9
The next days are spent going around the huge, bustling city, speaking to people here and there. It is apparent that here, the concept of equality is nothing new and shocking. Our speeches are met with agreement and familiarity, the eyes of the listeners filled with understanding, or at least, compassion.
However, not all receive us so kindly. There are skeptics and mistrustful listeners who stand apart from the crowds, hands folded over chests. But their existence does more to strengthen our will than to deter us.
Every day, I see small children, huddled against their mothers, skipping and laughing and playing. I see old, sad men, frequenting empty tables at empty restaurants. And I see young people like myself, their eyes afire.
Peter takes us around, to the huge garden in the middle of all the buildings, to the library which is now a storehouse of different out-of-date odds and ends, with the two stone lions snarling their welcome out front. We ride the rails to the end of the world, to the sea, to the smell of salt and grime, and we take a boat to the huge Statue of Liberty, a pale green symbol of freedom, spooky in its hugeness.
New York is certainly a startling place to be – the city streets so orderly, yet filled with life diverse that you can't count how many differences and similarities exist; and outside of the city, a mash of everything and anything humanity has come to know. Nature, life, chaos.
Christina's eyes are brighter with each visit out, as if the sharp cold air awakens her. Caleb seems calmer and happier, especially when he's around her. I feel like questioning their strange and ironic friendship, but do not. We live for the irony of things, after all.
"She's here," says Peter's secretary. My heart jumps into my throat, and I sit up. So does everyone else in the room, their eyes rooted to the doorway.
In she walks, red hair streaming behind her, gray eyes flashing. Larkin Wright has a persona that demands attention and respect. She sees us and smiles, extending a hand. At the first warm touch of her fingertips, I feel at ease. She is a friend.
We sit and talk all afternoon, about our plans, and mobilizing campaigns. She reminds me of a younger, less suppressed Johanna. The fight in her eyes is clear, the will in her words drip from every sentence. She lives for what she fights for, and we know it.
Night falls, and she stands, us standing with her. As we leave the room, she falls back, touching my arm. "Meet me for breakfast tomorrow. 8 am. At the top floor." I wonder why she doesn't invite anyone else, but I suppose there are some things she wants to be said in private. I just wonder why it's me she wants to divulge to.
The sunlight touches everything with its pale golden glow, and Larkin's hair looks like it's on fire, cascading over her back. She's wearing a gray shirt to match her dark trousers, and she hands me a plate of sandwiches. We stare at each other, each waiting for conversation.
"I never knew where I came from," she says finally. "And I suppose I'll never know. They wiped me."
I think of how hard that must be, knowing yourself but never really knowing where you came from. An entire lifetime of memories, washed away.
She stands and pads over to the windows in her bare feet. I watch her. She raises her bare arms to the warmth of the sun.
"I must look like an idiot. A politician, spread eagled to meet the sun. It's still a wonder to me. For so many years, I never saw nor felt it. It's one of the things you take for granted,"
"You don't look like an idiot," I say. "I've met many idiots, and none of them look like you do."
She shakes her head, laughing, and her hair parts to reveal a dark blot on her back.
"You have a tattoo," I say. She looks back to me, a small smile flitting across her face.
"Why, yes," she says, pulling at her hair so that it ceases to hide her skin.
I drop my plate at the sight of the solitary bird soaring across her shoulder blades, so reminiscent of the ones on my collarbone, and on Beatrice's.
Her eyes flit from my face to the plate on the floor. I sheepishly pick it up, and set it gently on the table. For some reason, I don't feel like eating anymore.
"I got it a year ago," she says. "To remind me of my sister. Because she always had my back. Always has my back."
"I thought you didn't remember anything about where you came from," I say.
Her eyes meet mine, and she tells me words that ring so painfully familiar.
"Family is not just about the blood. She is like a sister to me. We went through so much, more than enough, to bring us together. The binds that hold us aren't the blood in our veins, but the love in us. Skylar will never share my DNA, but she shares me. She's the only family I have now. We took these names together… Partly because we had nothing to call each other but experiment numbers, and mostly because we wanted to be bound by the sanctity of words we uttered. Larkin and Skylar. "
I feel my hands trembling at her words. "Where is she now?" I ask.
Larkin's features darken considerably, and she looks angry enough to burn the world down.
"She's hiding. There are people out to get her. I try to see her as often as I can, but it's a risk."
"Who are these people? Why are they out to get her?" I ask.
Larkin opens a drawer, and hands me a folder brimming with excerpts from newspapers, cuts from media reports.
"I was only really viewed as a victim of the conspiracy. Peter was acquitted. But for some reason, all the blame was pinned on her. For orchestrating a murder, for making an entire company and other companies bankrupt. The man she killed had a criminal empire across the nation, and not many people were happy to have their ties severed and their jobs dropped. Skylar is wanted everywhere, and there's nothing I can really do, except help her hide."
"What if they find her?"
She shakes her head. "Then life goes on for everyone else. But all is lost to me."
I walk in to find Christina slumped over a chair, her cheeks flushed, tears dried on her skin. Her hair is messy and tangled, and her breathing is shallow and rough. Her eyes look up at me, and I see the endless pools of loss in them. She reaches out a hand to me, and speaks.
"Caleb and I fought."
This doesn't surprise me, as nearly everyone Caleb comes in contact with becomes angered at him at some point or another.
"He couldn't understand why I was acting so – so…" she growls and bangs her hand on the table.
"What's wrong?" I ask, drawing her into an embrace. She shakes her head.
"I can't tell you," she says. "I can't tell you." She mutters this line, over and over, until it becomes a whimper, a whisper, and a sigh. She falls asleep on my shoulder. I take her to her bed and lay her down. She instantly curls up, a little ball of fragile human flesh.
I walk into Caleb's room, and find him staring morosely into the darkness of the night.
"Do you love her?" I say, finding the words flung out of my mouth.
He turns to me, and his eyes speak the answer.
Yes.
"I never understood sacrifice," Caleb says, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his thigh.
He looks up at me. "I've never felt this way before."
He puts his hand over his chin, his brow furrowed.
"Is that what makes people sacrifice? This feeling?"
I lean back into my chair and shrug. "What feeling?"
Caleb stares intently at the floor.
"Seeing nothing but her in a room. Wanting nothing but her in a room. Wanting to run your fingers over her hair, again and again. Wanting to feel her, even if it's just a tiny sliver of skin that your elbow brushes when you stand next to her."
He's just as surprised as me to hear the words coming out of his mouth.
"Feeling that if you were to die the next day, the last thing you'd want to see is her, even if it's just a flash of her eyes before the world goes dark."
His brain is processing emotions that he's never felt before. Caleb looks terrified, out of place without his books and laboratory, and hardly any self defense left – now that he's opened himself to the pains of feeling for someone other than himself.
I stand up and walk to the door, opening it. "You'll starting to get it, then," I say, and close the door.
Oh my goodness! School just started and I at least found some time to write this. R & R! :)