Firstlife. Gena Showalter
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No! He has an answer for everything and though this one sounds good, I cringe as if he scraped his fingernails over a chalkboard. There has to be absolute right or there isn’t absolute wrong.
This place is wrong.
This man is wrong. He misleads and misdirects without regret, caring more about a monetary payoff than the long-term health of the kids under his “care.”
Troika would tell me to forgive him.
Myriad would probably tell me to attack without mercy.
That. I like that. Strike before he can strike at me.
With a roar, I lunge at him. The guards hold me in place, squeezing my shoulders so roughly the joints nearly pop out of place. Pain lances through me, and for a moment, I see stars. I don’t care. I struggle with all my might, desperate to reach my target.
“Did you get your degree at Discount Psychology?” I throw at him. “You only make half a difference and even then it’s a bad one.”
Direct hit! A muscle flexes in his jaw.
Two other guards enter the room. D-bag and Titball. How sad. No Comrade Douche today.
“Perfect timing,” Vans says, gloating now.
Both males carry a bucket of water and a rag. They stop in front of my blood-covered wall and dip the rags in the water—
Understanding dawns, and I gasp with horror. Not my calendar. Anything but my calendar. Those numbers have been the only constant in my life. My only friend. I can’t lose another friend.
“Apologize for insulting me. On your knees,” Vans says. “I’ll think about forgetting your behavior today.”
I actually consider it. My numbers...they aren’t just my friends but my only diversion from the horrors of the asylum. My only real hope. Through them, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. My next birthday...and my ultimate escape.
But. There’s always a but with me, isn’t there? I won’t be able to live with myself if I give this man—this travesty of a human being—what he wants. Because, if I do, the light at the end of the tunnel will no longer be so bright.
I lock my knees, remaining on my feet.
“Very well.” He nods, almost anticipatory.
The guards begin to wash the lines away, and my horror is renewed and redoubled.
Not ready to say goodbye. “Stop. Please. You have to stop!” I kick out my legs, but I’m jerked out of striking distance. “You have no right to destroy my property!”
They continue washing, and my emotional pain cuts worse than any physical pain I’ve ever endured. Flesh heals. The soul can fester.
“If you don’t want to lose anything else you value, Miss Lockwood, you need to leave Prynne. And soon. All you have to do is sign with Myriad,” Vans says, and the guards pause. “Nothing has ever been easier.”
A crimson drop of water trickles down the wall. A bloody tear. My beautiful calendar is dying, and with a single word I have the power to save what’s left of it. How can I not just say—the—word.
Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.
See? It isn’t difficult.
The word bubbles up... “No,” I end up saying. “No, I won’t sign.”
What is wrong with me?
Vans vibrates with rage, but quickly manages to calm himself. “I know that isn’t what you planned to say, Miss Lockwood. Last chance. Sign with Myriad.”
Moonlight...castles...and one day, a return to the Land of the Harvest, Fused with another soul...living out my fate...
Might Equals Right.
Sunlight...wildflowers...an eternity of Rest after I fulfill my covenant duties...my mistakes my own...
Light Brings Sight.
Right now, I would rather know the truth—who is right and who is wrong? I would rather not ruin my future. As I’ve learned, the wrong decision can lead down a road with more bumps and slumps than I’m equipped to handle—can cost far more than I’m willing to pay.
“I won’t,” I grit out between clenched teeth. I can’t allow a momentary pain to eclipse an eternal decision. Feelings are fleeting, no matter how earth-shattering they seem; they never last, always change. A covenant is forever.
Vans curses at me. D-bag and Titball return to work. I go still and quiet, watching as every precious line disappears.
When there’s nothing left, the group leaves, though Vans pauses in the doorway to say, “I want to be your advocate, Miss Lockwood, and yet you insist on making me your enemy.”
“You insist.” My eyes burn with tears. I blink away, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he broke me. “I simply oblige you.”
He taps his fingers on the door frame, the only indication his irritation hasn’t faded. “Perhaps one day Myriad will decide they don’t want you, after all. Kind of like your parents decided they didn’t want you, yes?”
A sharp pain nearly slices open my chest. Vans knows just how to wound for maximum damage. “Has torture ever worked for you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I’ve noticed the fast turnaround. Most kids stay only a month or two.
“More often than not.”
“Might Equals Right, eh?”
My derision causes him to tap faster. “One decision can change your circumstances, Miss Lockwood. Just one.”
I smile a little too sweetly at him. “One bullet can change yours.”
The smile he gives me is just as sweet. “Up to this point, I’ve been easy on you. Keep pushing, and you’ll see my worst.” He reaches into his pocket and throws what looks to be a black button at me. A button that hits the floor because I don’t even try to catch it. “Almost forgot. This is from your mother.”
Why would she give me a button?
He leaves at last, locking me inside the room.
My tears long to break free, and my knees long to buckle, but I maintain my tough-as-nails attitude. The cameras...
With a trembling hand, I pick up the button. A flash-scribe, I realize. A way to send a recorded message. Now I’m even more confused. What does the mother who abandoned me, not visiting for seven months, wish to say to me?
Ignoring a swell of eagerness—have to know, now, now, now!—I stuff the device in my own pocket and stumble to Bow to check the fetters for locks. I find none. Good. I can free her, but oh, it’s going to hurt.
What’s a little more pain, right?
The outside of both cuffs is heated, and—I hiss—by the time I press the release button on each one, seven blisters decorate my fingers and palms.
The glow of the metal dwindles, the needles on the inside of each device detaching from bone and ejecting from her skin.
Clink, clink. The cuffs fall away, but she doesn’t wake. I’m glad. I’m not in the mood to deal with her.
With a curse, I tumble onto my squeaky mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Life sucks.
A muted scream suddenly echoes from the floor, and I jolt.
Isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay. He’s safe. He made it out.
Will I?
The flash-scribe is practically burning a hole in my pocket, my eagerness overtaking me. I withdraw the device and press my thumb into the top. As soon as my print registers, my mother’s voice fills the cell.
“Hi, Ten. Bet you never expected to hear from me, huh?”
My