside me as if it were normal to do so. His hands took the place of mine, which now sat clutched in fists on my lap. He glanced quickly out of the corner of his eye, and I tried to stop the curiously delightful tremble that surged through me. Still no expression crossed his face as he began to play. It was the same tune, but I noticed he played it with greater ease and skill. I wondered if he heard the same stifled emotion, the same story behind the notes. And yet, how could he possibly know this song? How could he know any song at all? His kind took away the music.
I could feel my body react against my will. My heart skipped a beat, then started to pound. My breathing became ragged. This wasn’t possible. How could he know this song, of all songs? Could he read the thoughts inside my head? Surely he must be able to see the notes dance inside my mind, because there was no way he would bother to learn to play music when his purpose was only to serve and protect.
The newer versions of the chosen ones were said to be gifted. Rumors swirled concerning everything from mind control to levitation. The ability to play music could not have come to him naturally, and I wondered briefly if the rumors were true.
I couldn’t move from my spot. I didn’t dare look at him again. It was going to happen, an attack. I hadn’t had a panic attack in years, but now I’d had two in only a matter of days—I thought I’d gotten so good at maintaining control. I tried to concentrate on breathing. As I did, my hands somehow moved to the piano of their own accord. They didn’t hesitate before they graced the keys and began to dance with his. Never touching, but corresponding all the same.
My eyes searched the keys, blindly following his hands as they moved with a graceful force, never attempting to entrap mine. They almost seemed mindful of the space in which my fingers glided along. I focused on his hands to keep myself from the rising, unknown emotion that was surging through me.
God, this would be my downfall. He would report this. Was he merely teasing me? Allowing me a brief second to lavish in the illusion of freedom, the frail dream of equality, before he ripped it from my clutching hands?
I realized the music had ended. My hands froze accordingly. I stared forward, never thinking to look at him, almost forgetting to blink. The silence seemed to envelop us both. I didn’t even hear him breathing. Was he breathing? Yes. Why didn’t he say something? This was too much to bear.
“Name?”
He was going to report me. I couldn’t find my voice.
He cleared his throat. “Name?”
“Tess,” I replied. Though I was sure it was so low he couldn’t possibly have heard it.
Not only had I been caught near a piano,
but I had played it in front of a chosen one. This was an act that could only be read in one way: defiance.
“Tess. Number 258915,” I said, louder. I hoped by complying, I would somehow get myself out of this mess. The flash of bravery I’d felt while playing the piano had vanished.
“Tess,” he repeated. The tone of his voice was unsettling. It was not what I had expected. His voice was soft, contemplative, and I didn’t understand it. I didn’t like how inviting it sounded in my ears. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He was playing with me, and I was allowing myself to be played with. No doubt he saw me as some stupid, mischievous natural who was dumb enough to get caught playing music that was forbidden. And while that might be true, why the game? I was not a field mouse to be pawed at.
I felt him turn to me, and I couldn’t help but look back. I shuddered and forced my gaze down. The chosen ones didn’t look at us much and never in the eyes. We weren’t worth the acknowledgement. And yet, I couldn’t help but peer back up again. His eyes narrowed as if he were confused. We stayed like that for a long, agonizing moment. “You should leave,” he whispered.
I could go? He was letting me leave? Just to report me later? I wouldn’t be able to take the waiting. If I was to appear before the council, I’d rather I was taken now, from this place. I inhaled a deep breath. “No.”
It was right then that my heart calmed. Why at the moment of my greatest danger did my heart cease to thrash about my chest? Was I scared? Yes. But maybe there was something worse than fear.
His eyes reflected his shock, his anger, and his regret. All this passed across his face seamlessly and quickly, and then he did something else that I did not expect: he laughed.
This made me angrier than I had allowed myself to be in a long time. My heart once again began its tirade. Irrationally, my hands found their way back to the keys. As I continued the melody, my heart slowed down once more.
Chosen Ones (The Lost Souls, #1) Page 2