I am seven and I have never been to a funeral before. I know very little of life, but I know we are Abnegation, and we die as we have lived –silent and bare, leaving nothing behind. On the table, in the center of the small room, something is wrapped in a gray burlap shroud, of the same material as our clothes. I know I'm supposed to be quiet. A basket is passed wordlessly among the people who have gathered. I see my mother take a photograph from her pocket and drop it into the basket. I stand on my toes to see inside but she passes the basket on too quickly. In the corner, a tall man stands with his arms crossed, watching the people who have come.
His eyes light on something and slowly narrow. He pushes his way through to the back of the room. There is a boy gripping a white handkerchief. The man, his father, kneels down in front of him. He offers no comfort. Instead, he slowly peels the small fingers back, one at a time. The boy tries to hides his face, but I can see it is red with the effort to hold on. As the handkerchief is wrenched away, his mouth opens, and it is as if he is crying out in pain, but no sound escapes him.
We are outside now, standing with our heads bowed, the contents of the basket are burning. Smoke wafts upwards into a cloudless sky. My mother has always said abnegation funerals are beautiful, that this is the last selfless gesture we make toward the departed. By surrendering our cherished memories of them, we allow them to journey onward, unfettered by our sorrow.
I don't feel selfless, though. I am curious. I sneak back into the house. I don't yet understand death. I need to see it. I quickly loosen the string at one end of the shroud. I cannot imagine a punishment severe enough to equal what will happen if I am caught, but the fear does not stop me. Suddenly a hand claps down on my shoulder.
"This will be our little secret", the tall man whispers. I am too shocked to answer. I can tell he assumes I am frightened at being discovered, and he is not wrong. More than that, though, I am struggling to understand what I have seen. It will be many years before I am able to make sense of it.
The shroud was empty.
A/N: Thank you for reading! One of the recurring themes of the book is going to be people or things appearing to be one thing, and then turning out to be something else entirely. I hope you like it! This is the first book of a planned trilogy. It starts out a bit slow, but it definitely picks up in the middle. Stick with it, it gets good :)
Standard Disclaimer: All rights to Divergent and its characters belong to Veronica Roth.