The Moon and the Stars
Where am I? Why is it so cold? Where are Will and Tris? Questions tumble through my mind like they're in a clothes dryer on high speed.
I get to my feet, wincing slightly at the ache in my ribs; it must be bruised there. All of a sudden, I realize I have a gun in my hands. How did that get there? And more importantly, how did I get here? The queries must go unanswered, though. I have to find Will and Tris.
I walk around for a while, peering into dark alleys. Then, I trip over something, losing my balance and falling. Turning around to see what I tripped over, the breath rushes out of my lungs, and I swear my heart stops beating.
On the ground is Will's body. But it can't be him, can't be the boy who laughed with me, joked with me, teased me about being scared of moths, kissed me. It can't be him, this lifeless corpse with a bullet wound in his forehead, eyes open, but looking like glass.
But it is. I know that because even though my heart is trying to deny everything, my mind knows it's him. Who else has those eyes the color of celery, that shaggy hair, a crease between his brows?
Will is dead. Dead, like the baby bird I'd found that had fallen out of its nest. Dead like Al, dead like my grandmother, dead.
He was the moon and the stars to me. How do you keep going when the moon and the stars are gone, when there is no light to lead you in dark places?