- 9 -
Who Died and Made Veronica Roth King?
Big, tall, ominous trees loom over me. Their trunks are a dark, rich brown and their leaves are a green so pale they are almost translucent. As I make my way past the first few lines of trees, I can feel the temperature drop. Suddenly the air is icy cold and I'm shivering in my shorts and tank top. The branches of the trees are woven together, forming a canopy over head that lets in only enough sunlight for me to see a few feet in front of me. The rest of the woods remains a dark mystery.
"Four?" I call out, as I shuffle through the trees. I hold my arms out in front of me, to protect myself from tangled branches and from walking into tree trunks. Thorny bushes latch onto my ankles and dig deep into my skin. I pull myself away and keep walking, deeper and deeper into the woods.
"Four?"
There's a flash of movement in the trees in front of me. I glance up, squinting through the darkness and I see a large shadowy figure perched on the branch of a big, tall oak up ahead.
My blood runs cold. "Four, is that you?" I call out hopefully, my voice shaking slightly.
"Yeah it's me," he says.
I let out a sigh of relief and walk towards the tree.
The closer I get the more of him I can see. He's sitting on a branch not far from the ground and leaning with his back against the trunk of the tree, one foot dangling down. He's not looking at me as I approach him. Instead he's staring off into the distance, his eyebrows knit together in concentration.
"I'm coming up," I tell him.
"Okay, careful," he mutters distractedly. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.
I wrap my hands around the lowest branch and swing my feet up so that I'm hanging onto it like a monkey. Then, I shimmy myself around until I'm lying on my stomach on top of it. I can feel it's rough bark through my shirt, scratching my stomach. I stand and find my balance, then, I climb up the tree, using the other branches like the rungs of a ladder until I've reached his branch.
His eyes are on me now, watching me as I position myself on the branch, either leg hanging over either side of it, as if I'm riding a horse. My hands hold onto the space between us. Though he's wiped the potion off his face, arms and legs, there are still traces of it on his shirt and in his hair. In the darkness of the forest, his blue eyes seemed to be laced with traces of purple. His whole face looks like it is glowing in the darkness.
"Are you okay?" I ask him once I've found my balance.
"Yeah, I just needed some where to think in peace," he replies, still watching me intently.
I can't tell how he's feeling. His face is blank, empty of emotion. Is he worried I am going to fall again? I hope not. I can handle myself, I think, the words forming involuntarily on my tongue, making it heavy with indignation. I swallow them back down, averting his gaze, no need to rock the boat, or rather the branch, right now.
"Well, have you thought of anything interesting?" I ask him instead.
The corners of his mouth turn up slightly in the faintest hint of a smile. "No, not yet. But I'll let you know when I do."
I nod.
Then we are silent. I can hear the sounds of birds chirping in the distance and the faint sound of trickling water. Below us a grey squirrel scampers by swishing it's tail.
Four is no longer watching me. He's staring off into the distance again. I wonder what he's think about? Deep creases now wrinkle his forehead and two small lines have appeared on either side of his mouth. I follow his gaze, but see nothing but endless rows of trees, standing tall like soldiers. Their branches blow in the breeze reminding me of long stands of hair. Four looks anxious, but I don't blame him. If I suddenly wound up in a strange world and people told me I was fictional, I'd be anxious too.
"What if we don't get home?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence between us. His voice is steady and soft. He's looking at me again, his eyes round.
"You will," I reassure him. I feel like I've been saying that a lot lately.
"But what if we don't. What will happen in our world if we're not there?"
I'm not sure what to say. I have no idea what will happen, because I'm not Veronica Roth. Only she can say what will happen to them and what will happen to the Divergent universe.
"I don't know what will happen," I say solemnly.
"Oh," he says, sounding defeated. His eyes fall from my face and he stares down at his hands, curled up in his lap. His long lashes brush his cheekbones.
I guess he was expecting a better answer than that. Maybe that is what Christina meant when she said he respected me, she meant he expected me to have the all the answers, to be the expert of both the fictional and non-fictional at a time when he feels like the master of neither.
"But maybe nothing will happen," I continue, placing my hand on his knee in a comforting gesture. "I mean you're the main character, without you the story can't really continue."
"Oh," he says again. "I am? I guess I never really thought about that." He takes a deep breath. "That's a lot of pressure isn't it? I mean, I have to save everyone right?"
Yet another question I don't know the answer to. Well, maybe I do know the answer, I just don't want to tell him. Yes, he has to save everyone because that's the way the story is written. He can't change that, I can't change that, only Veronica Roth can. It feels so weird now to think that Roth, a woman Four has never meet, has total control over how his life plays out. It feels wrong, like a violation of his independence. Four's destiny is already decided and there's nothing he can do about it. He does what ever Roth wants him to do. I feel a hard lump of guilt and sadness welling up in my chest.
He's just fictional, I remind myself, it's not like he's a real person. But he's not just fictional! He's alive and sitting right in front me, breathing and talking to me like a normal person wth fears and doubts and hopes. So surely, like a normal person, he should have some say in his future. It seems unjust that he doesn't.
All of a sudden Four grips my shoulders tightly.
"Ow! What?" I ask. I look over at him. His face has gone pale and his eyes seem glazed over, as if he's looking at something only he can see.
"Tris," he whispers, almost like a call for help. Before I am able to act, his eyes roll to the back of his head, revealing their milky white behinds, and his grip on my shoulder loosens.
"Four!" I shout, reaching out to grab him before he falls.
I'm too late. His body tips to one side and he tumbles from the tree.
"Tobias!" I scream as he falls through the air, narrowly missing the other branches on his way down.
He lands with a hard thud on the compact ground. From up above, his body looks crumpled and empty, like a rag doll.
I quickly scramble down from the tree, my heart hammering in my chest. One thought races through my mind: Four!
When I get to the ground I flip him over onto his back, which isn't easy since he's so much larger than I am, and place my ear to his lips, listening anxiously for any sings of breathing.
I feel slightly relieved when I feel his breath, hot, against my cheek, but each one comes in wheezy gasps and slowly, as if it might stop soon.
My chest is tight and dry and I can't remember what to do with my hands. All I can think about is that I have to do something but nothing comes to mind except for hot flashes of dread. Shit, shit, what do I do?
Last year my mother signed me up for an emergency first aid course through my high school. They taught us what to do in situations similar to this one. I rack my brain, trying to remember the lesson.
A number, or rather a ratio, flashes before my eyes. 30:2. To regulate his breathing, I have to do thirty compressions and two breathes. My hands shaking, I quickly start the cycle.
"One, two, three…" I count each compression out loud as I pump them against his chest. I can feel his muscles, as smooth and hard as stone through his shirt. Is that a good thing or a and thing? Should he be softer? shake my head and push the thought aside as I continue the compressions.
"Twenty-eight, twenty nine, thirty!" Now I give him two breaths, but I can't do that. I stare down at his lips. They look dry and torn to shreds as if he's been gnawing on them. That must be a nervous habit. You have to, I remind myself.
Pushing the hair back out of my face, I steel my nerves and lean in towards him. This close to him, I can feel heat radiating off his face. I suck in a deep breath, tilt his head back and press my lips to his, blowing the air into his lungs. His lips are warm, but rough against mine. It doesn't feel like I'm kissing him but like I'm pressing my lips against something warm and sturdy. I pull back and deliver the second breath, more confidently this time.
His firm body strs beneath me, the smooth skin of his arms brushing against my stomach as I lean across him, making him jump back in surprise. I pull my face away from his as he coughs and groans. His eyes open and they are full of panic. In a rush to quell his anxiousness I offer him a hand up and support his back as he slowly moves into a sitting position, still coughing and gasping for air.
"What happened?" he asks, once he has settled down. His face is still pale and he looks tired and frail, as if he's had all of the energy sucked out of him.
"You passed out," I reply, trying to sound calm and reassuring. Inside, however, my mind is still racing, jumping manically from one thought to another. What if he has a concussion? What if he broke something? What if he passes out again? What if he knows you gave him mouth-to-mouth? Shut up, I tell myself but it is no use, my mind has gone off leash and there is no reigning her in yet. My stomach is in so many knots it feels like my insides are bruised. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I feel f-" he is cut short by another coughing fit. "I was going to say fine," he continues giving me a weak smile, "but, actually, I'm kind of tired." He runs a long, pale hand through his hair and over his face. When it comes away it is full of Maggie's grey potion. Gritting his teeth in disgust, Four wipes his hand on a ptch of grass beside him and shakes his head from side to side, trying to rid it of the last of the concoction.
"Good. I'm glad you're being honest." I say, standing. "Now let's get out of here." I offer him my hand and he takes it gratefully and pulls himself up. Four should rest but I don't want him to sit here in the cold forest. I also don't want to be alone with him if he passes out again. What happened to him? Is it a result of stress or something more sinister? The thought makes my heart tug painfully. That's a question for later, for now I need to focus on getting Four back to Maggie' backyard.
Four is wobbly on his feet. I take his arm and drape it around my shoulders.
"Lean on me," I tell him.
I try my best to look into his eyes despite the height difference between us, only exaggerated by him putting his weight against me. I hope this simple act of human connection will have a grounding affect on his nerves, and my own. Four nods and smiles at me again. His eyelids are drooping and there are large bags under his eyes. Worry pokes at the knots in my stomach wth a sharp, unforgiving finger, like an old spindly grandmother, making me ache with worry. I look away.
We stumble through the forest together, narrowly missing hidden roots and prickly bushes covered in red berries. We're almost at the edge of the woods when Four turns to me and asks, "Did you kiss me Tris?"
