* * *
That night proved no better than the last few. I woke in a puddle of my own sweat and clutched at my heart, prepared to rip it out if it poured out any more memories. The dark room calmed the bite of the nightmare. It was strange, the solace I found in darkness. On these blackest of nights, alone in my room, I had shed more tears and come to terms with my demons. Most of them anyway, a few still lingered… like tonight.
I swatted at the ground next to the bed, feeling for the unevenly melted candle near the edge of my mattress. The cool wax relaxed me. I sat up and found the hidden matchbook I kept tucked inside my pillowcase, carefully lighting the candle and placing it flat on the ground next to my bed.
I curved my palm around the flame, careful to block the light, and looked around to make sure no one else was awake. Small crevices between the boards shared everything. Privacy was an illusion. Maybe that’s why these midnight hours consoled me. At any other time, if they ignored my cries it would be avoidance not ignorance. Assured of the darkness, I moved my palm and settled my gaze on the fire.
I watched the flame dance upon its short wick for what seemed liked hours until small beads of hot wax bubbled along the edge. I licked my thumb and finger, extinguishing the flame with a sizzle. The quick burst of pain eased my torment.
I leaned back against the bed, folding the pillow in half, and stared at the wisps of smoke spiraling up from the wick. Darkness didn’t hide everything. Traces remained, like the smoke of the candle and memories of my past.
Plagued by my thoughts, I didn’t sleep. Visions of my mom, Christine’s bruised face, and the tower filtered in uninvited, monopolizing my mind. Morning did not come fast enough. One thing was certain, after another sleepless night, I had to set things right. I could deal with nightmares; I had done that for years, but the persistent pull of the tower demanded an answer. One way or another, I had to see it again.
I stared at the window, watching the slow transition of the stars fading to gray before the morning sun rose. As soon as light breached the windowsill, I tiptoed out the door, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboards outside the other rooms.
I wrapped my arms inside the sleeves of my shirt and walked toward the center of camp. The walk from the orphanage usually took ten minutes. Located near the gates, the center of camp housed our store, meeting hall, and general storage buildings. The orphanage, farms and factory were equidistant, fanning out in different directions. This camp was relatively small from what we were told about the others, but the ten thousand-acre compound seemed big enough to fool enough of us into complacency. With rations, work, and community, some people felt complete. Or at least resigned to acceptance. Not me. Claustrophobia hit me every time I walked to center camp. The expanse of the tall grey walls crushed me.
There was only one place I had ever felt free, in the forest behind the orphanage. And now, the thought of the forest lightened my heart. I knew one way or another, I would be beneath its cover today, and hopefully one of my nightmares could be put to rest.
The quiet of the morning cleared my mind, allowing me to focus. My teeth chattered and breath clouded my view, forcing me to pull the collar of my shirt up over my chin. I hated to do it, knowing the burlap left red rash marks where it touched me, but I hated the cold more. Everything pointed to the inevitable—winter would be starting soon. This realization fueled the decision I had already made on the short walk. Now the question remained: How to convince my friend?
With my mind focused on strategy, I made it to the center of camp in no time. The rustling of the flag announced my arrival, grabbing my attention.
Flickering in the wind, a frayed flag marked the center of camp. The separation between colored lines blended together as the threads waved independently, a last reminder of the time before. Come to think of it though, everything in camp seemed a reminder of the past. Rusted farm equipment lined the wall along the side of the meeting hall. On the other side, monopolizing the storefront, wooden boxes were stacked high, covering the dusty windows.
The wind burst through, smacking the flag forcefully. I looked up, and then beyond the faded stripes to the barbs and trained gunmen guarding the main gates. Goosebumps rose along my arm and on the back of my neck as the eyes of one of the guards bore down on me. His appraising gaze sent a wave of apprehension through me. Maybe this early morning walk wasn’t such a good idea.
He turned his attention back to paperwork as soon as I sped back across the street. I found my spot, an indiscriminate point along the dusty road, and slumped to the ground, waiting for the line to fill in.
I drug my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled the mess back into a ponytail. Soft wisps escaped their intended confinement and framed my face. I tugged on the longer pieces and tucked them behind an ear, careful to keep my eyes down. My fingers found a way to the ground, and I traced designs in the dust just as the kids had the day before. Making a web, but what did I hope to catch? Another question I tried to suppress as my heart sped up.
Haunting my dreams, and now my waking moments, it seemed as if more things called to me now than they ever had in the past sixteen years. What did the tower, my mom, and Christine’s words have in common? Was there even a common thread, beyond making me crazy?
Christine’s warnings floated through my mind. My head pounded and vision blurred as exhaustion finally hit. I cradled my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Maybe the dreams wouldn’t haunt me in the daytime.
Before long, people filtered in. The lower numbers lined up first. Christine and her family showed up promptly today, happily engaged with the others around them. Some of the kids from the orphanage arrived, quickly adding their designs to my own, and finally, the family I had been waiting for.
The Wentmires approached from down the street, straight in from the farming communes. The six of them walked together, Jack and Trisha in the lead, with their four sons following. I smiled, despite the trepidation that made my insides crawl. If what Christine said was true, they held the answers to my questions.
They joined the line and melted into the crowd. I peeked around, but Jack Wentmire’s wide-brimmed hat concealed his face, and his hands hid within his wife’s grip. Their bodies blurred under my tired eyes. I wouldn’t see anything from here.
I swore under my breath, hearing Christine’s words taunt me in my mind. There was only one way to see if she was right. I bit on the inside of my upper lip and rolled my palms together. The first step came hardest, and I felt the burning focus of Mrs. Booker’s eyes on my back.
“Now kids, that’s another example of what not to do,” her gravelly voice said. I cringed at the older woman’s words, but couldn’t deny it. I didn’t want them to end up like me either. No one would wish that pain on anyone.
I walked further, wishing I didn’t know the shocked gasps and startled whispers were about me. No one broke the daily routine, and yet here I was, walking along the line, checking out hands. It seemed absurd when I really thought about it, but I had committed myself now. If there were repercussions for my disturbance, it had to be worth it.
Focusing on the shoes in line, I noticed when I transitioned from the factory women to the farmers and their families. I looked up casually and saw Christine staring at me in shock from behind a wooden post. I rubbed the back of one hand to explain, but she shook her head and then lowered it as her parents shot her a glare.
I saw Mr. Decker, obvious from the abundance of freckles, but no scars appeared. Next in line, I saw Mr. Steen, but his hands were clear as well. A sickening feeling climbed from my stomach to my chest. What was I doing? Was I really risking rations or worse over a story Christine’s mom had told her? The next hands were clear and so were the next after those.
It wasn’t just a story though. Through my strained eyes, I finally saw Mr. Wentmire’s right hand. Tortured skin peeked out from beneath his marked cuff. Splotches in a variety of shades twisted together, as if the skin itself rejected the idea
of healing.
My heart raced. If Christine was right about this, what else was true? What did that mean about my mom? Ideas jumbled together, melting into fog in my mind.
The line tightened under the ringing bells, and I ran back into place before the daily routine began. Mrs. Booker raised her brows, but I didn’t respond. I kept my face calm despite the racing of my heart and mind.
Dragging my feet, I stumbled forward until my eyes settled on polished black boots and pressed trousers. Unable to stop the progression, my eyes continued up to the Colonel’s face. My breath caught in my chest as our eyes connected. Under the structured cap, a hint of madness gleamed from his dark eyes. A shiver ran down my spine as his gaze lowered from my face to my sleeve. With a curt nod, his gloved hands struck off my number from the list.
I bit my lower lip as the guard waved me forward, empty-handed. My stomach protested the rejection. Maybe my actions were reckless. But my stomach turned at more than the hunger, as the questions from the morning continued to run through my mind.
Grumbles started behind me. When I looked, I saw Mrs. Booker usher the other hungry kids out of the street and into their classroom. The streets quieted, but not the cries of their hunger. I sighed. Did everyone really think keeping things out of sight would keep them out of mind?
Over at our normal meeting spot, Christine sat atop the wooden fence post peeking inside her rations.
I managed a slight smile as I sat next to her. “So, did you get any extra treats in your pack today?” I asked, peeking into her bag.
Christine’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “Do you ever take anything seriously?” She pulled out an extra sugar cube.
“Not if I can help it,” I admitted, popping the sugar cube into my mouth.
“I can’t believe you!” she exclaimed. “You’re absolutely crazy sometimes.”
I smiled at the admiration in her voice, and let the sugar melt along my tongue.
“Nothing today?” she asked, looking at my empty hands.
“It’s the nature of the number,” I said, grabbing another cube from her bag. “You get the good food, and I get the trouble.”
“Simone?” she asked, leaning over to look at me. “You’re pale. Are you feeling well?”
I managed a small smile and nodded, trying to find words that didn’t convey my feelings. “Yes, of course I’m fine,” I said, and then turned the conversation away from me. “It’s almost gone, you know, your bruise. Maybe we should go back.” I held my breath, waiting for her answer. So much now depended on how I could make her change her mind.
Christine’s eyes widened and she pulled a section of hair over her cheek. “That’s not funny. I thought we talked about that yesterday.”
“We did. I was just joking,” I lied, rummaging back through her bag. “It’s one of our last days, though. We won’t get this chance for freedom once we join the factory. Even I can’t get us out of there. We’re not really supposed to have it now, so we should do something. Unless you want to go back to school today…” I popped a final cube in my mouth and waited. I could see her weighing the choices in her mind. Responsibility and rules versus friendship. It seemed a simple choice to me, but something told me it was harder for her.
As the lingering tone of the third bell fell silent, I cast a sideways glance toward her. “You can feel the chill and you know winter is coming. It would be irresponsible if we didn’t take advantage of what we have left before the factory work begins. Are you up for another game?” The manipulation was obvious, but so was the desire in my face. I couldn’t hide it.
Christine looked around, watching as the final farmer grabbed a shovel and plow. A long line of brown sweaters formed outside the factory as the women went to work. “OK, one last time,” she relented. “But this time, I’m going to find you.”
I tried to hide the excitement surging inside as I jumped down from the fence and tightened my tangled ponytail. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”