So. You guys know what I do in my free time! My first dramatic fanfic. Disclaimer: I own neither Divergent, or Dualed (awesome series, guys.)
Chapter 1
My eyes burn, but I refuse to blink. Here I ly, dead-still in the hopes that my body will stop aching; I suck in another painful breath.
My family didn't understand; when came in, Caleb—my brother—was coming into the kitchen with a stack of pates: the dinner I'd missed. He dropped them when he saw me. Mom and Dad, in the living room, looked over to see what was up; Dad gasped, jumping to her feet, and
Mom jumped up as well, leaping over the loveseat, through the entryway it is pushed against, and into the dining room, dodging the table and slamming the door behind me. She was looking at me up and down, concerned. When she got to my waist, she exploded in "Holy fuck"s.
Caleb ran over to the kitchen, and wet a washcloth, then went over to me, trying to bring it to the dried blood on my face.
"No," I said, flinching away. "Don't." He stopped, and rested against the wall.
"Who did this?!" Mom ground out though her teeth; someone screamed outside, and I dove for my sports bag—I'd left it at home because there wasn't any practice today. I grabbed a baseball bat. "Who. Did. This?!"
"Beatrice?" Asked Dad. "What happened?"
"I-" Mom dropped to the floor; she picked me up like I was a baby, making for the stairs that lead to mine and Caleb's bedrooms."I didn't-"I stuttered as she set me on the tile of my bathroom. "I wasn't-"
"Beatrice." Mom said. "It's okay. You're safe now." She looks me straight in the eye. "But I have to ask you, honey, did they use protection?" I shook my head, not understanding, "Beatrice, did they use protection?"
I was still shaking my head. "Beatrice-"
"No!" I yelled. "No. No, no-"
"Oh, honey," Mom said, smoothing her thumb over my cheek. "It's okay, honey, Bea, it's okay." Sh looked at me again, and noticing the blood on my face, she pressed her lips together, hard. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Next came a torturous blend of shower water and body wash and peroxide and bandages Neosporin and gauze. Then, she made me ly down, and went and got me snacks and water, and offered to watch a movie with me, until I insulted her thouroughly enough that she left.
Then—now—I cry like a baby.
Three Years Later . . .
I peek around the door; I don't know why. It's glass. A girl sits behind the desk, across from the door; next to the counter, on the right, is a heavy-looking metal door. On the left wall, going to the glass windows that covered the front of the building, sat like three chairs, padded metal numbers like you might find in a school office.
The girl's looking at a computer, and she has one earbud in; she has light brown hair in a low, neat ponytail, and wears a grey-with-black-design sleeveless button-up polka-dot dress shirt, with a bow at the waist, and a lavender fitted-at-the-waist pleated skirt, and black velvet platform heels.
"Is this the . . . Divergent Self-Defense Institute?"
The girl snaps her gaze up, and gestures at me to come in. "Yes—the Dauntless branch—honey, it is. Would you like to enroll?"
"Yeah," I say, uncomfortable.
"Okay, please take this form back to room . . . " she looks at something on her computer. "One-oh-six, okay?" I take the clipboard from her, and grab a pen from the jar on the desk. I go for the door, and she presses a button to unlock it. "Your trainer will be there in a minute."
"Sure, sure," I mumbled, and went down the hallway.
The walls were black, and the rooms had no windows like the Abnegation branch had. I opened the door to 106, after saying my name into a little microphone thing; It was plain white, all the furniture black. There was a plain bench on one wall, away from the door, watching it.
I sit on the bench and try to make sense of the paperwork.
"Are you a transfer?" Asked a checkbox.
"Yes, yes I am." I say aloud.
"From which Faction Branch, and which classification of Institute?"
"Um," I say. In-Line Self-Defense Institute. Abnegation Branch. "How would you best describe yourself?" Mmm. Stubborn.
Someone's playing with the door; I stand, my hand shaping over the pen so I may use it like a knife. A girl comes in, medium height, with dark brown hair in a high ponytail, like mine, but her's is curly, and mine is wavy, caramel colored. Both are neat.
She wears black boots, lace-up knee-high flat-soles, and dark blue skinny jeans. She takes off her brown biker jacket, hanging it on a hook, and wears a black tank, racrback, under it. A pair of tattoos clothe her wrists, done up in dark gray in color.
"My name's West," She says. "I'll be your trainer. Cause?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's your cause, why are you here? Why do you want to train with us?"
"Oh, um." I say. "School bullies."
"What did they do?"
"Let's just say, I'm homeschooled."
"If you say so." West says, and holds up a wooden staff. "Wanna practice?"
I smile, and catch the pole when she throws it.
"Can you fight in that?"
I look down at myself. I wear a black dress that goes to my thighs; the neckline is straight, from shoulder to shoulder. It has pink ravens patterned all over it, and bunches at the waist. Under it, I wear light blue low-rise skinny jeans with rips in the knees, and gray combat boots.
"Yeah." I say. "Yeah, I can."
West and I are fighting with staffs. "It's light," she said, "Aptitudic."
"Do you have a nickname?" She asks now.
"Hmm?" Sweat's building on my forehead; in Abnegation, we just did shit like yoga and Tai Chi.
"A nickname. They always give you one."
"Oh. Yeah." I say, and make a swing with the pole; she blocks.
"What is it?" She asks; I sigh.
"The Infernal Girl."