His face was as unrecognizable as his voice. The light bounced off of his blonde hair, and the boy’s strong jaw locked in determination. My rescuer smirked at me, giving me a wink with his blue eyes.
“You can’t do anything about it,” one argued from the crowd of students.
“If I tell someone you said scrawny thighs, you're a goner,” my rescuer returned.
The silence was again ruler of the cafeteria.
“I'm going…” my rescuer turned away to tell a teacher.
The boy released me, a pale face showing a secret fear. “Fine, Wes. You win.”
‘Thank goodness…’
I sat upright again, shivered, and turned to my food. My rescuer, Wes, took his seat at another table.
So many questions filled my head. I was Mr. Knight’s daughter. Most people were scared of me or mocked me. Why would Wes stop the bullies from getting their way? We just met… and not even officially. Nothing made sense!
I guessed so many different things. Maybe his family respected my father’s work. Maybe he thought I didn’t deserve it. Perhaps he felt sorry for me.
I didn’t guess this would be the start of a thrilling adventure.
Five:
Wes differed from everyone I knew. His eyes lit with excitement and he tapped his foot underneath his desk. His eyes glanced towards several guys in the classroom, but never to the teacher at front. Was he even there to learn? I wasn’t going to complain. If it weren't for him, I would be covered in food like a buffet.
My teacher gazed around before spotting him. She gave a cold-hearted stare in his direction before asking, “Wesley Peterson: what was the main purpose of the Magic Renaissance?”
“To re-invent the definition of science, math, and language intertwined with magic practice,” he answered, voice bored of classroom studies— ready to escape and run for freedom.
“Correct. There were also abominations— unpractical, radical, and worthless in structure. Music, art, drama, and new technology used magic, and it threatened to plunge this world into madness and chaos. What do we have to learn from these?” my teacher’s eyebrow raised in suspicion.
She must’ve tried to see if he was on the same page as the class with The Regime’s policies.
“They're the root of all evil.” Light drained from his eyes.
Those eyes changed to a different shade of blue every time I looked: blueberries, choking blue, even sky blue. Royal blue was trustworthy. My brother’s eyes were a similar hue, and they both protected me from bullies. It was common sense to choose that shade.
“Miss Knight? If you were daydreaming I have to send you away. Your father would be disappointed in you,” the teacher said.
A few students snickered from the back of the classroom. My face got hot. Dreaming was the source of all evil— there was no way I did it.
“No, ma'am. I— I'm just a little sick. What’s the question?” my voice croaked and I sank into my desk chair.
“Explain what the three main guidelines are.” my teacher tapped her foot.
I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to say it out loud. I was getting laughed at. What if I did something else wrong?
I gulped.
“One, never get involved in something you don’t understand like… um... dreaming. Two, if you see someone doing a suspicious activity, report them immediately. Three, if someone isn’t conforming to the rules and… uh... taking part in a rebellion, no murder crimes are charged against you for carrying out the law," I uttered.
“For a Knight, you sure are timid. Excellent work.” My teacher smiled.
I gave a nod back to my teacher.
“You all know that in two years when you graduate, you will take your place in society. Most of you will become soldiers— tackling the great fight against radical ideology. Others will become executioners, researchers, and some will even be teachers, farmers, accountants, and manufacture assembly line workers. Not all choices are final, though we do strive for the best fit. Do you know why?” the teacher asked.
“Because the fight against creativity cannot let up,” a student remarked.
“And differences have to die for this world to survive,” another answered.
“Magic and dreaming corrupt the soul, do they not? Why wouldn’t we love the system?” June chuckled.
The teacher nodded. “Good.”
I sighed, contemplating everything the teacher and students said. It was all true. The Regime wouldn’t lie to us about what was wrong, right? Creativity, differences, magic, and dreaming were society’s worst creations. I just wanted to know what I needed to watch out for.
“Cite the slogan,” my teacher ordered like a general and slapped her huge pointer stick on her desk.
I jolted, alarmed by the sound. All students stood up, myself later than the others, and saluted.
“Follow to achieve and trust those who lead,” the class recited.
“Excellent.” the teacher smiled and opened her textbook, “Let’s get back to politics.”
Six:
Frozen, covered in food, and skin grazed with bruises, I began my journey home from school. My steps ached from the pain I received from the bullies. My backpack weighed down on my shoulders and crushed their sore muscles. Bruises covered my face, shoulders, and arms; Maybe Mom wouldn’t notice if I sneaked in through the house and cleaned myself up. I didn’t want her to worry about me.
Walking home wasn’t hard since my parents had me memorize all the neighborhood names. Buses and other vehicles were issued by The Regime, and were used by officials, assassins, and executioners like my father, or used on the war front as transportation. I didn’t mind to walk. Besides the cold weather, it was enjoyable.
As I strolled out of school and onto Fort Avenue, I spotted Wes walking ahead of me towards another section of town. I had to thank him for stopping the bullies in the cafeteria. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he hadn’t stepped in.
I didn’t have friends. Who’d want to be friends with Mr. Knight’s daughter? Maybe this time it would be different.
I shivered and let out a cough, wrapping my arms around my chest. Why did Fortress have to be so freaking cold? I cleared my throat to speak up. “Ahem?”
Wes turned his head to the side, and I swore for a second he grinned at me. Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished. I must’ve gone crazy. He couldn’t have wanted me to follow him, and if he spotted me, he would’ve turned around to talk, right?
The wind chilled past me, blowing my hair and scarf behind me. The cold forever framed Fortress’ atmosphere in a blistering, chilled ice. Shivering, I pulled my grey jacket closer to my chest, trying to shun the weather.
‘I need to catch up to Wes and make it back home after thanking him. I can warm up then.’
Without warning, I couldn’t recognize where I was. Wes darted into a building with faded graffiti on the worn-down brick sides. Wood blocked off most of the crevices the building offered, like windows and even the main door; it left a small space for Wes to crawl in and out of the building. The smoky odor of wood tinged the area, but the warmth of flames was nowhere to be found. Why would Wes go in there? Did he want me to see this?
Worse yet, blood laid in the street, tainting the snow below it. The smell of iron was fresh, unbearable. I covered my nose from the smell.
The wooing of a siren echoed around me, a rooming engine drawing closer.
“Crap.” My eyes widened like a doe caught in a pair of headlights.
The hover car’s arrival only meant a few things: officials were there to deliver vials of Antiserum, arrest someone, or carry out executions. What were they doing here? Quickly hiding in a bush with dying leaves, shallow breaths left my mouth.
I was on the wrong side of town where everyone was dragged away to — some referred to it as The Executioner’s Graveyard. It’s even worse when Father carried out the death sentences.
Father’s car screeched to a stop, pulses emitting from
the square vehicle's underside. He was patrolling again — as he always did every afternoon. Teeth clenched, he hauled an old man out of the back seat and thrust him to the ground.
“Please, Sir, I beg you,” the man’s voice moaned.
At the first sight of Father’s gun, I was gone.
The shot fired as I ran, a cracking bang piercing the silence. Streams of tears clouded my vision and dampened my face. My heart pounded and cold, quick air seeped into my lungs. I saw too much death that day and I knew it. It pulled at my heartstrings, begging me to save him.
Despite not knowing the man before his death, he meant something just like Sam and Wesley Peterson. Maybe I had a shot at being his friend; I had rotten luck making any of those. Everyone at school thought I was a freak or unapproachable like my father. Maybe Wes was different.
I darted from the area and headed back to my house. Approaching the two-story metal building with caution, I stared into the rusting metal like it was out to get me. There, Mom was sitting outside in her rocking chair and Gran was knitting on the metal porch.
“Knitting scarves again, Gran?” I asked, taking a look at the jumbled mess in her hands. The color red was laced in the fabric; I didn’t want to be anywhere near that color after what I had seen.
My eyes looked away from Gran’s scarf and into the snow below me. I needed to forget the gun, my father, and the blood. I took a deep breath in to calm my anxiety. Mom and Gran didn’t need to know. I didn’t want them to ask why I was there.
Gran smiled. “It’s against the law to do it differently. School is canceled tomorrow if you want to help make some.”
“What happened to your face?” Mom’s expression laced with worry.
“I fell, Mom. It's nothing to worry about.” I plastered a fake smile on my face. Just smiling made my face hurt.
“Come inside and get cleaned up.” Mom kissed my cheek.
I entered the house and took off my scarf, coat, shoes, and sweater. I looked into my green eyes in the bathroom mirror before washing my cheeks. Bruises scattered across my face, nothing a little bit of ice couldn’t fix. I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and held it against my head.
Going to my room in the dark attic, a chill slithered up my spine. Ice, snow, and heavy winds came to Fortress often. Cold didn’t help my asthma.
Sometimes I wondered if I could leave Fortress once I turned eighteen to escape the cold my lungs despised. Still, Gran sat on the porch every day knitting the same scarf design, year after year.
‘Does The Regime have to restrict what we wear, too?’
I sighed and pushed the feelings aside. Something like that spoken aloud would’ve been treasonous. It was best just to fit in and avoid those kinds of thoughts.
I finished my studies, gobbling down meatloaf at my birch desk. Ambert and Father were rarely home for dinner, so eating it at a table was a foreign practice. Why sit with Mom and Gran when I had work to get done?
Curiosity held a firm grip on me as I took out my Government Policies textbook. It said nothing in the population charts of anyone living in The Executioner’s Graveyard. So, why would Wes live there? I turned the page.
The definition of dreaming stared me plain in the face:
‘DREAMING: to indulge in terrifying fantasies about something greatly desired. An illness contracted by those with selfish ambitions and ideas. An evil force threatening to break down the system. Associated with radicals and creativity.’
Too many questions flooded my head about it. If dreaming was so evil, why were Gran and Mom able to use it in the past? They weren’t even supposed to tell me about it, but I guessed curiosity got the best of them too.
Before laying down on my bed, I slipped in some plain red pajamas with the black letter of approval. They were silk, soft and bright red. They were comfortable to sleep in. At least the uniform wasn’t all bland, even if red didn’t blend in with my hair.
I was about to grab my laptop from my desk, but I held back my curiosity and curled into a ball. I couldn’t do it tonight. I had to rest for the next day. Besides, with so many events that happened at school, I needed time to rest and recharge. If it meant my curiosity had to wait until morning, so be it.
I tossed and turned, thinking of my father and the gun. It could have been Wes or me. I thought no one lived in that section of town, especially in an abandoned building. What kind of person was Wes anyway? I was determined to visit the warehouse when I got up the next morning.
Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, Mom knocked on the door and came into the room.
“You forgot this.” She held a vial of Antiserum.
I hesitated and turned my head so I could drink it. I winced as I swallowed the dream-prohibiting liquid. It might have been clear, but it tasted like vomit— if only I could get rid of the stuff’s aftertaste— putrid and bitter. It stung the lips with its touch, and they numbed from the coldness. I coughed.
“Your father will be late again. The Commander ordered him to do some late night inspections,” Mom said.
“You mean executions,” I mumbled, but she didn’t hear.
“Well, goodnight. Enjoy your day off from school,” Mom whispered as she shut the door.
′The snow must be bad if school is canceled…′
The wind howled, and the shutters rattled next to me. I wrapped the satin sheets over my body even tighter, enveloping me in a cocoon of warmth.
I closed my eyes hearing the computer on my headrest read my brain waves were low, ready to embrace a dreamless sleep.
Seven:
I woke up eager to find out more about the mysterious Wesley Peterson. I dumped my school supplies out of my backpack and packed essentials I needed for my exploration: snacks, a flashlight, rope, batteries, and my notebook. I zipped it closed and hid my school materials under my bed. Father barged into the room.
“Enjoy your day off from school, Sweetheart,” my father’s face was grim. Though his words sounded pleasant, I could tell what they really meant: Don’t get in trouble, or I’ll turn you in.
I interrupted but lowered my gaze. “Father, don’t worry. I won’t disappoint you.”
He had no idea I was going to The Executioner’s Graveyard to meet a boy. Going somewhere I wasn’t supposed to one thing. Meeting a boy was another. Doing both would drive Father mad. I could hardly believe I was doing it myself. I had never been so close to breaking the laws. My face got hot.
“That’s my girl," my father looked me in the eye, "Have a wonderful Free-Day.”
I waited for him to leave the house before I headed downstairs. I breathed in the remnants of Father’s aftershave from the bathroom, steam still rolling from the shower.
Walking into the living room, I found leftover scrambled eggs and some bacon piled in a chaotic mess on a plate. The metal plate was cold to the touch on the coffee table. A dim light illuminated the room. Static filled the air, but everything else seemed quiet.
‘Ambert left the television on again…’ I sighed.
I took the remote and turned the device off. Mumbles filled the background, I assumed from Mom and Gran.
“Ma, it’s too dangerous,” Mom’s voice quivered.
Gran chuckled. “Nonsense. Not if we put our heads together.”
“What about Calista and Ambert?”
“Shh! Keep it down! Calista’s still...”
I entered the kitchen, curiosity filling me. The cabinets remained barren, and no food was cooked or laid out. Mom and Gran sat in their chairs like any other morning, yet the atmosphere was different. It felt chilled, dark— not like the life it used to be. What were they hiding?
“Darling,” Mom’s smile was small, “We didn’t know you were up.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing, Missy. Run along and enjoy your day off, okay?” Gran said.
“What about breakfast?” I asked.
Mom handed me an apple. “For your energy.”
I chuckled. “Lo
ve you, Mom.”
I embraced her, a soft smile on my face. Mom felt so frail, tender even like strength faded out of her. Pieces of her light brown hair were streaked with small grey strands. If only I could hold onto her longer.
“Love you too, my dear Calista,” Mom whispered.
“I’ll try to be back by dinner,” I said.
“You better be, Missy. I'm restocking the fridge for tonight,” Gran said.
I bit into my apple and waved goodbye before leaving the kitchen.
Breaking Order: Book 1 (Breaking Order Series) Page 3