I do not own anything, just my ideas.
Chapter 47
TRIS
Like every story I have ever read, I start at the beginning.
"There was a man; his name was Sam Schmidt," I tell Tobias through the computer screen. "He was a simple man, and then he wasn't. He was in the world of drugs, and soon enough he owned that world."
I continue to tell Tobias how Schmidt was framed for a crime he didn't commit by a very powerful person. A person who took over and became the new Kavolo.
"My mom and her colleagues were the only ones who believed in his innocence. And when the new Kavolo found out they were getting too close, he had them killed."
All while I speak, he listens carefully, analyzing the details as if they were all laying in front of him. I know him enough to recognize he is using this to distract himself from the night's earlier endeavors.
"And there's one more thing," I say. "A few days ago, the detective who investigated my mother's death reached out to me. And now… he's dead. He wrote me this note that explains everything about Schmidt and my mother's death."
"So do you know who the new Kavolo is?"
"I'm not sure. There is someone who I think it is, but I have no proof and no reason to believe it other than unprocessed knowledge."
"Well…"
"I think… It could be a man named Mr. North."
"Who is that?"
"That's just it… I don't know anything about him. All I know is that his name keeps showing up. And David. The David I am working for may know something about my mom's death. He was the one knew…"
I feel overwhelmed. It is different to think and connect the dots in my head, but saying it out loud makes it feel more real. And the reality of what I am saying is shaking me.
"Tris, it's okay… Just calm down." He moves slightly, but it is enough to send a bolt of pain across his face. He tries to hide it, and he probably could with others, but not me. Seeing him in pain snaps me back to reality.
"I'm sorry. It's just…"
"It's a lot. You are being thrown into all this and trying to figure out which way is up and which is down. You shouldn't have to do all this on your own."
"I need you." And I do need him, but not in the way that I can't survive without him. I need him the way a blade needs a whetstone; I am better, sharper when we are together.
His shoulders slump as if accepting the weight he carries. "You don't need me. You're strong enough."
"And you are worth more than you'll understand." He always insists on my strength, but never his own. "I wish you would see that."
"Well I don't, okay? I don't understand how I can be fine one second and the next he's charging towards me and I let him. I don't understand how no matter how many times I scream at myself to get up and fight back, I can't. I don't understand how others can look up to me and expect me to lead them when all I am is a coward. I don't understand how someone like you could love someone like me."
"I used to be like you. I still am. The demons never completely go away. And maybe it seems like I make it easy but it is not. It takes ten times as long to put yourself together as it does to fall apart. The only thing that gets me up are people like you. People I love."
I see the broken shards that he hides from the world. And no matter how many times you try to put those shards back together, they never truly fit. Humans are vulnerable because they are capable of being hurt.
"I love you. Not because we have been through all we have been through, and not because of default. I love you for the person you are, and the person you make me be," I tell him.
"I love you. But promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't destroy yourself. Remember those you love when you make your choices. I know you want the truth, but…"
"I promise I will come back to you."
I know I am dreaming because silence takes precedence all around me. The birds' screams do not echo through the air, and I have to watch the waves crash on the beach to even know if they are there. I stand with my bare feet in the sand, but I do not feel it bend under my toes. I know it is all real; I can see it. But does that make it real? Does only seeing make something true?
All I can do is look. I can't feel; I can't hear; I can't smell the salt escape the ocean and run to me in the wind. I can only see.
My eyes catch something in the water, but as I look closer, I can see it is only some drift wood. Yet I still find myself inching closer and closer to the water. As if there is something waiting for me to find in the tranquil turning water.
The closer I get, the more I feel like I can hear the water move. Maybe it is all in my head, or maybe I am just hearing because I am getting close. Either way, I move to the impending shore line with a pace that quickens with each step I take. And with each step forward, the driftwood turns into something else. I still can't see what it is, but I know that it is something.
I get that need inside me, the one that drives me into discovering the truth, and I begin to run until I am a step outside the water.
Water runs up just out of reach of my toes, and it retreats back to the ocean. It is mesmerizing, really. There is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shore line, no matter how many times it is sent away. That is what love is: You don't give up.
A reach out my foot, and it hovers over the wave that comes and goes. There is an unspoken peace, and I have the feeling that adding a ripple, in any way, will send the peace tumbling away.
And it happens.
I let my foot settle in the wave when it is closest to me. And the water shatters. It breaks like glass that has fallen on the hard floor, but gravity doesn't pull the broken pieces to the ground. Instead, they float around like diamonds all around me. They catch the sunlight and bend it all around me. At first, I feel like I am floating in the sky with thousands of stars, but the light builds. Soon, the light is so bright it turns white.
And the beach is gone.
I am laying on a table now. The only reason I know I am is because I look around and see the metal holding me up. And I recognize the table. There is a white, blinding light above me. I hear voices, but I still can't feel.
I hear voices, but the light blocks my ability to see their faces, but I know who stands above me. Their faces are blurs in my memory, and I never bothered to learn any of their names; however, I know who they are. Especially the one in the blue coat that indicates superiority.
"Dr. Matthews, her brain scans show a diffident lack of serotonin, but isn't ECT a little too… I just don't understand why—"
"Of course you don't. This is necessary for her. And it will be intriguing to see what electroconvulsive therapy will do to her condition."
"Have you confirmed compliance with the guardian?" Another scientist asks.
"We have all clearance to cure her."
"But…" Someone speaks softly, and the sound dissolves away. I hear a loud, annoyed sigh.
"We will proceed with the treatment," Dr. Matthews says. "She is suicidal. We have all the jurisdiction we need."
Time escapes me and the next thing I know I have wires attached to me. I wonder how I got to this point. This has to be a memory, at least, in some way. I remember these events happening, but at the time I…
I was broken without life. And even though I tell myself to get up, my body does not listen. I am a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. And maybe this is all for the best.
What am I saying? I know that this was not what made me better. It destroyed me. That place took all my humanity and smothered it into nothing. I need to move; I need to get out of here.
Shock.
I don't feel the bolt of electricity go through me, but I hear the machine beep, and I see my body jump.
Shock.
The pale white light shining on my body spreads out around me until I find myself standing in a white room. I turn around and around and see only white. It hurts my eyes and my head, one uniform color that blinds me. Then I see two black dots. I walk towards the dots, and they slowly form into humans.
I recognize them.
"Mother," I blurt out. She doesn't turn towards me, so I cry out, "Mother! Mother, it's me. It's me!"
She still doesn't look at me, but stays staring at the other person whose back is facing me. His hair is peppered with grey, and he wears a blue suit.
"Mother!" I run towards both of them. When I am close, I see that the other person with my mother is David.
I reach out to touch my mother, and my fingers linger on her warm skin and silky shirt. But she doesn't notice. She does not acknowledge my presence. Neither of them seem to notice me here.
My mother says, "I am afraid of what I believe is true."
"What do you think is the truth?" David replies.
"You know. We are getting close, and I do not know if that scares me or makes me proud."
"You should not be doing this."
"I know what you are going to say. Kyle is dead, and he was the one who realized that the masked man was real and that he was the one who committed the murder, not Schmidt."
"And you believed Kyle."
"I still do," my mother breaks. Her face turns dark, as if she is struggling with something. "David, your name came up. The masked man was linked to you through more than one foreign bank account. Please tell me you didn't…"
"Natalie…"
"Just tell me the truth. We have known each other too long for you to lie to me. I'd rather face an ugly truth than for you to pull a charade."
David has an exhausted look on his face. The look isn't sad, but longing. As if he doesn't regret his own actions, but wishes something else was different. "You should have come with me that day. You should have accepted the offer I gave you."
"I couldn't do that, David. I love my husband and my children. What you wanted from me, I couldn't give."
"Not…" he sighs. "Not that. I mean, I'll always… but that isn't… You are putting yourself in a dangerous position without many options. You will get yourself killed like the others."
"If there is something you know David, tell me."
"I… I can't. You have to understand that what has happened does not change the person you knew all those years."
"David…"
"Listen, you can still save yourself."
"And what? Hide behind lies and bury the truth? Send someone innocent to jail?"
"He's not so innocent. He has done bad things."
"But never murder." She takes step back. "I can't lose my values or betray my family. They are my everything."
"If that is true, stop this. Don't leave them with this burden. You must stop before it is too late. Before you get too close. Your family will never know the truth."
"But they will. Everyone will know about the masked man soon enough. I am taking the files to Craig tonight, and the FBI will be joining us."
"Why?"
"Because this is bigger than we thought. The masked man has a name."
"He does?" David is surprised, but not from the new fact, but because my mother knew it.
"North."
"Stop Natalie!" David yells. "Stop! You are digging your own grave and giving me no choice."
"If there is something you know, you have to tell me." David does not reply. "Look, we have known each other for years, and I know sometimes you wished it was more, but I am happy with my choices."
"Please, don't…"
"I know you have made some… selfish decisions. But you don't have to be that person. You don't have to regret your choices. At least, I hope you don't."
"Don't make me do this."
"I am doing what I have to do. People deserve the truth. And sometimes the truth is not good enough. But we make it work."
"Natalie, I—"
I wake with a start.
When I trace my finger across my cheek, I feel small imprints from my pillow. Outside, the sun is setting and the clock reads 8:21. I guess sleep was going to catch up with me eventually. I shouldn't be surprised because the past few nights I haven't slept at all. One second I was reading one of my mother's letters, and then I must have fallen asleep.
Even though I just slept, I can feel exhaustion on my body. My head hurts and eyes feel heavy. But there is still so much to do, so much that I still have to discover. My body screams at me, Enough!
And, surprisingly, I listen to it.
I reach deep down into one of my bags to recover my sketchbook. I open to a blank page and begin to draw. Out the window, I can see many billboards advertising different things. One in particular is for the zoo. A beautiful tiger lays in wait on the large canvas, waiting to jump out and pounce the concrete jungle.
I go into that state, the one where everything around me slowly dissolves into nothing. I don't notice the change until it is complete. This is my peace. All that exists in this moment is me and my imagination. And my imagination is being plastered onto the paper.
My peace doesn't last long.
There is knocking on the door, which is odd. Caroline isn't here because she went out with friends, and if she were coming home she wouldn't need to knock—she has her own key. I am not expecting anyone. I am not one to get visitors.
I place my sketchbook on a table and go to answer the door. When the door opens, Matthew stands on the other side.
"Um, hi," I say. "Caroline isn't here."
"I know."
"Okay." There is an awkward silence, but I don't think he feels it as much as I do. "What are you doing here?"
He doesn't answer my question, just looks behind me. I turn to look at what his eyes have locked on, and he passes by me into the apartment to my sketchbook. "I didn't know you could draw."
"People are layers of secrets."
"That's a very accurate statement. Any other secrets?"
"My secrets? I'm not all that interesting."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"There's no point of hiding any secrets because I'm not very good at it."
"You're not the easiest to read."
"I've had enough practice."
Another pause. The silence doesn't bother me; I'm accustomed to it. It's this odd stand-off between us. Yet he seems comfortable, as if he knows something, but that's not the main reason he's here. I don't know if he is trying to mend the awkwardness that is building, or notices my discomfort in the situation because he says, "Do you find it odd that I would want to talk to you?"
"Well…"
"Look, Caroline is fun and all, but she doesn't have anything close to a filter or an idea of how to not talk about herself. And Zane is a rich daddy's boy. You seem to be the only other normal one that can carry on a decent conversation."
"Ohh."
"You see, Tris, when you have a conversation, you have to add to it so it can go somewhere."
"Don't take it personal; I don't socialize. It's just easier that way."
"Do you believe that?"
"I did. Maybe I still do. Or it simply comes down to choosing the ones that you let in."
"I'm guessing it isn't very easy to be let in." He sighs, "At least you're real. And you're not an idiot."
"Is there something you're trying to say?"
There is hesitation, as if he is at a loss of words, like he didn't expect me to ask him that. There is a debate that goes on in his head. A debate on what to say. The look is almost dark, which is so unlike Matthew who keeps a smile on his face.
"Alright, I'm not used to talking about it."
"Talking about what?" I ask.
"My dad died. He died around this time a long time ago." He looks at me, reading my response. "You get it, because of your mom."
"I don't talk about her." I say it quick, like it will burn me if I hold on to it too tight, and my words are laced in defense. I take a small step back. My mom is a delicate topic, and it makes me feel vulnerable. And I hate it when I feel vulnerable; it makes me feel like I am naked.
"I don't talk about my dad too often, but that is when I'm with jackasses who don't understand. You and I understand."
"I guess…"
"Just because I don't talk about it often, doesn't mean I never talk about it," he smiles a little. "You really aren't very good at conversation."
I ignore his comment. "… How'd it happen?"
"Random gang violence. At least, that is what the report says."
"… I'm sorry."
He gives me a look, one between a devilish boy and exhaustion. "Come on, Tris. You should know better than anyone that I'm sorry is probably the worst thing to say."
Then, he starts laughing. I ask, "What's so funny?"
"You're so stiff. Loosen up a little bit."
"Aren't you sad about your dad?"
"A little bit, but it was a long time ago. I was nine, and he wasn't the best fatherly figure to begin with." It amazes me how he can act this way about how his father died. "Besides, my uncle pretty much took me in. I guess I didn't turn out too bad."
"What about your mom."
"She's unstable. My uncle was the only one left who could really take care of me. And I guess I have turned out alright so far."
"Have you ever wondered about your dad?"
"What about him?"
I can't believe how content he is with his father's death. "Don't you ever wonder?"
"Not really."
"Gang violence is pretty vague."
"Look, I know it isn't the best closure, but it's something. I've accepted what happened. Don't get me wrong, I still feel the pain that comes with losing someone, but I am not going to dwell on it."
"How do you do that?"
"I focus on other things… more important things."
"Was your father not important?"
"Not in the way that matters."
"What matters?"
"You know, for someone who was just terrible at conversation and doesn't tell secrets, you are full of questions."
I don't break my expression, but I blush on the inside. "Just… trying to understand."
"Well, this job is important to me."
"Really?"
"Why else would I be here? David did not just pick a few random people off the streets. Everything happens for a reason and with a purpose. There is always someone behind the scenes," he says. "What about you?"
"Me? I… want to do something like my mom."
"That's it?"
"There are some reasons that are simpler than others."
"Come on, Tris. One does not move from Chicago to New York for two months in the middle of high school."
"Maybe I'm enjoying it."
"Yeah, answering phone calls and filing papers is real fun."
"What do you want me to say?"
His demeanor darkens. "Tell me why you are really here."
The way he speaks sends shivers of uneasiness down my spine. An instinct that goes back far in my subconscious tells me to run. It tells me to roll up and hide from the danger. There's something behind is words, a motive I do not know of, that makes him like this. His eyes slowly big to burn as if he was kindling a fire but lost control.
"This internship is a good opportunity, and I have the chance to see some of my family here in New York."
His hand twitches, as if reaching for something, but his face twists and the thought leaves his mind. His shoulders go back and the intensity encircling the room around him dies down.
"Look, you shouldn't obsess with your mom."
"I don't obsess."
"Why else would you choose to spend your summer away from home?"
"I'm from here."
"It's not your home. You belong to Chicago, not this place."
"I can do what I want. And I am not obsessed."
"You shouldn't lie to yourself because if you tell yourself something enough times, you will believe it to be true. And you don't want to believe in a lie."
"There are a lot of lies that are thought to be the truth." My mom's death.
"Just know what is real and what isn't. And know what's really important." He begins to make his way towards the door.
He opens the door, but before walking out he turns and says, "Remember Tris, the past is a nice place to visit, but certainly not a good place to stay."
Author's Note
I hope the dream wasn't too confusing! I tried to put a lot of symbolism in it. I have experienced a lot of change in the past few weeks and it's still crazy to think about. I will still have difficulty updating, part to a very busy schedule and part to a little bit of writers block, so some encouragement would be nice. Even some constructive (and polite) criticism is appreciated. I love to hear other's perspective/opinions/thoughts. Please review!
Be brave, everyone.
QUOTES
1). The desk where she sits inside of a frame made of wood. –Airplanes, song
2). People change, but the past doesn't. –Hush, Hush, book
3). Like a caged animal, the truth is too powerful to remain caged. –Candor Manifesto, faction manifesto
4). You can either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. –The Dark Knight, film
Congratulations to: dolly123, Ahlamcandor, divergentsssgames, Anglelina Roongta, Tom Fieldings, and RoshRosh (Guest).
There are three (book, book, book) quotes in this chapter.
