"It hurt. But not that much."
The first dinner after Liz was discharged is buzzing. The guests are curious about what happened and the teachers have to make up a story—a lie—to cover up what actually happened. I sit at my usual spot (the corner of the cafeteria, peacefully isolated) in the dark shadows and watch as Liz, Rebecca, Macey and Zachary stand in the spotlight, basking in the concern of the visitors.
My mom (who, if you remember, doesn't know I'm alive) is with the teachers and Mr. Solomon. Mr. Smith manages a small smile towards me without getting caught. I roll my eyes in reply and give my undivided attention to my food. I am about to gobble up every last crumb on my plate when someone calls my name. Alarm bells ring in my head and I look up. I should have known. The light tinkling voice belongs to Liz and she beckons me over. I try to ignore her but her calling is persistent and I end up looking up only to give her a harsh glare.
I contemplate the ways out of this situation. If I ignore her longer, I'll attract more attention to myself. If I sit near her (at the "popular" table) I'll attract more attention to myself. It's a lose-lose situation.
I stand up with my tray of food and walk briskly towards their table with my head down. As I put my food down and sit on my chair, Zachary tries to snatch an apple off of my tray. I slap his hand with lightning fast speed and send him a glare. My food was my food.
With a roll of his eyes and a quirk of his eyebrow, he retreats. I inwardly smile in satisfaction as I pull up a chair. Outwardly, I'm still glaring.
"Hey, Cammie," Liz was not as soft-spoken as I first thought. I had taught her more than I intended in our little practise matches after curfew. Her tone held mischief as she said my name (she knew it was fake) but there is no other lying I could do to make her think I am Cammie Carter, regular attendee at Gallagher Academy. The night before, I listed all the things that could've gone wrong—all the ways she could've found out my real name—but unless she heard the assassins last words, every other theory hit a dead-end.
"Liz, Macy, Zachary, Rebecca," I say their names casually.
Rebecca scowles. "It's Bex," She corrects.
"I know."
Macey intervenes before the conversation between Rebecca and I turn it into a blood bath. "Hungry, aren't you…" She drawls out, looking distastefully at my tray that is almost filled to the brim with food, and, in her eyes, calories. I shrug and take a bite of my apple.
"I don't think I've ever seen someone eat that much," Another voice. I glance up, already aware of their presence before they've decided to talk. It's the nerdy looking boy I met in Mr. Solomon's office on my first day. Jonas is his name. He slides his tray on the table and squeezes in between Zachary and Liz. I've seen him in the halls multiple times but this is the first time I've seen him enter the cafeteria at dinner with food on his plate. The guy is so skinny a civilian can mistake him for a toothpick.
"Then that doesn't really give off the impression of you getting out much,"
"Please, that impression wouldn't even be believable if he spread it around the internet, the geek that he is." Zachary joins the two person conversation between Jonas and me, making it a threesome.
"That's funny, because I didn't hear anyone asking you to join the conversation," I counter-attack with sarcasm. Surprisingly, he smiles without a reply.
This however, must not be normality because Rebecca's scowl, if possible, becomes fiercer. "What, Zach? Cat got your tongue?"
Zachary smirks, "Cammie sounds like a cat name. Wanna get my tongue, Cam?"
I suppress the urge to vomit, pick up my tray, and walk back to my seat in the corner. No one bothers to call me back again
There's that thing about death. That unbearable pain inflicted on those left behind. That undeniable pain inflicted on the person upon dying. They sometimes say it's instant but how long is an instant? And where do you go after that so-called instant?
I know I am dreaming. These thoughts—these inevitable thoughts—invade my mind when I cannot control it, when I am too scared to.
My first murder was when I was seven. I didn't kill the man, necessarily, but I stood by and watched it happen, not even trying to stop it; it was pretty much the same thing as pressing the trigger myself.
My first kill was when I was eleven. I was matured enough—strong enough—body-wise; but unfortunately, not mentally. That explained the seemingly never-ending screaming I did after. I rubbed my hands raw and bloody, pawing through several layers of skin and trying to rid them of the dead mans blood. I remember crying. I remember screaming. I think that was me. I think I was crying, screaming, but I don't remember much of it. All I remember was that I killed somebody. Me. There was no one else was to blame, there was no one else to point fingers at. It was only I.
Aunt Abby controlled the assignations from then on, for a little while. Up until I was twelve.
It is one thing to kill and another to be on the brink of death. Or maybe it is the same thing. I should know, but I don't. Or maybe I do.
The second time was when I was twelve and almost dead. That time, it was more than one person. I remember clearly what happened that time. I remember it all and I think that is because I keep on telling myself it was an act of defence, but it was defence as much as it was offence.
It wasn't dark. The night sky was a midnight blue color but the street lamp shed light on the alley way I inhabited. I was waiting for Abby when four men sprinted into the mouth of the alley and hid behind some dumpsters a few feet in front of me. I wasn't an idiot who tried to call on them, scream help, or reach for their guns that were shoved into their pants and their knives that were hidden in their shoes. I knew enough, from what Aunt Abby had taught me, but not everything.
I know I breathed in a shaky breath. Maybe that was what killed me—my breathing. How ironic.
One of the four, the short one, turned around at the sound of my inhale. I leaned against the wall, flattening my body to make it seem a part of the bricks.
It worked for about four seconds. I knew I was screwed when did that double take.
My dreams are horrid.
Why am I dreaming this again?
All my dreams are of the past.
They say if you die in your dreams you die in real life.
My dreams are past the point of controled.
I cannot breathe; I cannot wake up; I cannot breathe; I cannot wake up; I cannot breathe.
Almost dead is when you are hardly breathing. When there is no faith, no hope of ever opening your own eyes. When there are questions but no time to ask them. When there is yearning but no way of getting. When everything you've known is spiraling into darkness.
I was almost dead. So, so scared was how I felt. I knew I'd be going to Hades, H-E double hockey sticks, the fiery pits of wherever, whatever. I did kill someone, after all.
Fortunately, I was lucky. I blacked out sometime when they were beating me until black and blue covered black and blue and there was blood from broken bones—my broken bones. That was when Aunt Abby came to save the day.
I've failed all the missions she gave me, including this one, which was never really even a mission anyways.
I've never felt more ashamed while being saved.
I wake up with a gasp and the upper half of my body shoots up. I'm struggling for my breath and my shirt sticks to my back with sweat.
What the hell What the hell What the hell What the hell What the hell is going on?
Calm, calm, be calm, I think. But all I can think of is the music I need.
What time is it? When did I fall asleep? Why did I fall asleep?
I throw my covers off, run to the vent that shoots warm air from the ceiling and manage to climb through it somehow in my sea of panic.
What do I do? Where do I go?
I can't go back to bed, what if the dream decides to finish?
I wander the vents till sunrise.
The ending was a bit rushed, I apologize. That is only because my internet has been down and this is the only time I get to post (this is vastly unedited also) because I'm stealing Wi-Fi (don't worry, it's not actually stealing, I'm allowed to use this blasted internet that is not my one!) but I had to finish the ending and I did! So do you like? It's long, more than 1,500 words. I love you all, R&R please. I'd appreciate it A LOT.
I'm afraid of going blind.
_May!