The Girl Who Dared to Fight
Page 41
But I had to.
The tears stopped after a week, once the Ministry took her away, and numbness settled into their place. The ordeal took its toll on Henry and me, as a couple—although, to be honest, I’d felt the beginnings of a crack in our relationship when my father shot him in the leg.
Not that I could blame the poor boy. He was probably afraid to have anything more to do with a governor’s daughter after that—even an ex-governor’s daughter. And the time he spent with me during the pregnancy and birth was more out of duty than anything else. Henry would never admit it, but it became clearer to me in the months that followed that my father had been right about one thing: he hadn’t been intending to commit to me anytime soon. We’d both been caught up in the passion of a first-time, forbidden summer romance, and had let it go too far. I’d thought that maybe our relationship could survive it, but after the baby was taken away, it became clear that she had been the only thing holding us together. Once she was gone, Henry announced that he had accepted a job transfer to another factory up north, and left.
I guessed different people reacted differently to trauma. Some people drew closer together, while others drifted apart. Our relationship was never as deep as I had thought it was, in my naïve seventeen-year-old mind, which was why he hadn’t proposed until he’d been guilt-tripped into it.
In any case, we lost touch, and if he’d started seeing another girl in his new town, I honestly couldn’t say I would have minded, or even felt the smallest twinge of jealousy.
Hope’s absence ate at my soul, and I could barely even think of anything else.
I moved out of Henry’s parents’ small apartment as quickly as I could, to get away from the memories it held, and managed to get another job in a factory—as I had given up my previous one to have the baby. I found a little cabin in the woods to call home, and it was where I lived to this day.
The sound of barking outside my window made me start, and I turned away from the mirror. I padded out of my little five-by-seven bedroom, over the rough wooden floorboards, and into my only slightly larger living room, toward the front door. I pulled it open with a creak and switched on the lantern outside. The beams illuminated a small pack of local wolves I had befriended, standing in the darkness of the late evening. They had basically become part-time pets—ever since I’d allowed them to sleep in my living room last winter, during a particularly bad storm.
“No food today, boys,” I muttered, bending down to stroke their silky fur. They nuzzled against my face, and I kissed them each gently on the nose.
“Nor for you, girl,” I added, my eyes falling on the female. I felt particularly bad about having nothing for her, as she was heavy with pups.
But I was earning just enough to support my lifestyle, with only the occasional money to spare, which I tried to save up. I did occasionally give them treats, but it wasn’t something I wanted them to get into the habit of expecting.
Besides, my day-to-day diet wasn’t suited to them, anyway. I grew potatoes and greens in a small dirt patch round the back of my cabin, and those, along with grains and milk from the local farmer, were basically what I ate. Except when I was in a rush. Then I resorted to Nurmeal, a meal-replacement drink. But I preferred real food in my mouth when I had the option. Living alone didn’t exactly motivate me to cook fancy, either way. I just consumed what did the job and kept my food bill as low as possible so I had more flexibility in my budget for other things.
After a couple minutes of back stroking, I closed the door on the animals and retreated back inside, gazing around my little cabin with a sigh. It contained only three rooms: my bedroom, the living area—which was combined with a kitchenette—and the bathroom. It had taken a while to get used to living in such a raw environment, but the months I had spent holed up in Henry’s parents’ apartment had gotten me accustomed to small spaces. By comparison, I had more room to myself here.
Still, the first few months I’d spent in this cabin had been the hardest of my life. The dark and cold seemed to seep out of every nook and cranny, and it was the kind that no amount of cozy lighting or fur rugs could drive away. The depression had come close to consuming me, and the only thing I had to look forward to every day was work at the factory, to take my mind off things. Not that the mind-numbing work was ever really a distraction…
But then, seven months ago, things had changed. The darkness was still never far away, lurking in the shadows of my mind like a waiting monster, but the bad days were far fewer, the motivated, optimistic ones the norm now. Seven months ago, I found a renewed purpose in life…
The sound of my phone ringing brought me back to reality—and told me that I had been spacing out. I hurried to my bathroom counter, where I had left the small device, and picked it up. After checking that my phone’s encryption app was running and the line was secure, I accepted the call and pressed the speaker to my ear.
“Hey, Nelson, what’s up?” I said.
“Coordinates have changed for tonight,” a low, crackling voice replied, only barely distinguishable as female. “You need to head to the Roundhouse, and we’ll launch the mission from there.”
“Oh… Everything okay?”
“Yup. Just a slight, unexpected shift of target. So we’re gonna have to approach from a different angle. Get over there and you’ll get a briefing.”
“Okay. I’m leaving now,” I replied, and then she hung up.
I hung up too and slipped the phone into my pocket, then hurried to tie my hair back into a tight bun and slide into my jacket. After pulling on my backpack and grabbing my keys, I left the cabin and swung onto my motorcycle, kicking it into gear.
As I drove out through the woods toward the road, I breathed in the crisp evening air, taking a moment to just… feel the mix of emotions coursing through me. They came whenever Nelson got in touch, and while I looked forward to her calls, they didn’t exactly fill me with light or happiness. Nor could I even say with excitement. No, it was with something much darker than that. Something deep and burning, almost primal… Perhaps the kind of thing only a broken mother can feel.
If there was one thing I had learned in these past two years, it was that pain can make you hard. But it can also mold and shape you into something you never thought you could become.
And that, I hoped, was what had happened to me.
By day they still called me Robin Sylvone (as much as I disliked the surname now, I had no other to which I could subscribe). Factory worker and upper-class reject.
But seven months ago, my nights had gotten a whole lot more meaningful. Now, by night, they called me Robin Hood.
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