Disclaimer: I do not own Divergent
Chapter 1
I wince as a groaning creak shudders through the stairs. Gnawing my lip with a vengeance, I inch my way up the protesting staircase. With no small amount of worry, I reach the top.
Step one, complete.
I almost smack a hand to my face as I realise I should have taken my shoes off. Not only did I create tracks in the pristine carpet, but I allowed myself to make even more noise! If Father catches me, I'm sure to be a goner.
The only thing to do is continue. With every step, I am closer to my room. Ten metres soon narrows down to five, all into one -
"Beatrice?"
My eyes widen as I whirl to face the voice.
"Look, I can explain - Caleb? What are you doing?" my voice portrays all the confusion I feel.
Standing on the other side of the hallway, shirt bulging with unmistakeable objects, is my brother. In fact, his shirt can only compare with my own stretched top. My brother? My painstakingly kind and abnegation brother?
I barely catch the mime of a zip being pulled tight against lips. I blink hard as he hurries into his room, one identical to mine. I shuffle almost dejectedly into my bedroom. My shoulders slump at the familiar site. Drab, grey walls match perfectly with a dreary and sagging bed, the only piece of furniture in an otherwise bare room. The only remarkable object is a ticking clock stuck on one wall.
I lean over the bed and lift my shirt up. A dull thump echoes as the book falls out. Lifting it with tremulous hands, I clutch it once more to my chest. It's the first time I've ever dared to bring one home. I fidget slightly as the smell of the musty pages leeches into the air.
Why would Caleb, of all people, be doing just the same as I am? Stealing - or as I like to call it, borrowing - books from school and risking our parent's finding out. The repercussions would not be pleasant.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head; the knowledge in these books could someday save a life. Or potentially create a new one. Who knows, with science advancing more and more every day.
"If only they knew what disappointments we are," I whisper harshly.
In my whole ten years, I have never been as ashamed of myself as now. Whatever rationalising I try to employ, I know that with my actions, I'm directly breaching the manifesto.
To rely not on myself, but on my brothers and sisters.
But I can't help that one thought in my mind, crying out and telling me with an accusing tone, how can you rely on your brothers and sisters when your brother is the one doing the same as you?
I gather my thoughts. There is no use in becoming self-obsessed. yet another rule of the Abnegation. I gather the old book in my hands. Embossed in gold, the title 'The Neuropsychology Of Self-Discipline' stands out with a background of worn leather. No doubt the pages will be well-thumbed through.
I twist my head sharply, almost hearing a crack. The ominous creak of that one stair fills me with dread. They're back. My breathing picks up as I rush around the room. There has to be somewhere to hide this book! My eyes dart frantically around the room as the steps steadily come closer and closer. The only damn things in this room are the bed and the clock.
"The clock," I breathe.
I lunge towards the clock. Though my footsteps create a din, hiding the book is more important than rationalising why I caused a noise.
My fumbling hand painstakingly slowly lifts the clock up. I can only hope there's enough room for my book. Raising the book, I place it on the wall and hook the clock back on the nail. A light creaking is heard as the strain of extra weight is placed on the nail. Holding my breath, I cross my fingers and count to five. When the book doesn't fall, I exhale and smile in relief. The only noticeable dilemma is the slight jutting out of the clock.
"Beatrice?" the door cracks open.
"Father," I smile politely.
"I hear a noise," he frowns, "Are you alright?"
A slight pang runs through me. Of course, Father would worry about me; is that not what we are brought up to do? And yet I fail in almost all aspects of our faction.
"I'm fine, thank you. I just tripped over."
"You're not hurt, are you?"
The constant questions irritate me, "No, I'm not hurt."
"Caleb has volunteered to cook us dinner tonight, Beatrice. I'm sure we'll all thank him, yes?" a stern disposition slips onto his face.
"Of course."
Head down, fictitious tail tucked between my legs, I scribble notes on a cramped piece of paper. With only one sheet to last the lesson, my writing is small. Trust the Erudites to have given themselves several sheets and the 'Stiffs' one.
I curse lightly as the ink blotches stain my hands and consequently my work. Restraining myself from crying out in frustration, I hold my hands away from the paper. I don't want my notes to be illegible.
"Why aren't you copying down what's on the board?" the sudden looming figure of the teacher startles me.
I glance helplessly to my hands, cheeks burning at being the centre of attention.
Duck your head, tuck your tail, just disappear.
Just disappear.
"Anything?" the teacher snaps, "Well since you deigned not to pay attention and work like every other respectable student, why should you not do the practical? We wouldn't want you to... fall behind."
Am I imagining the malevolent glint in her eye? Surely, at thirteen years of age, I am not so naïve as to invent an action out of fear?
I follow her beckoning command, slipping out of my chair and almost stumbling up to the desk.
"Put your hand out," the teacher commands.
One arm raises, palm turned up. The teacher reaches for a spray, liberally coating my hand with the substance. From her pocket, she drew a single lighter. With a flickering flame, my eyes grew wide. Even though I have managed to get the notes down, I am not ready to actually perform it! Let alone in front of twenty other dependents.
She tapes a burning splint onto the end of a metre ruler. Standing a few paces back, she reaches the stick out and the bright flame comes into contact with my hand.
With an almost inaudible sigh of air, the fire raced along my soaked hand. The blue flame flickers slightly as the heat returns to my hand. I stare at the fire, eyes filled with wonder. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out when the heat starts building.
I have held fire. It was so bright, so dangerous, yet it came with no pain. It's almost as if a spark of that fire has leapt from the flame and dived straight into me, into my soul. It is almost a welcoming feeling. Can it be compared to a hug? A warm embrace, felt with families and the ones they love?
It does not matter. Not when reality is calling, bringing screaming people yelling at me to douse my hand. To extinguish the flame; the question is, why? Are they not as drawn in as I am? Can they not see the fieriness, the passionate fever it induces, the - danger.
The danger.
Reaching for a nearby tap, I turn it on and slowly watch the cold water douse the blazing flames. Perhaps it had gotten a little... out of control. I stare at my palm, imagining those very same flames flickering in their blue light. Had they not hurt? I am so sure they hadn't. And yet, my hand is an inflamed red. I run a finger over the skin lightly. It almost scalds me to the touch.
Why am I not feeling any pain? Surely, with such an injury, there should be irritation at the least.
"You silly girl! Look at what you've done!" the teacher swoops upon me and shrieks.
I glance at her in consternation.
"You will have to go to the nurse, foolish child," she mumbles under her breath. Is she being... nice? An Erudite, nice to an Abnegation? My mother once told me I would rue the day when the above happened.
I am propelled towards the medical centre, her hand clutching my bicep. I frown at the general lack of resistance I would be able to put up if the situation was grave. Then again, I could hurt someone if I put up a fight. Abnegation aren't meant to do that. Not even if it means harm to themselves. I am shoved rather roughly through the door. With a final glare, the teacher turns to stalk back to her class.
"Hello dear, what's the matter?" another voice speaks up. Turning my head to the side, I notice a friendly-looking nurse dressed in reds and yellows. I always thought the Amity were harsh on the sight. Not at all like Dauntless, who sometimes seem to blend into the shadows as much as the Abnegation do, with their black clothing.
I gesture towards my hand, noticing the sudden inhale of air. Once more I am pulled and pushed around. This time, however, I am placed on a seat with reasonable gentleness. A coldness touched my hand and I jump. Looking down, I see a salve on my hand. It must have been made by Erudite - where else would it be made?
Snapped out of my thoughts (quite literally) with fingers clicking in front of my face, the nurse tuts.
"You seem to be in shock."
I shake myself mentally. The numbness from before, what I can only think of as adrenaline, is fading into the background. It hurt.
"I'm fine," I whisper.
"The burn on your hand doesn't say the same thing."
I am released from the overly kind nurse half an hour later, only once she is satisfied with my injury. My right hand is bound tightly in a bandage. The stark whiteness of the dressing contrasts brightly with my grey dress.
I keep my head down, attempting to hide my flaming cheeks from the other's in the corridor, but to no avail. Whispers meet my presence. With my head ducked, however, I am unable to see the Dauntless who moves to stand directly in front of me.
"Hello, girl on fire."
My head shoots up as I gaze at the Dauntless in shock. What did he call me? I attempt to sidestep him, not willing to draw even more attention to myself - though I doubt it's possible.
"We heard about what you did," he blocks my exit. My eyes are blank as I stare at him. For now, the only feeling I hold is apprehension.
"We'd like to invite you to sit at our table."
I gaze at the boy. Shock and surprise rampage through me, screaming their heads off at the unexpected occurrence.
"All apologies," I murmur, "But I doubt that would be taken kindly."
"By whom?" he shifts his balance and crosses his arms.
"Many," I attempt to pass him again.
"Who?" he insists.
"My father. My brother. Abnegation as a whole," I almost snap.
"Why?" his eyebrows shoot up in shock.
I want to scream at him. To ask him why he is so set on making my life harder, on making the following of the manifesto even more difficult.
"Because it would be to draw attention to myself."
I finally succeed in passing him. Jostling through the gathered crowds, I pant slightly. The aversion to physical contact, the downright rule against it almost forces a fear of it upon me. And with so many others crowding around me, it certainly isn't going to let me get away from its grasp.
"Hey, Stiff! Wait up!" the same boy from before shouts out.
I continue going and disregard him. I know I am not meant to, but I really don't want to draw even more attention to myself.
A hand grasps my bicep in the exact spot the teacher did earlier. I wince as the tender area is jostled. I hiss between my teeth before turning. Standing there is the boy. is it reasonable to call him a stalker? Cause that's what I damn think he is.
"What?" I snap. A hand flies to my mouth in shock. Did I just lose my temper? If my Father hears about this...
"My name's Uriah, alright? Think about my offer."
I half-tear my arm from his grasp. With a choking sound, I speed up and head towards home. The nurse kept me until the end of school, meaning I am in my full rights to go home. Opening the door, I shut it behind me and slump against it. Why is life so against me living a selfless life? Why will it not let me damn disappear?
Why can't I just be Abnegation?
I cross my legs beneath me and grab the book. Laying it on my legs, I reverently open the old cover. As I had imagined, the pages are a light yellow and the corners are folded over at several points. Flipping through the pages at a rate of knots, a small smile flies onto my face at the information. Self-discipline is more than it seems.
Clear your mind.
Acknowledge your weaknesses.
Practice tolerating emotional discomforts.
Clear your emotions from your mind, don't allow your feelings to hinder you.
Clear your mind; a form of meditation? The book says to practice deep and even breaths. I suppose it is a type of meditation.
I even my breaths, closing my eyes but keeping my back ramrod straight. Placing my hands on my knees, I let out a breath. It's almost as if I can feel the emotions inside me, though that is entirely unplausible. I shake my head slightly and imagine myself wiping away my thoughts. To leave a blank state, that is what is required.
When I feel as if my mind has cleared, I start the next step. Acknowledge your weaknesses; where to begin. What do I consider weaknesses? Surely selfishness. But that is my Abnegation longing speaking.
My weaknesses? What do I even believe to be weaknesses? Cowardice. Allowing your emotions to cloud you. Ignorance - or as some call it, stupidity.
What does it say about me, that what I call weaknesses are in fact the weaknesses of three factions and not one? Certainly not that I am wholly Abnegation.
Next, practice tolerating emotional discomforts. Not something I am able to do here - unless...
I open my eyes. Setting the book back in its hidey-hole, I slip out of my room. Avoiding the creaking stair, I tiptoe over to a section of the wall panel. Fumbling around it, my fingers light upon a small indent. I push on it, smiling in satisfaction as the panel is pushed out. I close my eyes as I slide it aside and take a deep breath. Balling my hands up, I open my eyes with an exhale.
Standing in front of me is a fourteen-year-old girl. Blue-grey eyes peer through fair eyelashes. A narrow face is framed by straight blonde hair, layered over my shoulders. The waves from a previous plait are discernible.
Some could call this person pretty. Perhaps even beautiful, if they were to stretch it. I? I call this person ugly. I call her nose too large, her eyes too dull, her hair too plain. I call her body one of a little girl, perhaps the age of ten.
I also have the displeasure of calling her me.
"Face you emotional discomfort," I whisper harshly, forcing myself to drink the details in, "Face it like a coward wouldn't."
After a few minutes, I shut the mirror with shaking hands. I almost sprint up the stairs in an attempt to rid myself of the image engraved on the back of my eyelids. Taking a shaky breath, I shut my bedroom door behind me. I sit once more on the bed.
"Step four," I mutter, "Clearing my emotions."
I practice the same meditation as before, but instead of clearing my thoughts I clear the emotions that tend to run through me. Once I open my eyes I feel like a different person. I feel calm. I feel in control, cooly logical and aware of my surroundings.
It's almost as if this is who we're meant to be. Not cluttered with biased thoughts or emotions, not disabled with fears. It feels... dangerous. Dangerous as the flame I held in my hand. Yet it is of no danger to me, but to others around me. Especially those who would like to call themselves enemies of mine.
Especially them.
I run my hands along the spines of the books, breathing in the unique scent of aged books. With curiosity brimming inside of me, I linger on one book. 'The Art of Combat'. I slip it out of the shelf, watching the books in its vicinity topple to fill the gap. Flipping the cover open, I absent-mindedly flick through the book. The contents seem perfectly designed for a Dauntless. Hand to hand combat, rough guidelines on guns and knives (though nothing too detailed to my disappointment), techniques for self-defense and others. It's selfish to wish for more knowledge, but that's never stopped me. Not when I snuck home my first book, not when I absorbed everything I could in class, not even when I would get some of the highest grades in the year.
I tuck the book into my bag, sliding out of the library without receiving a second glance. It seems that with self-discipline, I mastered the art of disappearing.
I enter the canteen quietly. Hesitating, I glance over to the Abnegation table. I have sat there for more than seven years of my life, myself being fifteen now. But today? I feel like a bit of a... change.
Smirk alighting on my lips, I stride towards the table in the middle of the room. With raucous laughter, it raises the decibel level of the room. I have to suppress from straight out grinning. I haven't ben sure if I'm still welcome here, but I can't allow that Dauntless side of me to back away so quietly. I'm not going to let go of my bravery now.
Coming up behind him, I reach out a hand. With two fingers, I tap his shoulder lightly. Those opposite to him can see me plain as day and are understandably confused. Mid-laughter, he turns round to face me.
"What?"
"I decided to take your advice - if I'm still welcome."
"Well look who it is!" a girl stands up from the opposite side of the table, "We've waited a long time, girl on fire."
I roll my eyes at the nickname.
"You decided to join us? After two years?" Uriah asks.
With a full-blown smirk wrecking havoc with my features, I merely nod.
"You don't seem so stiff after all," he laughs and shuffles over to make room for me.
"You'd be surprised," I laugh along with him. It's rather... freeing, "At what a stiff can do if pushed."
Hello! I received a PM asking me to do an Eris fanfiction, so here it is! Please let me know what you think :)
Love ya Smiley-faces,
MG