Chapter Nine
"And then they lived happily ever after," the boy read, closing the book. It was the plastic kind with thick pages, full of vibrant colours and inked words that swirled at the ends in a way that oozed merriment. When he looked down at his baby sister, stroking her golden locks lovingly, he realized that she'd already fallen asleep; this worried him terribly. What if she fell asleep before the happy ending? What if she thought the story ended when the beast's dagger sunk into the hero's shoulder? He shook her awake.
The princess' bluish eyes parted one by one, slitted with fatigue. "Caleb?" Her older brother stared down at her, frowning, and turned the book so she could see the pages.
"See? It's a happy ending," he explained, pointing at the image. It was of a girl in a pink dress with puffed sleeves and sequins and gold… Beatrice thought it was mean of him to show her, when all she had were grey robes and grey slacks. Heck, even her eyes were swirled with grey.
"They look happy," Beatrice huffed, filling with jealousy. She crossed her chubby arms over her chest and pouted, wet tears falling over her cheeks. "They clearly aren't Abnegation."
"Beatrice!" Caleb gasped, horrified at her statement. "Jealousy is the worst kind of selfishness!"
"Only if I act on it," she responded, wiping her cheeks. "I won't do that."
"To be truly Abnegation," her brother quoted, fingers moving in the air as if there were some kind of invisible, floating scroll. "One must be through and through, inside and out, mind and body selfless." Beatrice wondered for a moment how her brother could remember such complex things. That part of his mind seemed to be endless, a bottomless pit of facts and numbers and words that she could only dream of comprehending.
"Is it not selfish to read me books?" she quipped, reaching for the hardback. Caleb jerked away, holding it protectively to his chest.
"You cannot tell Mama or Papa," Caleb demanded, tears welling up in his eyes. A deep sadness was displayed on his face, and Beatrice felt guilty. "They'll take them away! They can't take them away…"
She nodded. "I won't tell. Promise. I like it when you read to me."
As she said those words, Caleb tucked her back into bed with the scarce sheets that they had to keep them warm in winter. She nestled back into her stiff bed and laid her head onto stiff pillows. He asked: "Can I finish the story?"
"Please," she requested, smiling softly at her brother. "I want to hear how they got to the happy ending."
"And you won't be jealous?"
"No," she lied. Selfish, selfish girl…
"Okay then," he agreed, opening the book up again. "Where were we when you fell asleep?"
She frowned. "The beast sank the dagger into the hero's shoulder."
Caleb knew he'd made the right decision waking her up; otherwise, she would have been fraught with nightmares. Still, a shiver ran down his spine at the thought of reading that part again, yet he did. For her. "Okay, so the fairies turned the beast's dagger to plastic, and the hero, brandishing his sword, killed the beast."
"But what if the beast wasn't so bad, like in the other story?"
Caleb paused; he'd never thought of it that way. But he knew that this would weigh on his sister's conscience, so he told a little lie, a selfless lie. "That was different, because the other beast was a prince in disguise. This one is just a beast."
"No one is just a beast," she muttered as sleep tugged at her lavender eyelids. "Someone has to turn them into one."
"But…" Caleb's words fell on deaf ears then, as the princess had fallen asleep in her stony bed of bricks and bones, and there was no way he would wake her up again, not for a thousand cherry tomatoes.
He trudged, resigned, back to his chamber, contemplating the story of the beast, the one that no one ever told. Still, in his heart, he could find no excuse, no reasonable explanation, for the horrors that he… that he hero had faced. Then, he raced back to his sister's bedroom, desperate to convince her of the beast's fault, and called out to her, "Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice…"
"Beatrice, don't you cry, my baby. They have taken your brother away for his own good," her mama told her in a soothing voice. But Beatrice was not crying — no, she was only confused.
"What do you mean, Mama? Caleb is right here," she cried out, hugging her brother's sleeping frame tighter. The boy's chest rose and fell as the sun and moon every twenty-four hours. Life pulsed through him.
Her mother smiled weakly, as if only just noticing the boy. "Yes, he is. Caleb is here, isn't he?" But as she looked at the boy, he crumbled to dust in Beatrice's arms, like ashes. She had expected the ashes to be grey… but they weren't. They were a dull blue.
"Mama?" Fear crept up the girl's back now and grasped at her shoulder where the devil sat.
Mother's face fell. "Oh, my. That's quite a creature you've got there." But her outstretched hand was going the wrong way — it was reaching out for the angel on her other shoulder, wings curled in, making music for her ear. It was a mockingbird, that angel. The girl's mother grabbed the angel by it's feathery wings, which spread as if held by strings, a marionette.
Her fingers turned red, the mother's, staining the angel's white wings… and when Beatrice looked up, her mother had the head of a beast, a beast with eyes the colour of the ten o'clock sky and hair as grey as Abnegation robes. Beatrice had never seen such a beast before, but the heaviness that fell upon her as she looked at it was like an anchor, dragging her deep down into the depths of the ocean. And she didn't know the beast's name, because no one had told her, yet still it rang in her ears, clear as her papa's glasses. Marcus Eaton, it sounded.
The angel looked at her with saddened eyes, blue as the beast's yet purer, as an angel should be, and with a speckle of cyan in the center. Marcus dragged the angel away from Beatrice, and the further he went, the weaker she felt. As they disappeared out of sight, she cried out for the angel and fell into darkness. "Tobias!"
Her brother's palm collided with her cheek, leaving a fat, red mark. Gasping, she gripped the side of her face that throbbed with pain, clenching her eyes shut. When they opened, she saw him, blood seeping onto the school's marble floor, and a cool metal knife was secure in her hand. It fell from her fingers. Clank.
Caleb's dead lips moved as if he were a ghost. "Go home, Beatrice… but don't tell our parents why I sent you back." She went to run, but her feet were glued to the floor. "I said GO." Trembling, she tried again. Nothing. His eyes shot open, and they were a phantom red — every inch. Blood spewed from them, and suddenly he was coughing it up as well. Beatrice tugged at her feet, but they were stuck… she cried out.
A figure rounded from the corner: a two-headed beast. One had Andrew's face, with dark, greying hair, a long, wide nose and thin, chipped lips. The other was Marcus, the same as ever. In the beast's arms was a boy. Half of his face was torn and bloodied, and Marcus' belt was wrapped around his neck, strangling him. Beatrice's heart felt like it was being squeezed in someone's palm; she looked down, and there he was, Caleb, with his hand piercing her ribcage.
The boy, Tobias, called out, "Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice…"
Mama is calling my name. She has fallen, I realize, to the floor. Her arms envelop me, but I don't feel their warmth; all I feel is the stinging in my eyes. They are open, wide like china plates, and the moisture has been sucked out of them by the thirsty air. When I blink, the visions come back, and a sort of stickiness where my eyelids close. I pry them open to escape the prison of my own mind, and just look.
Caleb just lays there. I wait for him to move, to speak, for Uriah to pop out of nowhere and tell me that this was all just a cruel, cruel prank, but nothing…
His lips are parted slightly. Blood cakes his face, gathering around his nose and dripping onto pristine, white teeth. Most of it is dried up, crusty like an old loaf of bread, which makes it darker, almost black, as it stains his skin, clothes, and the grey carpet underneath. Horror, pure, unadulterated, fills every crevasse of my body as I stare into his eyes; they look up at his brain, loosing pigment, and have faded into an eggshell colour. They are empty.
No words can describe how I feel in this moment. The closest I can get is shattered.
Darkness takes me, but not in the same way it took Caleb. In the moments before, when I realize that, the feeling in my chest is disappointment.
Grief (noun): deep sorrow, especially caused by someone's death. I laughed when I read that in Caleb's dictionary. Now, I am facing the wall of my bedroom, as I have been for hours, and I am about to say my first word since my brother's untimely murder.
"No," I whisper, my nose pressed against the wall. From here, I can see every crack in the plaster, every fault in the paint — the closer you get to anything, the easier it is to see the imperfections. I will never let anyone get that close again… Tobias sighs, and I realize that I have already failed.
"Please, Bea." He strokes my hair, and I push him back, not looking at his face that surely holds a look of hurt. "You have to go, for Mama."
My throat tightens, and my voice is small. "That's not fair, Tobias."
"I know," he sighs again, "but we have to go. I don't want to, either."
Irrational as a drunk's decisions, anger swells inside my chest. "He isn't… wasn't your brother!" That is death… switching from is to was.
The silence speaks volumes; I don't have to look at him to understand how hurt he was by that. "Bea," he breathes, voice cracking like shards of glass under heavy boots.
"I'm sorry." Tears slip onto my cheeks, but I don't try to wipe them away. "I'm sorry, Toby. I know he was just as much your brother as he was mine." His arm wraps around me, and I can feel it. Warmth passes between us despite the cold outside, radiating from us like we are the sun. For days, I have been numb; with Tobias, I feel.
In this case, that isn't a good thing.
Violent sobs rack through my body, shaking me like strong arms with harmful intent. He pulls me into his chest, and although he is trying to hold them, his sobs only mix with mine, an imbalanced, out of sync lament between the two of us. "Who did this?" I cry, words drowning underneath blubbering howls. "Who did this to our brother?"
"I don't know," he whispers. He is the opposite of me: a silent crier, but one who shakes with repressed sobs like a mad man. "I wish I could tell you, Bea, but I can't."
"Tris," I breathe, an awful pain rising again to my chest. He stares at me, confused. "I need to feel brave right now. Call me Tris, please."
Tobias smiles weakly, nodding. "Okay, Tris, my brave, brave girl." As if in slow-motion, he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. My eyes flutter shut on their own accords, and again I am haunted by visions. They fly open.
I dart out of Toby's arms and run to the corner of the room, heaving into a trash can. The bitter taste of bile stings my mouth, coats my tongue, and tears stream down my cheeks. I breathe heavily, hot air coming in and out, and struggle to keep my hair out of my face; Tobias holds my hair, rubbing my back gently.
"Ugh," I groan, hands resting on my knees. Trying hard not to swallow the vile taste, I pant clumsily, throat burning.
Tobias, worried, starts braiding my hair. When he is finished, he secures it with an elastic and helps me to my feet. "Go clean up," he advises, pressing a hand to my forehead. "I'll get you some water." He hesitates. "And, Tris, please get dressed for the… funeral." I nod, tired of fighting him, and he leaves my room.
I trudge to the bathroom and wash out my mouth, grabbing my toothbrush. Bubbles foam, and the taste of peppermint mixes with vomit — not the best combination. Quickly pulling on a grey dress, I wash my face and exchange Tobias' perfect braid for a nasty bun. I walk out to see him enter again, holding a tall glass of water, dressed in a crisp grey shirt and straight pants.
"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely as he gives it to me. Hands in his pockets, he nods and looks away as I drink before handing him the empty glass. He places it on the bedside table.
I notice that in my haste to rehydrate, I spilled some water on my dress. The wet spot is dark, black almost — the kind of colour that should be worn at a funeral. Still, in Abnegation, we wear grey.
"You should change," he tells me, eyeing the spot. I shake my head.
"It'll dry," I answer dismissively. "Besides, everyone expects us to look like crap anyways."
"Bea!" He gasps, shocked at my foul language. I wave him off.
"Tris, remember?"
He takes my hands, and I can't bring myself to tear them away. "What's gotten into you?"
"My brother is dead," I sneer, welling up. His lips part, and his chest rises quickly. A sheen coats his eyes, wet and shiny, and guilt flows through me like the waterfall. My lip finds its way between my teeth.
"Be- I mean, Tris…"
"No," I interrupt, grabbing my bag. "Let's just go."
His nose twitches. "Okay."
We make our way to the stairs, passing by the bedroom across the hall; right beside where Tobias sleeps — we got him his own bed a few weeks after he arrived, but the two boys shared a room for three years — Caleb's bed is pristine, untouched, and empty. I remember how it used to look: blankets tangled up where he would turn in his sleep, pillow tossed carelessly astray, sheets untucked and riding up, sometimes halfway up the bed. I would groan whenever I had to make his bed, but now I would do anything to do it again.
"You get your own room now," I mutter. Tobias frowns and pulls the door shut harshly, not meeting my eyes. Hurt flashes across what I can see of his face. Dragging me down the stairs, he cries silently. I know I am being unfair to him…
There are at least twenty people in our living room, cramped together in the small space. The rest are in the tiny backyard where we do our Dauntless training — Mama had to hide the targets, the knives, and the gun. Tobias stops me, hidden by a wall.
Worry shines in his eyes. "What if they recognize me?"
Oh… I hadn't thought about that, not with everything going on. "You should go back upstairs."
"What?" he cries, gripping my shoulders. "I can't go upstairs! Mama needs the both of us here."
I sigh. "Your safety is more important, Tobias."
"I just can't, Tris. I need to be here." He really is the most selfless person I know.
"Okay," I whisper, looking him up and down. It's been three years, so he certainly looks different, and hardly anyone saw him before, when he was… with Marcus. A hat on the coat hanger catches my eye — it's Caleb's. Swallowing loudly, I grab it and put it on his head. "That… that should cover it. I don't think anyone will recognize you."
"Bea," he breathes, shocked.
"But," I continue, ignoring him. If I don't, I will only cry again. "If anyone says anything strange to you, go back upstairs. Do you hear me, Tobias?"
He nods, taking my hand. "Thank you."
We walk, hand in hand, into the kitchen. A knife lays on the counter, and images flash before my eyes. Tobias squeezes my hand, jamming the knife back into the holder. "It's okay," he whispers, and I nod. We both know it's not.
"Beatrice," someone calls from behind us. I turn around; it's only Mama, her eyes bloodshot, deep purple bags hanging under them. She pulls us into her arms, and whispers: "What is Tobias doing down here?"
"He insisted," I whisper, taking in her warmth and the softness of her skin, even under scratchy Abnegation robes. "Don't bother trying to convince him."
She smiles weakly at us, but there is no happiness behind it. We are all equally empty inside. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Natalie!" It is Mrs. Black who called out, Susan and Robert's mother. She is a pleasant woman, short with a wide stature and warm brown hair. Making her way over to us, she places on the counter a dish covered in shiny tinfoil before taking Mama's hands. Her tone is genuine, sympathetic… aggravating. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
I shift, but Tobias holds me back, shaking his head. I know you want to snap at her, his eyes warn, but it's not her fault. Ashamed of my behaviour, I avert my gaze from the scene, from Tobias, and it lands on a figure, dimly lit, in the doorway. My eyes widen, heartbeat racing, and panic fuses with the blood in my veins as I tug harshly at Toby's sleeve.
He follows me, and a pained gasp escapes his throat. Standing in the doorway, looking innocent as a hardened criminal, stands a familiar man, grey hair matching his shirt, pants, shoes, and soul, a man whom I had wished to never set my eyes on again, the father of the terrified boy clinging to my arm: Marcus Eaton. And behind him… my own father.
Here it is, the two-headed beast.