Chapter Three
"I'm sorry, Beatrice," Caleb says again, the third time, as he leans against my doorframe. I hide my teary cheeks in my pillow, face down on my bed, and swallow the painful lump in my throat. Every time I see his face, I see scrunched up eyebrows, sharp teeth like a monster's, and I think maybe he should be under my bed with the rest of them.
"Go away," I say, my voice small and muffled by the feathery headrest. I know I sound like a baby, but he violated my trust. That's not easy to fix. "I won't forgive you."
Caleb huffs. "That's selfish."
"Shut up." Christina's voice echoes in my head, those very words, and I feel no remorse. I am not allowed to talk to Christina anymore, all because of Caleb. I hate him. Caleb is only eleven months older than me, but he still acts like he's better.
He's stunned, silent for a moment, and then he screams, "Papa!" and runs out of my room. I know he's going to tell on me — what a snitch. I giggle a bit and take my head off the pillow. It was getting hard to breathe anyways, and my breath kind of stinks. I exhale into my palm and lift it to my nose — yep.
I swing my legs over the bed and wait for the incoming talking-to from Papa. More like yelling-at. Not to long after, he shows up at my door.
"Beatrice," he says, his voice low and angry. "What is this your brother is telling me about you telling him bad words?"
I remember what he said to Mama yesterday and think she's right — he's a hypocrite (I looked it up in Caleb's dictionary after dinner). "You said a worse word, Papa."
His jaw locks, and his eyes swim with irritation. "What I say has nothing to do with you." He takes a step towards me, and for a second, as his fists clench and his knuckles turn white, I think he is about to hit me, just like Caleb.
Out of nowhere, Mama grabs his arm, twists it behind his back, and whispers in his ear from behind, "Think about what you are doing, Andrew. Trust is something more delicate than glass." She lets go, and Papa glares at her. He walks out, rubbing his wrist and muttering under his breath. My heart beats in my ears as the door slams behind him, and Mama comes and sits beside me.
"Mama," I cry, and she takes me into her arms. Her fingers run through my hair, allowing the golden curls to fall from the elastic that holds them up. They land softly against my back, and I realize that I love how it feels. I wish I could let them go more often, but I can't in Abnegation.
Mama looks at me then, as if she knows what I'm thinking. "Tris, sweetie," she says, and I smile at the name she calls me. If only Papa could hear. "I know you resent Abnegation. I know you feel like you haven't been able to have a childhood, or any freedom, and you aren't wrong. I don't know what that feels like, but I can imagine." Shock runs through me as what she is saying settles in — my mother was not born an Abnegation.
"You weren't…"
"No." She doesn't explain anymore, but I know I will ask her later. I can't help that I am curious like an Erudite. "Anyway, like I was saying. The parts of Abnegation that you don't like, that make you feel suffocated, those aren't the only things we believe in. Do you remember our manifesto?"
I nod. Mama smiles and takes my hand, and we say it together:
"I will be my undoing If I become my obsession.
I will forget the ones I love If I do not serve them.
I will war with others If I refuse to see them.
Therefore I choose to turn away from my reflection,
To rely not on myself
But on my brothers and sisters,
To project always outward
Until I disappear."
"You see," she continues. "Not looking in a mirror, it's not always literal. Baby, you don't have to sacrifice everything to be selfless. You don't have to strip yourself of every joy, to make it so you hate waking up in the morning, just to fit the criteria of the faction. Yes, it's not the most fun way to live, but I really do believe that it's the most fulfilling. All that said, when the time comes, it's your choice to make how you want to live your life."
"But what about Papa?"
A frown tugs at her lips. "Your father has been selfish lately."
I gasp. "Papa, selfish?"
She nods grimly. "Things have been difficult with the council, and he is taking it out on you. He feels that the last thing we need right now is a bad image for Abnegation." And I am that bad image… she doesn't say it, but it is understood.
Suddenly, she stands up and throws open my closet. "Get dressed, Tris."
I nod and hop off my bed, grabbing a grey dress and some sneakers (guess what colour). Curiosity bursts through me. "Where are we going?" I say as she pulls the dress over my head and guides my arms through my brand new coat. My old one sits in the closet, the one that barely fits me anymore.
"I'm going to show you what Abnegation is really about." She pulls me down the stairs and grabs her coat and a large, heavy-looking bag on the way out. Papa calls out to us, but Mama drags me out the door without answering.
We walk in silence in the dead of night for a while past the uniform grey houses that are small yet standing tall with honour. Each house holds a family full of people whose lives are dedicated to helping others. As we walk along the starlit path, I realize that this is the beauty of Abnegation, and that everything else is just for show. Soon enough — not really, I'm panting, but Mama seems unfazed, even carrying the heavy bag — we reach our destination: the factionless sector.
Even here, the sky is painted a dark blue and the stars are blindingly bright. I think it's taunting, as these people seem to have a future not as bright. But as I look at the sky longer, I realize that there is more darkness than light. A shiver runs down my spine as the air bites my skin like bugs, and I tug my new coat closer.
Along the bricks walls that line the far side of Abnegation buildings, the factionless have made their homes. They are dressed in every colour, mostly grey — which makes sense, considering that almost only the Abnegation give their clothes — but what they have is torn and dull from years of use. On their faces is dirt and blood, and their skin hangs close to bones, no fat to keep them warm, and they seem to have turned purple from the cold.
Mama stops and opens the heavy bag, and inside I can see warm clothing (black, blue, grey) and loafs of fresh bread. I see the gleam in the factionless's eyes as they see us, but they seem to lack the energy to come. So, Mama goes to them. I remember the apple slices in my pocket and follow her, handing them to an older man, white beard stained a brownish colour. He thanks me with his weak smile, more than a few teeth missing, likely knocked out in a fight over food, the ones remaining soiled and yellow; one apple slice pops into his mouth, and he sucks on it, breaking it with his tongue.
We make our way along the walls, handing out food and clothes, but I notice that they are still cold. Finally, we reach a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, with a child who looks my about age. I know from the way the seven-year-old girl holds onto the woman that she is her mother, and I also see the despair in the woman's eyes as her daughter shivers from the freezing wind that pulls at my hair and makes my scalp sting (my hair is still down, and Mama hasn't told me to put it back up — I think even if she did, it would fall back out).
The girl's eyes lock with mine, resigned, like she knows she'll be cold until spring comes, and maybe even then. Determination flares up inside of me as Mama hands them two loafs of bread with sorry eyes (there are no clothes left), and I shrug out of my brand new coat and hand it to the woman. Her eyes flash with surprise, but soon she is thanking me over and over again, and after the coat is zipped tight around the girl, the woman leans down and kisses the ground at my feet. I crouch and gently lift her head, saying, "Please, don't do that. We are all humans."
The woman nods, thanks me and Mama again, and hugs her baby close, watching as she nibbles on a piece of bread. I look up at Mama, who is beaming with pride. She unzips her coat and holds me under her arm so we are both warm, and we walk along the rest of the wall, handing out food.
This is Abnegation, I realize. This feeling inside of me after doing something good, something selfless, without even thinking about it. I am excited to go home and wear my old coat again. I am Abnegation, at least this much, and if I wanted to, I could try to belong there. But I also realize, as the whistle of the ten o'clock train echoes through the night, that I don't want to try to belong somewhere; I just want to belong.
Tiredness weighs down my eyelids, and I struggle to keep them open. Mama notices, and she whispers, "Home is close, Baby. Keep your eyes open." We near the end of the wall, and there is just two more figures in the darkness. One is an elderly man with all of his teeth, a man who seems to be in his final days. His beard is sloppily cut, maybe with a sharp rock, and reaches to the bottom of his neck. There is a scar that runs along the side of his face, deep, twisted, ancient, and a fresh cut along his lip. His eyes are a deep green, but they seem empty, glazed, and the black circles in them are the smallest I've ever seen. His fingers run through the other figure's hair, gentle, caring. Love like a father's, or a grandfather's.
The other is a young boy, maybe eight or nine. His skin is pale, like he never goes into the sun, but there is no dirt on it. Despite that, blood seeps through the back of his shirt, making the grey look black, and his eyes seem guarded, like he lives in a constant state of danger. His features are small, plain, except for his eyes; they are dark blue, like the sky at ten o'clock (now), but there is a little spot of light blue, like in the late afternoon. His hair is cut short… Abnegation hair. He chews, slowly, like he has not enough energy to move his jaw, on a hunk of terribly yellow cheese, the edges sharp like they could cut his tongue.
This boy, with grey clothes and short hair, is not factionless — he is Abnegation. But the way he slouches against the bricks like he knows them, the blood battered on his back, and the emptiness that shrouds him like a mist all suggest otherwise.
Who is this boy?
I glance up at Mama, whose eyes shine with recognition (and tears), and whose lips are parted with shock. A frown becomes my lips as I direct my stare at the boy again, not two years older than I am yet broken somehow, tired like the life has been sucked out of him, and suddenly I feel guilty for crying over Caleb's slap and complaining about being tired. Then, a single word escapes Mama's lips, so quiet I think maybe I heard her wrong, or maybe she didn't even say anything. But then she clears her throat, blinks five times, so quickly that the tears are pushed out of her eyes, and says it again, louder, clearer, and I know I heard her right.
But it's not possible. It doesn't make any sense… I repeat what she said, but this time I don't envy the cool-sounding name of the boy who now has a face in my mind.
"Tobias?"