Broken Boy Soldier
Chapter Seven: Truth
Christina Marias

The private quarters they give us are quarters in name only, and they're not private either. All they've done is take one of the common rooms on a higher floor and shove a massive amount of bunk beds and cots into it. There are communal bathrooms down the hall complete with showers, but aside from that, we have no privacy. They've offered to provide us with clothing and toiletries too, once things have settled down, and I suppose I should be grateful for their generosity, but all I feel is anger. They could've done something to stop this in the first place. Perhaps if the other factions had teamed up, agreed to work together, we wouldn't be in this situation now.

It's not fair of me to think these things. I know that. But my fury at the people who destroyed my life won't go away, even as the other Dauntless are laying down on cots and wiping away their tears and generally trying to calm down. I've never been more alone, not when my parents divorced, not when I transferred to Dauntless and didn't have any real friends. I've got a feeling I am one of the only people here who has any sympathy for the traitors, even if it's only because of one person. I wonder how many of them are only there for someone else, a family member or lover they didn't want to leave behind. Part of me wishes I could be one of them.

Will is dead. God only knows what's happened to Tris and David. Asher, who might have been an ally if she had deserted, died what feels like a lifetime ago. Eric was all I had left, and now he's gone too. He might not even be alive.

I force myself to push that thought away as I climb to the top of one of the bunk beds, hitting my knee on the railing as I sit down. The pain is enough to make me grit my teeth, and though I've surely experienced much worse, it's a welcome distraction. He has to be alive. If I start to believe he's not I might lose my mind.

The ceiling I'm forced to stare at as I lay back is stark white, and the fluorescent lights shine in my eyes uncomfortably. There hasn't been a single thing here so far that hasn't made me uncomfortable in one way or another. I haven't slept in over a day and I'm sure I'll collapse any minute if they don't give me time to sit and rest. I can already tell I'm falling asleep and I don't try and fight it. Considering everything that's happened, I wouldn't be surprised if sleep becomes hard to get soon…

~oOo~

In my dream, I am on a train with Eric, and we are hurtling towards Erudite headquarters. There's a bag next to me and when I open it it's full of empty brown bottles and broken syringes. He smiles at me wickedly. Blood is dripping from the bullet wound in his foot and pooling on the floor around us. I look around frantically for something to stop it—bandages, an extra shirt, anything—but the car is empty. Just the satchel, Eric, and me.

"You don't have to worry about me," he says as I pull off my shirt and ball it up to press against the wound. His voice is weak and he's clearly just trying to make me feel better. "I'll be fine."

"You don't know that." There are more shattered syringes at his side, and goosebumps are forming on my arms from the cool air. I feel a tightening in my chest and recognize the sensation of tears welling up. He could die. He is going to die and there's nothing I can do to save him.

"Yes, I do." He is barely speaking above a whisper now. His grey eyes flutter shut and I panic, press on the bullet wound harder even though I know it is not enough. I'm hurling prayers at every deity I can think of and none of them are listening; I am truly alone. His breathing becomes shallow and I am crying freely now and as he slips away I hear him repeat "I'll be fine…"

"Christina!"

My eyes fly open and I jerk my leg away from whatever is touching it over the railing. For a minute I search hurriedly for the knife that had been in my pocket, but then I remember they took all our weapons when we entered the compound. I've spent so long at Dauntless headquarters with a weapon on me constantly that I feel naked without it.

Someone repeats my name. I look over the edge and it's Ivoree, twirling the end of her red ponytail around her fingers nervously. She looks confused and I sigh, pressing a hand to my forehead and hoping I didn't startle her too much with my obsessive paranoia. "I'm sorry," I say sheepishly as I climb down. I am much taller than her, and it feels awkward having to look down on her. "Things have been a little—"

"I know." She smiles sympathetically, but I can't tell if it's faked or not. Theoretically, being away from Candor should have made me better at sniffing out lies. I fear it has done the opposite. "I was there too. You don't need to tell me."

I nod. There isn't really anything else to say. We're all still processing the grief in our own way—it has been less than a day, after all. "Did you need me for something?"

"Not me. Some Candor wanted to talk to you. It seemed important." She looks me up and down with a critical eye. "You should probably get cleaned up first, though."

I look down at my clothes, covered in sweat and blood, and laugh a little in agreement. It isn't genuine. Nothing about me now is.

Ivoree awkwardly informs me that there's soap and towels in the bathroom, as well as clean clothes that should fit me. I thank her and leave as quickly as I can without looking rude. Normally I wouldn't care, but appearances matter now. The Candor need to see that we're not going to fuck up their way of life.

The bathroom has a black marble floor and matching white walls, like nearly every other room in the compound. There's a ledge with a mirror above it across from the open shower stalls, and on it are towels and bars of soap and clean black clothes. Next to that are the more medical-looking supplies: bandages, antiseptic…and a pair of scissors. I walk over and pick them up carefully, almost jumping when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

There are dark purple rings under my eyes, and my skin has taken on an ashy pallor. My clothes look even worse reflected back at me. My hands are shaking. I can see the marks on my arms when I shuck off my jacket. My hair is greasy and matted with blood. I look an awful lot like someone else.

This isn't Christina. I don't know who this stranger is, but she's not me. I reach up to touch my hair and it snags on my fingertips. There isn't much that can be done for it now. It is part of the old Christina, the one who died in the Dauntless compound not hours after initiation. She doesn't belong in this new world.

So I raise the scissors. And I cut.