Loneliness consumes my heart. If only I knew. I would’ve told them everything about Wes. If I knew…
It couldn’t have been my fault, could it? Did they leave because of me? Did they even love me?
I slumped into a ball. The weight of loss crushed my spirit—broken. It broke, just like my family.
I lived with a broken family with a broken soul in a broken world. Now I would never get it back. Mom’s sweet hugs, Gran’s witty jokes, even Gran and Mom’s Mac and Cheese were distant and sour to think about. Gone…
I laid broken at the end of my dreams. Life felt like a waste.
I wouldn’t lose Ambert and Wes too. They were all I had left.
Fifteen:
I took my backpack and left the house with tears in my eyes. As I shut the door, the icy wind took my breath away. Like vicious thorns, ice pricked everything with a stinging, paining cold, one that engulfed the world and told it to back off. In the sunlight, the ice-laden trees sparkled in a kaleidoscope of colored lights: shades of red, orange and yellow.
I trudged across the ground, attempting to not slip on the ice below me. It looked like glass; cold glass, but still glass. I saw my face in the mirror the ice created and it looked as red as my hair. My skin was irritated already by the lack of sunlight and the cold wind.
I hurried along my route, determined to get to Wes. Maybe dreaming would help me today, especially since Wes used all his time to prepare for rescuing Aurelia. When I got to the abandoned warehouse, I shivered at the frost that seemed to cover everything except the tiny entrance.
Crawling in slowly, I tried not to expose the hole to the outside world. I was freezing and shivering inside the building just as much as the outside. If it wasn’t for the fire of several candles, I would be numb.
With tears in my eyes, my voice croaked. “My Gran and Mom left home, Wes…”
“I’m sorry. I know that has to be hard…” Wes began.
“I can’t believe it. They left me with no one. No friends, no family…” I cried.
His smile was childish, beaming with excitement. “Aren’t we friends?”
“I believe so,” I sighed, “No one ever helped me like you and Ambert.”
“I’m glad you both are on board with finding Aurelia.”
“We’ll sneak in and see where she is soon.”
“You’re ready to do that for a stranger?” he looked me in the eye as if for me to make a solemn oath.
I nodded. “Ambert trusts you, doesn’t he?”
“Thank you, Calista,” You could see fireworks light off behind his eyes, “We’ll see how Ambert’s plan plays out. He’ll look up the information any day now.”
“You’d do the same for me as Ambert would for you, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, I can say that,” He chuckled, “How is he?”
“Oh, Ambert? Father said he’s getting a promotion pretty soon.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s doing?”
I shook my head. “My father’s working on a new project... a secret one. I have no idea what he and The Commander planned, but I’ve got a terrible feeling.”
Wes and I felt chills run up our spines.
“We’ll look into it.”
I weakly smiled back. “Alright…”
“Cheer up, Calista. We’ll find my sister, and we’ll do what we do best: dream. I’m sure you’ll like her,” Wes reassured.
“Unless... she’s dead,” I mumbled.
“I doubt that. Your dreams say otherwise. I believe she’s still alive, and you should too.”
“Are you a Dreamer, Wes?”
He looked at me with a blank stare. “What?”
“Are you a Dreamer?” I questioned.
“Yes,” Wes nodded, “Yes, I am.”
“How did you know? Was it a feeling or...”
“I could do things after just thinking about them. I could be kind by believing I could. My dreams…” he smiled, “Became a beautiful reality.”
“If there was any chance I or even Ambert were Dreamers…”
“You won’t know unless you create more dreams. You both need to dream more, Calista.”
“What if…” I began.
Wes put a finger to my lips. “Don’t think ‘What if’. Just focus on this moment and don’t worry about tomorrow until it is tomorrow.”
I produced a soft smile. “Thanks, Wes.”
“Now, how are we going to sneak into The Regime Information Center?” Wes asked.
“Said the person who stays in the moment,” I criticized.
Wes took out a large canvas. “Hey, we can’t stay in the moment all the time. Improvising our rescue plan would be suicide.”
I chuckled, “What did you have in mind?"
He drew a square grid on the paper. “This represents the building. Are there any exits we need to know about?”
I placed a hand on my chin and sighed. “Can’t you look at a map and find that?”
“It’s complicated,” Wes said.
I described an image of the building to Wes, who drew a sketch of what I told him. He drew the windows, the vents, even the doors and doorways in the building. He penciled this on his paper, shading in different areas to look three-dimensional.
I couldn’t help but think of how bold he was the entire time. He drew like it wasn’t outlawed. In his mind, he was free. I wanted that too— to learn my own dreams.
I scanned his paintings yet again, letting the scenes of different landscapes fill the creativity I was just learning to tap into. The trees, the beaches, each with two men I had grown to love in Wes' artwork.
And then there was another artwork: Aurelia. She wasn’t the way I saw her in my dream. Instead of free, I saw her asleep on a metal bed, shackles at her wrists and ankles. Her soft golden-blonde hair was tangled. Aurelia’s lilac eyes were closed, silent against her pale face. Though she looked at peace, her background showed she was confined, trapped— alone. Wes would do anything for her, and his eyes lit with determination.
We were birds set free of their cages, and boy, it felt satisfying. In the safety of the warehouse we could do anything.
The strokes on the paper were mesmerizing to watch, and I spent the day with eager eyes, the painting of a girl with lilac eyes, a boy holding a pencil, and a single dream.
Was there a better way to live?
Scanning the room again, I found another piece of art, one I knew Wes couldn’t have seen.
“Were you stalking me?” My voice was firm, but my lip quivered as the words exited my throat.
Wes' eyes widened. “And risk facing the man who killed my parents? I’m not that crazy!”
“Yeah, but…” Tears welled in my eyes. “This is what I did this morning…”
The picture depicted me reading the note Gran and Mom left behind. Wes couldn't have seen it, right? Just the way I looked, the pity in my expression, I could tell it was me.
Wes denied everything like he had nothing to do with the painting at all. Guess he was more than met the eye. I shouldn’t have trusted him so quickly.
Who was the boy in front of me?
Sixteen:
“Can’t we focus on our map?” Wes asked.
My eyes narrowed as I glanced at his drawing; he hadn’t marked the exits or any of the objects with words. Instead, he marked them with color, taking a lot of time to shade in different parts of the drawing.
I raised an eyebrow. “Why color? You can just write words.”
Wes' eyes widened in alarm. “Calista, you…” he dropped a red colored pencil to the floor, “Well... you can’t let The Regime know what building it is. They could find the map if they discovered our location.”
“But…” I began.
Was he lying to me after all? The Regime had spies. Secret cameras sometimes picked out radicals from the crowd, but planting a spy took a lot of work. They appealed to your greatest desires to perk your interest, and led you into a trap.
If Wes was a spy,
I was playing into The Regime’s hands. If he wasn’t, he might’ve been the creepiest stalker in existence.
“Hey, I know what I’m doing okay?” Wes interrupted, snatching his colored pencil off the floor. He continued his work, “There’s nothing to worry about!”
I couldn’t help but feel pounding drums deep in my chest threatening me. ‘Don’t do it,’ they sounded, beating the drums of war like I was about to commit a huge mistake.
I felt like my head would explode from their ringing. It beat for the danger I was to face, the war I was about to wage, the excitement I would feel, and yet it was scared. I was scared it would be too difficult and I would never achieve anything. I wouldn’t if I didn’t believe.
I made a promise to Wes on a day with my heart pounding, hands sweating, and my legs shaking, but if he were a spy, the promise didn’t mean anything. It was empty words.
‘Why does Wes trust me so much? No one else believes in me except Ambert! Is he a spy sent to observe me on the watch list?’
Solving whether or not Wes was a spy became essential.
I watched hot air leave my mouth in gusts of smoke. “How can you trust me to find your sister?”
Wes turned away from his work, “Maybe you can’t color with the same color of paint because you see the world differently. Differences and Dreams make you who you are, right?”
“Funny coming from a Cravealing,” I spat.
Wes' eyes widened. “What’s gotten into you?!”
“So, where’s the master control where you see through cameras? It’s the only way you’d be able to get that painting!” I searched the warehouse looking for anything to convict him.
Wes reached out to me. “Calista, wait!”
“These cameras! They’re all over this place,” I yelled.
Wes rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. It was a store. Besides, my parents filmed lessons for me in here.”
I narrowed my eyes “Likely story.”
“Calista…”
“What is it, Cravealing?” I asked.
I spat at his face.
“...I didn’t think you’d like to know, but…” Wes sighed, “I’m an Onlooker.”
“Now I know you’re making things up.”
“No, I’m serious. An Onlooker is someone who paints detailed pictures of people they’re supposed to protect.”
I blew a raspberry. “I’ve never heard of Onlookers before.”
“No, it’s true. Let me show you…” Wes opened a door and floods of paintings came from it.
Each painting depicted someone different, but a couple paintings were of me. A painting showed the same old man from the day I first met Wes. His chiffon beard and hungry eyes called out to my soul.
Another scene I saw was a girl in a military school uniform— tears welling from her eyes as a crowd of people laughed around her spot in the lunchroom.
I glanced at the one closest to me. “This…”
“Was when the bullies attacked you a couple days ago.”
‘It can’t be coincidence…’
“There’s a lot of magic in this world, Calista. I don’t understand most of it, but I do know you have some part in finding Aurelia. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have to make sure you’re okay.”
“This is a lot to take in… it’s almost like being someone’s guardian angel, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s different. I… I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I’m gonna make lunch.” Wes turned away from me.
“But what will I do?”
Wes sighed. “There’s a piano in the back.”
“I can't play the piano. I don't know any songs,” I complained.
He turned to face me. “Make your own.”
I headed to where the piano was. There was a window, but I tried not to look out there. At least there was light. I sat on the bench of the piano and played one key on the right end. A high pitch played. I tapped one on the right side. An even higher pitch played. The black keys functioned the same way.
On the left end, the pitches were low, and some on the other end I couldn’t hear. The wood was corroded, chips in both the keys and oak. The sounds of the keys warped and changed pitch the longer I held the key down. The piano barely kept itself together. Guess Wes' parents saved the piano before they died.
I picked up a piece of paper to see if it had any instructions on how to play. What I got didn’t have any language I could understand. It had what appeared to be a tulip bulb with a stem sticking out of it. What kind of language was this?
I examined the paper further to discover the letters differed. Others were paired in twos and threes. Some didn’t have the stem attached. Other ones looked like lightning bolts, hats, and candy bars. Wes was wrong. I couldn’t play without instructions.
I hit one key on the right end with one on the left end. I jumped off the bench, and hesitated before sitting back down and playing more of the keys together.
‘That was pretty.’
As I closed my eyes to listen, I let my fingers flow to different keys. What happened next I thought was amazing. It was even more amazing than painting.
A whirlpool swirled around my being as the notes flowed around me. They weren’t just sounds. They were a doorway into my soul. The longer and longer I played, the more and more I loved it.
My father would bang on these keys, breaking them one by one until he would snap the entire thing in pieces. He wasn’t there. He didn’t know what I was doing or who I had become.
The keys of the instrument were a sweet ringing in my ears. There was no turning back, and the song kept playing as if it were chirping like birds. Birds that were so free, so sweet. I understood what Wes meant.
Even if I couldn’t read those instructions on the table, it wasn’t the language of music. Music’s language is the pitches you hear, the emotion you play, and everyone no matter who they are can understand. The music was flowing, but my hands were tired. I played one final series of notes on the piano before I stopped.
It was beautiful! I had never felt so free before, and I was no longer afraid. I had stayed in the moment. I loved it. The beautiful piece of music reminded me I could do anything as long as I believed I could. Why shouldn’t I? The piece captured how I was feeling! It captured who I was!
It was my creation. My original thought. No one could strip it away from my soul! It was a part of me; part of the puzzle shaping my life! No one could capture the emotions of my creativity, and not a soul cared. But I did. It was a part of who I was, and who I would always be.
My guilt melted like butter, and something sweeter than life remained. It provided my miserable life with something to live for, something to fight for, something for my soul to cry out. My heart was ready to fly out of my chest. It wanted to take its own path, and pay consequences for its freedom.
To my surprise, Wes was in the room when I opened my eyes. He applauded me, and in the process startled me!
“You listened?”
My palms sweat as I glanced to my lap and heat covered my face. It was like my mom had revealed a secret about me to the world! Mom… what would she think of me now?
“Yeah. It’s kind of hard not to when you’re beside the kitchen,” Wes smiled, “That was great”
“Thanks,” I paused, “I hope The Regime didn’t hear.”
Wes shook his head. “Doubt they’d hear you if they couldn’t hear my confusing tunes.”
“I doubt I did any better for my first time. I just used feeling.”
“Wait, you just played with feeling? Your father would kill you.”
“Of course I did,” I crossed my arms, “I couldn’t read the freaky language your instructions used!”
“That wasn’t any literal language. That was a universal language: The Language of Music.”
“But I couldn’t…” I gestured to the paper.
“The birds sing music freely and your heart beats like a drum. Music isn’t just a language. It’s emotion,” Wes explained.
> “It’s not a language I’ve seen before,” I picked up a paper with written words, “I’m used to languages like this.”
I handed the piece of paper to Wes.
He looked confused by what was on the page, uninterested. “What does that paper say?”
Breaking Order: Book 1 (Breaking Order Series) Page 8