A/N- I do not own the Divergent characters. Rights go to Veronica Roth.
August 17th
I wake myself up with a blood curdling scream. Hot tears pour down my face, mixing with the sweat that drips from my skin, soaking my bedsheets. I pant, feeling paralysed, wrapped up in the twisted sheets that surround and constrict my limbs like a strong, fierce snake. My hands are fisted in my pillow, and my cheek hurts from the clamp of my jaw. I taste metallic blood in my mouth, mixed with the feeling that I need to brush my teeth. The sting of my eyes is hard to ignore, along with the sensation that they are puffed so much they're almost closed. I desperately try to kick the sheets off my legs, getting angry when they won't easily budge and tearing them from my body. It's mornings like these where I don't want to face reality, don't want to accept the fact that I actually have to live. I have to feel things: pain, happiness, love, longing, sadness…and I don't have a single choice in the matter. I could choose to numb myself, like some people do. With drugs, alcohol, or even pain. But I don't, because for some reason, being numb is just as bad as feeling. But, can numbness be considered a feeling? I wish I was one of those people, who could evoke a theory, and have it sussed out in a matter of minutes. Similar to solving a math problem. However, I was clearly not one of those people. As much as I sometimes pretend to be, there are plenty of things in this world that I just can't wrap my head around. The painful thing is, I actually know that there are things in this world that I do not understand. For people like my mother, it's easy. They go through life, oblivious to all these different theories and wonders, just getting through their incredibly average lives day-by-day, without even raising a single question. I am able to raise the questions, but unfortunately cannot answer them. My mind is such a tease. I look at the small clock that sits on my bedside table, accumulating dust. It's seven in the morning, and I managed to make it six hours without waking up from a nightmare. A new record. Usually, I would lay my head back down and drift back off to sleep until the middle of the day, but my eyes stay wide and alert. The house is silent, my mom doesn't get home until later this morning. So, thankfully, she wasn't here to witness my screams. Don't get me wrong, my mom knows that I scream in my sleep, and she witnesses it often. She used to barge into my room, thinking I was being snatched by an intruder or suffering from insurmountable pain. She has soon realised, that my screams are, like my nightmares, fictitious. Fabricated by my imagination, having no place in the real, and very much awake world. Usually, if I read a book before I sleep, I somehow manage to dream about that universe for a while, before my haunted reality creeps up on me when I am most vulnerable. Last night, however, was clearly not the case. That doesn't stop me though, from grabbing a book that I have already read numerous times from my shelf, and escaping into the folded printed pages.
As expected, my mother arrives a few hours later, her hair unkempt and messy, due to the number of times that she's probably ran her fingers through it in stress. Her glasses cover her tired, overworked eyes, and her scrubs smell of bleach and sickness. "Morning Beatrice," she whispers, while leaning through my doorway to look at me as I lay in my messy bed.
"Hi," I reply, still flicking the pages of my book, "how was work?"
"Busy because it was a Saturday night. I'm going to get a few hours sleep, I have somewhere to be today," she slowly walks into my room, and sits at the bottom of my bed, avoiding my sprawled out legs. Her voice is quiet, even though it's not the night. My curtains remain shut, so one could confuse the purposefully darkened room with that of the nightfall.
"Where are you going?" I reply almost uninterested.
"To a charity event with Marcus and Sarah," the mention of their names allows me to avert my attention from the book to her.
"Why?" I frown my eyebrows in confusion.
"When you were younger, even before you were born, your father and I used to attend them every month with Marcus and his ex-wife. I've missed taking part in the events, and this one concerns the hospital that I work at, so Marcus kindly invited me to go with them." I think it's strange, to think about a life that my mother had before I was born, especially one that involved my absent father. "You can come with me if you want to? Although you might find it rather boring," she smiles a little.
"That's okay, I'll just stay here." Being alone on a Sunday night is always the worst, but I don't admit it. To me, Sunday's are supposed to be spent with family or friends, they're a time for relaxing, and eating good food. When you don't have family or friends, Sunday's are boring, lazy days, that usually entail ordering take-out food because let's face it, who likes cooking a proper meal for one?
"Alright, I'll see you when I wake up," she leans over and kisses me on my forehead, before going to her bedroom and closing the door behind her. My stomach grumbles, reminding me of the fact that I am human, and need to consume food in order to function. So I decide it's time that I got up and ate, basing my day around finding things to do in-between meals.
I stand in front of my tall, bedroom mirror. It's hung up on one of the doors of my wardrobe, and is in the centre of the room, where I unfortunately cannot miss it. The shower water drips from my soaking wet hair, down my naked body. I wish I liked the way that I looked, when I don't have any clothes on. I'm slim, perhaps some would go as far as calling me skinny, but I'm not. I have a very narrow build, which makes me look less than I am. My bones don't stick out, I can pinch a fair amount of fat on my hips, and grip it with a whole hand on my thighs. My breasts are of a reasonable size, not too big, not too small. Actually, I suppose they're on more of the small side. My skin is pale and relatively smooth, apart from the odd stretch-marks that signify a teenage growth spurt, and the small amount of cellulite that tells me I need to exercise. I'm not like the girls on the internet or magazine covers: toned, tanned and muscular, with pert behinds from the painful amount of squats they endure every day. Is that what I'm supposed to look like? Or is it something of a rarity, too look that perfect with barely any clothes on? Who knows, but I do know one thing for sure, if I stared at myself in this mirror all day I would soon become obsessed. That is something that I desperately want to avoid, I have enough troubles without having to worry about my body image. I quickly get dressed into a pair of jeans and sleeveless shirt, throwing a hoodie over the top. I dry my hair in record time, straightening it out so that it will be easier to deal with in the morning.
"Beatrice, your dinner is ready," my mom shouts from the kitchen.
"Coming!" I reply, setting my straighteners and makeup aside and slipping my warm house-socks on. It's 5 in the evening, and it practically took me all day to get up and make myself useful, only to realise that I don't even have anything to do. I jog down the stairs, greeted with the pleasant smell of chicken and roasted potatoes. I sit down at the barstool with a smile on my face, as my mother places the plate of food in front of me. I take no time at all picking up my fork, and shovelling mashed carrots and peas into my mouth. I suppose my mom is eating dinner at the charity even, because she only made dinner for me. She walks over to the pots and pans, setting out another serving of food onto an empty plate. She then covers it in foil and places the plate in the fridge.
"This is your dinner for tomorrow," she says, "I'll be working until midnight. Heat it up in the microwave for a few minutes." I thank her in reply, as she watches me eat the rest of the food fairly quickly. When I'm finished, I stare at my plate for a while, wondering what's going on in her mind.
"What is it?" I say, skeptically. She heaves a sigh and pulls out a barstool, sitting opposite me.
"We need to talk.."
"About?" I raise an eyebrow, sitting back in my chair and stuffing my hands into the pockets of my hoodie.
"You're not coping very well Beatrice," I let out a frustrated groan, I'm about to get up from my seat before she places a stern hand on my arm. "No, you need to sit here and listen to me!"
"How am I not coping?" I question, exasperated.
"I know that you're still having nightmares. You don't even get out of bed until it's time to get back in again. I though that getting the job would have helped you, but it hasn't."
"What do you want me to say? I'm not taking those meds again. They made me slow and foggy, I felt like I was forgetting my own name!"
"Not the medicine, just some kind of, therapy," she shrugs her shoulders and looks down.
"Therapy? Like counselling? We can't even afford that-"
"No, not counselling. The last thing you need is to spend time indulging in your own thoughts. You need to stop being selfish, maybe if you spent some time doing charity work, then you would focus your time on others, and realise how good you've got it." I stare at her in disbelief, she referred to my inner-demons as selfishness. She thinks that me getting help, getting a chance to talk about my problems would be selfish.
"You just don't get it do you? And you never will," before angry tears threaten, I get up from my seat and exit the kitchen, with fisted hands.
"I do get it Beatrice. Your father was like you. Wrapped up in his own head, alway trying to please himself, trying to make himself better. Yet he never once thought about pleasing me!"
"Don't!" I shout, "Don't you dare talk about my father now! Not like that, not when you've refused to speak of him for years!"
"I don't want you to turn into him, you need to get out there, make a life for yourself, help others."
"So, tell me, mom. Were you being selfless when you married a man who was a psychopath? Who said vile things to me and tore me apart? Because the way I see it, you were only concerned with being a doting wife and having someone to sleep with-" I'm cut off by my mothers hand slapping across my face.
"Do not ever speak to me like that again!" She fumes, her eyes wide and body shaking. I find myself backing away slightly, shocked that she showed me so much harshness. My mother has always been the stricter parent, overcome by her desire for control and to 'do good'. She storms upstairs, presumably grabbing her purse and coat because she needs to get to that charity event, carrying on with her 'selfless' life. As I predicted, a couple of minutes later, she pelts down the stairs, her coat half on, half off. She reaches for her set of keys from the side table, not even looking at me when she opens the front door and slams it behind her. I continue to stand there in shock, before allowing my body to collapse on the sofa. I grab the remote, turning the TV on, hoping that pointless yet entertaining cartoons will help take my mind off things. Surprise, surprise, the TV decides it doesn't want to work. I'm fed up of things not functioning in my life, why won't it all just work? I angrily press the buttons on the remote repeatedly, watching the screen skip and fuzz. When this doesn't work, I let out an angry scream and launch the remote at the TV. It's one of those old box TV's, with a curved glass screen. I stomp over to it, picking up the chunky remote and slamming it into the screen several times before I hear a crack. Throughout the whole event, my anger clouds my vision and I don't even know what I'm doing. Soon enough, I find the remote breaking through the screen, the bottom half of my arm going with it. My arm is inside the TV, I can feel the wires and contraptions that make it work. Obviously, not good enough in my case. I let go of the remote, and continue to use my fist to cause damage to the screen. Once I run out of both adrenaline and stamina, I back away. The image is frightening. No, I'm not talking about the broken, smashed up TV which now lies on the floor. I'm talking about the reflection in the mirror. I see a girl who's blue-grey eyes are overcome by desperation and rage. Her hands are coated with her own blood, which spills out onto her clothes. For the first time, she has hurt herself, and doesn't feel any better for it.
…
I stand in my bathroom, peeling off my hoodie and sticking it in a shallow bath filled with cold water… that's supposed to soak stains from clothes, right? Who knows, I just hope that in the morning it will be as good as new. I fill the sink up with lukewarm water, and no soap. Once its filled, I carefully ease my shaking hands into the water, slowly and painfully. I hold my mouth open in pain as the sting travels through my hands, throbbing with pain. I watch as the blood slowly turns the once pure water a pink colour, I'm infecting it with my badness. I don't even attempt to wash the cuts properly, they hurt too much. They mainly just cover the bottoms of my fingers and my knuckles, where my hand made contact with the TV screen. I hear the house phone ring from the kitchen, and hesitantly pull my hands away from the water, which brings on a new wave of pane. I jog down the stairs, barely making it in time to reach the bleeping phone with my wet-bloodied hands.
"Hello?" I answer, almost sounding out of breath.
"Hey Tris, it's Four."
"Oh, hey Four, you okay?" I answer, well, I should have known. Who else bothers to ring the landline?
"Yeah, apart from the fact that it's a Sunday and I'm bored out of my mind," he laughs.
"Home alone?" I figured he would be at one of his friends houses or something, or he wouldn't care.
"Yep, your mom just came round to my house and they all left for that charity event. I was surprised to not see you there."
"Well, I suppose charity events aren't really my thing," that sounds kinda bad. They should be my thing, but I suppose, like my mother says, I'm not selfless enough.
"Me neither, they get boring after your first 18 years of life."
"Wow, I can imagine," I lean my back against the wall, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder, feebly trying to pat my hands clean with a towel.
"So, since we're both doing nothing, want to hang out? I could come round to yours and watch a movie or something?" I suppose it would be nice to do something with a friend other than Lynn. I'm about to say yes, but then I remember what I did to the TV.
"Actually, my TV just kind of…broke," I admit, not wanting to let him know that I destroyed it with my bare hands during a fit of rage.
"Oh, that's okay, you can come round to mine, if you want?"
"Sure, I'll be there in 10," I'm about to hang up the phone when I hear him talk again.
"Do you not want me to pick you up?"
"Nah, I'll be fine, I'll just walk."
"Alright, see you then." I hang up the phone and race up the stairs. Should I find something different to wear? No, that's the kind of thing that you do when you go on a date. And this is definitely not a date, Four and I are just friends, right? I don't even want anything more than that. The whole time that I'm having this internal argument in my head, I somehow manage to change into a new pair of jeans and multi-coloured soft knitted sweater without even realising it. I suppose my subconscious has already made its mind up then. I slip on my shoes, grab my bag, phone and keys, and head out the door. It's a pleasant summer evening, my favourite time of the whole entire year. Honestly, when my mom told me that we were moving back to Chicago, I didn't expect this. I thought we'd be living in the city, surrounded by noisy cars, fumes and angry work people. But this, is very suburban. It's on the outskirts of Chicago, and everyone seems to know each other. I suppose that can sometimes be a bad thing, since neighbours gossip is common, but I chose to prefer it over the crowded city streets. I walk up Four's driveway, already feeling out of place, and bang the brass knocker. He opens the door, wearing sweatpants and a tight grey t-shirt, he also hasn't shaved, which only seems to make him look even better. No, stop it! My stupid subconscious, that seems to have a massive crush on Four, is driving me insane. "Come in," he says with a mouthful of food, jolting his head to gesture for me to walk in, I then see the slice of pizza in his hand. I walk past him, almost brushing my shoulder across his chest, and hesitantly walk into the living room. I didn't get a chance to look at it last time I was here, but it's pretty impressive, and also very different from my own house. The floor is polished wood, covered by a large plush rug. There are huge brown reclining sofas, with oak expensive looking furniture. The whole of the living room seems to be centred around the massive flat-screen TV that's hung up on the wall. "Kitchen's this way," he says from behind me, walking back into the hallway and into another room. The light is already on and music is playing in the background, so I can tell he's already been in this room, there's a pizza box on the side, with only a few slices left. "Help yourself," he nods to the pizza while he gathers another piece, shoving it into his mouth.
"I just ate, thanks," I feel shy, even though I don't want to admit it. I'm no good around new people, and Four and I are fairly new to one another. "How come you didn't go to the charity event?" I ask him, trying to not be awkward.
"Marcus used to make me go when I was under 18, but he doesnt really care what I do anymore. I couldnt think of anything worse than sitting next to him for an entire evening while making small talk with his equally pig-headed friends," he snorts, finishing off the pizza and throwing the box into the bin. He walks over to a coupbard, and starts to pull out various snacks and candy and mini cakes wrapped in plastic packaging. He grabs a huge bowl, and dunks it all in. There's enough food to feed a small army in this kitchen. Even though I work at the bakery, constantly handing out cakes and fattening treats, we never have any at home. My mom can't really afford to buy any since they're expensive, so we just get fruit and three meals a day. He holds out the bowl of potato chips to me, and I tentatively dip my hand in. Before I can grab one, though, Four's hand clamps around my wrist. I immediately pull back, not liking the contact, and my heart starts to race a little. I hate being touched like that, especially by strong men.
"Sorry," he notices that he startled me, but his furrowed brow remains. "It's just, your hands, what happened?" What do I tell him? That I suffered from an intense teenage temper tantrum? That I can't control my own anger, my own feelings? That I have a demon alter-ego/other personality called 'blade' who magically takes over my body and destroys everything in it's wake in hopes of world conquest?! No, how ridiculous, I couldn't get out of this one, not even with my wild imagination.
"It was an accident," an accident? Suddenly the demon alter-ego idea doesn't sounds so bad… But, Four looks at me, with a sense of understanding that I did not at all expect.
"You know," he walks over to one of the cupboards, "I have a punch-bag in the basement down stairs," he pulls out a small box, filled with medical supplies. "It's much more effective using that to release your anger. Trust me, I know," he looks up at me, raising an eyebrow. I'm humiliated, so all I can do is avoid eye contact. "Sit," he gestures to one of the chairs at the large oak dining table, and I comply without saying a word. He pulls up a chair in front of me, pushing himself uncomfortably close to my legs, and sets the box out of the table, pulling out various different packets that all smell sterile like a hospital. He takes my right hand in his, examining it, running his long, deft fingers over mine. Even though they're just my hands, I suddenly feel very exposed. If you think about it, your hands are one of the most intimate things about yourself. You use them all the time, keep them personal to yourself, and every person's hands are unique. His hands are large and warm, although like any hard-working man's, they are calloused in places. Even considering his strength, they're not chunky or large in a way that is obtrusive. His fingers are long, yet sturdy, made for precise movements. They're just like the rest of him, lean yet strong and muscular. Quite perfect, actually. "Glass?" He asks, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts.
"Huh?" I stupidly reply, sounding dazed.
"Was it glass that cut your hand?" He looks at me without a wavering glance, waiting for my honest answer. I suppose I'm going to have to give it to him, he's earned it by taking care of me.
"TV screen," I look down at my lap biting my lip. I suppose now is his chance to look freaked out or back away. But he doesn't, he gets out an antiseptic wipe, cleaning my hands. I flinch every now and then at the persistent sting; I suppose I deserve it.
"These cuts are pretty deep, but they won't need stitches, they will most likely scar though." He begins wrapping my hands tightly in bandages.
"It's okay, scars don't bother me," I laugh a little bit, but all he does is frown at me. It's not a look of pity, more like he's reflecting the pain that's in my eyes.
Once I'm repaired, we gather the snacks and get situated in his living room, sitting comfortably on the plump leather sofa. I asked him where the DVD's were, but he informed me that he doesn't have any, all of his movies are digitally engrained in the TV somehow, so you're able to watch anything you want whenever you want. I didn't really understand the technical detail, only that it made me feel terribly behind the times. I have a few DVD's that my dad and brother sent me to watch on my laptop, but that's about it, since we lost our fancy TV and home entertainment recourses through the divorce. Four is pleased to know that chick flicks do not entertain me, so we settle on a classic action film, one that we have both already seen numerous times.
"What's the deal with Peter?" Four asks me, out of the blue.
"The asshole? What do you mean?" I pick at the chocolate that I'm eating.
"He walked over to you the other night at Faction Ave, you looked pretty mad," he smirks slightly, and I have a feeling he knows exactly what Peter wanted.
"I rejected him, and he didn't take it too well."
"No," Four laughs, "he never does."
"He's a dick, why do you hang out with him?"
"I don't really.. I like to think of it as him tagging along," he smirks a little.
"You do that a lot," I state.
"Do what?" He looks at me, bemused.
"Smirk."
"Got a problem with it?" He obviously smirks again, and I throw an M&M in his face. He laughs and grabs onto it, popping it into his mouth, I roll my eyes in response. We continue to watch the corny and drastically unrealistic action flick before I can't take it anymore.
"As if he would survive all of that! It's like fifty against one! Wouldn't he run out of bullets by now?" I shriek at the screen.
"Hm," He pretends to be deep in thought, "I think I could do it."
"You? You could defeat an army with one gun?" I raise an eyebrow and he laughs.
"Yeah, why not? I could shoot a gun if I wanted too… it doesn't look too difficult."
"Riiight," I drag out. "On a serious note, I would definitely stand more of a chance than you would," this catcher his attention, and he looks at me intently.
"How so?" He asks.
"With my womanly charm of course. They're all men, I could easily distract them." At this he laughs out loud, and I lean over to swat his shoulder with my hand.
"You couldn't be charming if you tried!"
"Hey, that's not true! I could be charming if I wanted to…"
"Okay, say something charming then?"
"I'm not going to say it now, you're going to have to wait. I will allow my charm to sneak up on you when you least expect it."
"I'll look forward to the day," he says, while taking another swig of his beer. We continue to watch the rest of the movie, occasionally discussing nothing of great importance. When it's time for me to leave, I walk through his front door, waving goodbye. As I step down the pathway, marching down the grey, paved sidewalk, I ponder at my thoughts of today. I decide, numbness is a feeling. It brings pain, confusion and loss. Without realising it, I have been numb. I numbed myself from life, from my existence. I have only learned this after today, when I experienced a feeling I thought was long-forgotten. Happiness.
A/N- Thanks for the follows and reviews!
