Disclaimer: I don't own Divergent.

When I get home, I practically collapse on the front stoop. For a few minutes, I sit there, taking deep breaths of the cleansing air.

Tonight's the last night I'll spend in Abnegation. Are there things I'll miss? Definitely. The calm, the stability, the reassurance that most everyone in the community has your back. But staying here means staying with Marcus, and I can't thrive if he's watching my every move.

I'm reluctant to get up. My mom was the one who taught me to take advantage of moments like these, moments of freedom. I watched her steal them as a child, when she'd sneak out the back door after dark, coming back home in the early hours of the morning. She'd try to escape even when she was with us, standing over the sink with her eyes closed, so distant that she wouldn't hear me when I'd speak to her.

But I learned something else from watching Mom. The free moments always have to end.

I stand up, brushing flecks of cement from my pants. With a tentative hand, I open the front door. Marcus is still in the easy chair in the living room, surrounded by paperwork. I instinctively fix my posture, so he can't chastise me for slouching. Maybe for once, he'll let me go to my room unnoticed.

"So," Marcus speaks up suddenly, "tell me about your aptitude test." He points a finger at the sofa.

I sit down at once. But on the very edge of the cushion, so I can stand quickly if needed.

"Well?" Marcus takes off his glasses and looks expectantly at me. I hear tension in his voice, the kind that shows up after a stressful day at work. "What was your result?"

I don't even think about not telling him. "Abnegation."

"Nothing else?"

"No, of course not." Can't he see the confusion on my face?

"Don't give me that look," he warns. I adjust my face to avoid pissing him off further. But I can see that his anger's still brewing inside him like a storm. "You didn't get anything out of the ordinary?"

"No," I say with a shrug.

His temper comes out at that exact moment. "Don't lie to me," he practically snarls. He seizes my arm, his fingers bruising my skin. I don't dare look him in the eye.

"I'm not lying," I insist. "I got Abnegation, and nothing else. Just like you expected. The woman didn't even look at me as I was leaving, I promise."

Marcus finally lets go of me. My skin is pulsing where he gripped it.

"Good," he says, and it sounds like he's simmered down. "I'm sure you have some thinking to do. You should go to your room."

"Yes, sir." I practically spring up out of my seat, then I go straight to the stairs.

My room's barely changed in sixteen years. It looks just like a typical Abnegation dwelling, meaning it has the essentials and nothing else. The bed's just a thin mattress with a plain-colored sheet on the top. The worn blanket I sleep with is neatly folded and stored away. My books for school are stacked in a perfect tower on the plywood desk, and as for my dresser, it's just big enough to contain several sets of identical gray clothes.

The one window in the room is only a tiny rectangle. Right now, it's letting in the barest sliver of sunlight, but I figure I don't need any more to see by.

I make sure the door's fully closed before I approach my bed. Then I get on my knees and uncover the trunk I've been hiding all these years. Marcus has never managed to find it, thank God. Because to this day, he has no idea it exists. It's a secret between me, my mom, and Eric.

I lift the trunk off the floor, grunting with exertion. Then I deposit it on my mattress. When I open it up at last, a grin spreads across my face.

Sitting inside, just waiting to be touched and admired, is all the art I've accumulated throughout my childhood. That sculpture I made with Mom's help was just the tip of the iceberg. It inspired me to go out and create more, little keepsakes that are almost like acts of rebellion. I was never the biggest fan of Abnegation sameness, and artistry is one way I can go against it.

I take out the first masterpiece. It very much resembles the Abnegation-symbol sculpture, except it's got an unmistakable touch of Erudite.

The memories flood back into my brain. Eric and I were barely ten years old, and he was visiting me at my house for the first time. Without Marcus' knowledge, of course. We were talking about school when, out of the blue, he mentioned that he had a Ceramics final to complete.

I offered to help him. He said no, that he "didn't need help". I took one look at his creation and doubled over in laughter. He thought it was acceptable to underbake his clay, and to use his sister's nail polish as a glaze.

"Here, I'll show you something," I told him, and together, we went into the room that Mom kept closed off most of the time. It still had the pottery wheel, the clay-baking oven, and the rest of Mom's supplies. All we had to do was find some inspiration.

In the end, Eric and I decided to sculpt something that represented our budding friendship. A pair of steely gray hands reaching out for each other. That stood for Abnegation. Cascading water, painted blue, that appeared to fall through the hands. That represented Erudite.

"Check it out. That's me," I said, pointing to the clay hands. "And that's me," Eric chimed in, as he gestured to the blue portion. The result was something we both loved so much, it hurt to hand it over to Eric's professor.

Still, he was giddy with happiness when he found out he got an A on the project. To thank me for my help, he let me keep the sculpture in my room. "It's yours now," he told me.

"Ours," I corrected.

I smile at the memory. Gently, I place our handiwork on my pillow, where it won't be disturbed. Then I reach into the trunk for a second time. The work of art that I emerge with is a wire sculpture, fashioned from a collection of stripped wires. It depicts two young boys sitting close to each other, locked in a brotherly embrace.

Now I'm grimacing. That was a day to remember, and not for a good reason! I was eleven, and volunteering in an empty classroom as part of my Abnegation duties. I just happened to come across a bunch of discarded wires. Thinking they'd be perfect to use in future artistic endeavors, I slipped them into my pocket.

Later, I showed them to Eric. That was a mistake on my part, because pretty soon, he was asking to borrow them for his Physics lab. My answer was a hard no. When I wasn't looking, he took them anyway.

I caught up with him and confronted him, just before a teacher busted us both with the wires. She demanded to know who stole from the empty classroom. Eric and I looked at each other, and in that fraction of a second, it was like we read each other's minds.

We both said, "I did," at the exact same time. Whatever we were trying to achieve, it worked! The teacher let us both get off scot-free. I handed the wires to Eric, and he made it to his Physics class just in time. Once he was done with the lab, he returned the wires to me.

Shaking my head, I put the wire sculpture down. I'm beyond grateful that the situation was resolved. If not for Eric, who knows where I would be?

While my thoughts begin to drift, I rummage inside the trunk with both my hands. The next object I touch is also one that triggers flashbacks. It's a fun example of art made from recycled parts. To be specific, bits of a computer motherboard arranged in the shape of a desktop computer with two little boys huddled around the screen.

I know, it's ironic. A bunch of mangled fragments put together to create a wholesome scene.

Wasn't my fault the motherboard was in pieces, though. It all started when Eric and I were twelve, and enrolled in the same Technology class at school. I can't recall the professor's name, but he was a real asshole. From the very beginning, the kid he singled out was me, the one and only Abnegation in the class.

"We should go a little easier on Tobias," I remember him saying. "According to the stats, kids like him tend to struggle the most in the STEM fields." All the other kids turned to gawk at me, and I saw them feeling both sorry for and disgusted by me.

This pissed me off to no end. How much did that teacher know about me? Did he know that, since the age of nine, I'd been working under the supervision of an Erudite lady named Katherine, helping her to fix the malfunctioning computers in the school? She was happy to share her knowledge with anyone who'd listen, and even a kid from Abnegation was no exception.

But that Technology professor didn't care how experienced I was. He paired me up with Eric, because only an Erudite kid could drill the basics into me. My best friend was, of course, delighted to help.

"So, this is how you open a file," he said with an exaggerated tap on the file on his screen. "See, it looks like paper, but it's really just a picture on a screen." He turned to me to make sure I understood. "You know what a screen is, right?"

"I know what a goddamn screen is," I countered. "In fact, I probably know more than you do."

"What?" Eric was ticked off by what I'd said. But by this point, I was so mad, I felt like my blood vessels would burst. I had to raise my voice. I didn't care whose feelings I'd hurt.

Then somebody else came to my rescue. Bri, the teaching assistant, knelt down so her face was level with mine. "Tobias, baby," she whispered, "why don't you speak up, and show them all how much you know?" She looked at Eric. "Don't worry about how your friend's gonna react. If he's really your friend, he won't care that you know more."

I was still feeling really insecure. But having Bri on my side was a confidence booster. She'd always cheered me on in my science and math classes, never letting me underestimate myself due to my origins. Yeah, she was Amity, not Abnegation, but what did that matter? I always saw her as more of a mother figure than an authority, maybe because she looked like me. Tall, slender, with smooth brown skin and luminous dark eyes.

After taking in her advice, I gathered my courage and raised my hand so the professor would call on me. He wanted to see who could assemble the computer the fastest. It was me and six other students, including Eric. I blew everyone's minds when I came in first.

Eric didn't say anything about his loss. But I could see a spark of anger in his eyes. When class was over, he marched toward the front of the room, the sole of his shoe trampling my computer's motherboard, smashing it to smithereens. He tried to play it off as an accident, but I could tell he'd done it on purpose.

Apparently our professor could, too. First he contacted Eric's parents and suggested they come to the school. Then he gave Eric detention. It was the first instance of this happening to such a good student.

Then, while Eric was getting chewed out by his parents, something came over me. I don't know what compelled me to do it, but I stood up for him. Told his mother it was an accident. I guess, after he'd already "lost face", as Maggie put it, I didn't want him to be crushed under her wrath.

He came by later that day with a sincere apology and a peace offering - the twisted, splintered remains of the motherboard, pitifully held together with pieces of duct tape. We spent the whole evening trying to repair it. Though there was no hope of getting it to function again, I found a new use for it. It's now one of the creations I'm most proud of.

I carefully set the motherboard down next to the wire sculpture. Then I dig around inside the trunk once more. Feeling my fingers brush up against metal, I glance down. This work of art isn't what I'd call conventional. At first glance, it appears to be a rusted knife blade.

But on second look, you'd see that the discoloration on the metal isn't rust at all. It's actually paint, applied in several layers, the colors all mixed together. My painting depicts a girl's face, her mouth frozen open in a huge O, like she's just now finding out she got punked.

I can't help snickering at the memory. That year, Eric and I were thirteen. He was telling me all about how I needed to "get out" more. Then he started teasing me about the fact that I'd never been on a date. That got me mad, so when I saw Eric cozying up to this beautiful Dauntless girl, I began competing with him for her attention.

I knew that this particular girl loved dogs, so I let this slip. "You know," I told her, "people have been saying for years that the Erudite eat dog meat."

"What?" Eric narrowed his eyes at me. "We don't eat dogs! That's just some stupid stereotype. A prejudiced person started that rumor."

"Oh, yeah? Then how come the other day, I saw your mom standing in the kitchen with a bloody knife?" I winked at the girl. She chortled, and Eric's face reddened.

"Well," he tried to retaliate, "the blood was from a chicken, not a dog. So there's that."

"Oh, yeah?" I kept taunting him. "Why don't you prove it?" By now, the Dauntless girl and I were standing side by side. We were ganging up on Eric, who was quickly becoming the third wheel. I think this realization was what pushed him to do what he did next.

In the dead of night, long after classes got out, Eric invited me and the Dauntless girl to join him on an adventure. The three of us snuck into the school with the help of a janitor, and soon we found ourselves in one of the biology classrooms, studying a sample of blood from Maggie's kitchen knife. Eric had pilfered it from his home earlier in the day.

As he animatedly described the process by which he'd test the sample, I noticed that the Dauntless girl never even glanced his way. She was stealthily making faces at me, clueing me in as to how bored she was. So I told Eric to stop talking, if only for a minute. That was when the girl jumped in and challenged us both to a knife-throwing contest.

Being teenage boys, we couldn't say no. But there was a catch. The Dauntless girl was up first, and she dared Eric to stand in front of the target. He immediately chickened out, claiming that he "couldn't get his uniform dirty". He switched up real fast when I suggested he wasn't "man enough".

Well, the Dauntless girl didn't have the best aim, so when she threw the knife, it sliced Eric's arm open. Blood soaked his shirtsleeve. I had to run and get the first-aid kit. The silver lining was, I later won the knife-throwing contest. Good thing Eric paid that Dauntless teenager to give me lessons in secret!

Next thing I knew, the Dauntless girl asked me out. We became boyfriend and girlfriend, seemingly overnight. In the hallways at school, I'd hang on her arm and smile fawningly at her, while her Dauntless buddies would egg her on. My peers from Abnegation couldn't believe their eyes.

It all came crashing down later on. The leaders of Dauntless were hosting a dance at our school, and my girlfriend wanted me to go with her. Inevitably, I said yes. She devised a plan to get me out of my house without Marcus knowing. When it succeeded, I thought for sure she was in love with me.

But it turned out she had some unreasonable demands. She wanted me to perform in a way I wasn't ready for. I tried to tell her that in Abnegation, kids aren't taught how to approach this act. She didn't want to hear it.

"Fine," she finally snapped. "Wouldn't want to be seen with a limp-dicked Stiff like you, anyway." Then she turned and ran off. When the dance ended, I spied her leaving with a boy from her own faction.

My thirteen-year-old self was in a pit of despair. I'd experienced romance for a little while, but the painful breakup made me wish I hadn't at all. At least my best friend's still here, I thought.

For a while, I feared Eric would hold a grudge against me. But he was more than willing to help me even the score. The next time we were in a class with my ex, we waited until the substitute teacher had stepped out of the room. Then we decided to strike.

Eric ended up taking the lead. While the Dauntless girl was horsing around with her friends, her soda can was sitting out in the open. It was just a matter of time before Eric plucked it from her desk.

An embarrassing assignment we'd been given that year was to analyze our own urine samples. As part of his scheme, Eric placed the can directly below one of the hanging bags filled with yellow liquid. The bag was marked with my name. Eric then pierced a small hole in the plastic, using the kitchen knife he'd stowed away in his coat pocket. He let the foul-smelling liquid drip into the can, then he put the can back where it was before.

A couple of minutes later, the substitute teacher made a reappearance, and the girl dropped into her seat. Dramatically declaring that she was about to die of thirst, she tossed the can back and took the biggest gulp I've ever seen.

The look on her face when she realized was priceless. I wish I could get it tattooed on my brain, but I don't have to. It's permanently on record.

I take the blade out of the trunk, sliding it into place next to the motherboard. The next masterpiece I unearth is a mosaic, meticulously constructed from hundreds of shards of broken glass.

Grinning, I take a closer look at the image. It depicts a light green liquor bottle being passed back and forth between two disembodied hands, one lighter-skinned, the other almost black. It's funny, because the actual bottle is long gone. But the memories have stayed.

I was fourteen at the time. That Dauntless kid who'd taught me how to throw knives? He'd just gained Dauntless membership, and he and his family were marking the occasion by drinking. A lot. One afternoon, the teen met me in a secluded lot and offered me some strong alcohol. "Bro, you should try this," he said. "It's the best of its kind. Not the watered-down crap you get in Candor."

I took the bottle, feeling a strange thrill. At around midnight, Eric and I went behind the school and took turns chugging the bottle's contents. We both got drunk enough that we probably blacked out for two days afterward. But I can still remember much of what we said.

"Toby," Eric slurred, after downing another mouthful, "I love you, man."

I was in the middle of taking another sip. But this announcement hit me out of nowhere. More liquor went down my throat than I expected, and it felt scorching hot, like molten lava. Instead of replying to Eric, I started hacking up a lung.

After several coughing fits, I quieted. "What?" I managed, looking Eric dead in the eye.

Eric didn't flinch. "I said, I love you!" he shouted.

I swear, if we'd been completely sober, I would've busted up laughing. But in that instant, I couldn't do anything but stand there. "You… you seriously do?" I croaked.

A toothy grin on his face, Eric nodded.

"Well, shit." I pretended it was just banter, though I knew it wasn't. "What's next? You gonna propose? Gonna buy me a ring? Are we getting married?"

"Nah, it ain't like that." Eric laughed and slapped my shoulder in a friendly way. "Think about it, Toby. When you wanna marry someone, it's just 'cause you want something from 'em. You want 'em to make you a baby. To give you some of their earnings. To take half of the king-sized bed in your bedroom, or some shit like that."

While I stood still as a stone, Eric came closer to me. "And don't even bring up dating, man. That's not why I'm here. If you said you wanted to date me, I'd be like, for what? 'Cause you like me, or 'cause you like fucking me?" He laughed again.

"Nah. I don't wanna marry you. I love you. That's it." And with that, he grabbed the bottle and tipped it back once more.

The night would've gone on peacefully, but just then, a school employee stumbled upon Eric and me. It was past midnight, and the Candor man was not happy to see either of us. "Which one of you boys purchased this bottle of liquor?" he asked us brusquely.

I had the truth on the tip of my tongue. The bottle belonged to me, and I was merely sharing it with Eric. But then Eric spoke. "I bought it," he said, sounding smug.

Well, I have to give it to him. He knew how his version of events would sound to the Candor. An Abnegation youth drinking late into the night would be called a delinquent, a rebel trying to stir up trouble. On the other hand, an Erudite boy committing the same offense would be excused with an, "Oh, let him self-medicate. He's probably stressed from studying so much."

And that's just what unfolded. The Candor man let Eric off with a simple warning, without even a call to his parents. I was equal parts relieved and envious.

To express my joy, I squished Eric in a hug, then threw both hands up in the air. Too bad the bottle was still in one of them. It flew vertically before coming down on the asphalt. On contact, the unmarred glass surface split apart into a thousand tiny pieces, forming a lovely, broken kaleidoscope.

A normal kid would've cleared the mess away. I didn't. Today, the shattered remains are glued to a canvas, after I painstakingly painted over every piece. It took me months to finish, but the end result was worth the wait.

I make room for the mosaic next to the other works of art. Then I begin to pull out the spark plugs. There's five of them in total, one for each faction. I gather them together and rearrange them on my mattress, so they encircle the other objects.

Now I'm thinking back to the day I first got them. It was shortly after Eric's fifteenth birthday. He'd just started learning how to drive, and he was endlessly fascinated by the engine of his car. So when he got told that the spark plugs needed replacing, he chose not to go to the mechanic. He instead made a plan to go out and acquire some new spark plugs himself.

I tagged along, but not because I had my own car. I'd become obsessed with making art, and I wanted to study the aesthetics of everyday devices. Eric was glad to have me there. We ended up in a creepy old junkyard filled with the skeletons of cars. Some of them had belonged to the wealthy elite, which convinced Eric they'd still have some working parts.

Both of us hit the jackpot. Eric found enough replacement spark plugs to get his car started, and the ones that no longer functioned went to me. I swore I'd make good use of them. Then we heard a rustling sound from the gate. Hobbling toward us was a leathery-skinned old man, presumably the owner of the junkyard. He was obviously factionless, and it looked like he hadn't cut his nails in years. As he reached for me with a clawed hand, I realized my feet were rooted to the spot.

Eric had already bolted, and he could've just scurried out of sight, over the crest of the hill. Instead, he ran all the way back to where I was, grabbing my wrist to hurry me along. This brought me back to my senses. I fled, clinging to the backpack containing the stolen goods.

Eric was right behind me. But the old man was speedier than he looked. In one swift move, he took hold of Eric's upper left arm, his fingernails digging into the latter's skin. Though my friend managed to free himself and escape, the wound on his arm prompted many questions from his parents. They found out about his activities and gave him a chance to name his partner in crime.

I felt like Maggie had already honed in on me. Yet Eric insisted I hadn't been with him, and they believed him.

God bless him. He's a real one.

My involvement was never brought to light, so I didn't have to be concerned about Marcus putting me on a short leash. I could focus on decorating those old spark plugs and making them beautiful.

Their designs came into existence after a few sleepless nights, when I couldn't stop thinking about the Choosing Ceremony. Mine was just one year away. What then? I wasn't really ready to become an adult and potentially say goodbye to Eric.

To put my mind at ease, I decided to create visual representations of the five choices I had. One spark plug I adorned with a heavy gray cloth. A plain, unsmiling face was painted on the insulator. That was Abnegation. A second spark plug was given a happy face, golden spaghetti-noodle curls, and a miniature red dress. Amity, obviously. A third was clad in black leather and had an angry scowl carved into its insulator. Clearly Dauntless. The fourth was wrapped in an elegant blue fabric and given a studious stare. Erudite.

As for the fifth, I couldn't stop laughing while making it. I gave it an enormous open mouth and a giant cartoon speech bubble. A checkered black-and-white fabric covered its middle. Candor, well represented.

I lean back on one elbow, admiring the sight of the little figurines. Now that I know where I'll go tomorrow, it doesn't feel the same looking at them. They don't carry the same significance that they did when I made them. But I'll always be proud of what I created.

There's just one more treasure left in the trunk. I touch its surface with fingers as light as a moth's wing. It's a framed portrait of Eric, painted in recent months, after we both turned sixteen. Eric was going on about those Abnegation customs he couldn't wrap his head around, and one of them was the practice of not keeping photos of loved ones. My mom liked taking pictures, of course, but she always did it behind closed doors.

Eric said he felt bad for my people, because they'd never again see the faces of their folks who'd passed on. "Lucky for me, I got your picture in my wallet," he told me.

Guilt tugged at my heart when he said this. I'd never considered getting my hands on a photo of my best friend, in case he passed too early. But, I thought, if I couldn't have the real thing, I could always paint it.

I raced home that afternoon and got started on a sketch. A week later, that crude drawing became the most magnificent painting I've ever completed.

I scan it for what feels like the thousandth time. The subject is seated on a flat, ash-colored surface. He's posing naturally, no sign of tension in his muscles, one sun-browned arm draped over a knee and his back reclining at a slight angle. He wears a satiny blue shirt that could only belong to an Erudite, but it's not buttoned all the way, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

Satisfaction fills me as I look at my recreation of Eric's face. His chin's tilted slightly upwards, his black eyes looking somewhere to the left of and above the viewer. The corners of his mouth turn up a little, like he wants to give you a smile but is trying to hide it. Strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes, blown by an invisible wind. So unlike the overly gelled hair of most Erudite guys.

I'm not done looking yet. The background demands my attention just as much as the subject. It's an endless expanse of pale blue sky, interrupted by a few wispy white clouds. The light of the morning sun glows on Eric's face, but not so intensely that it hogs all the focus. Peeking over the edge of the gray area, where Eric's sitting, is a jagged steel skyline. It's the city we all know and appreciate. Ruined, but still containing some beauty.

Then I note the pair of glasses attached to the painting, and I smirk. As a finishing touch, I pasted Eric's old spectacles, which I shot the lenses out of, onto the canvas. Right over the painted eyes of the subject. I'd wanted to screw with him a little, as well as immortalize the object that created our bond.

Nostalgia makes my chest ache. I remove the portrait of Eric from the trunk, propping it up against the wall. Before me is my whole collection, an entire tapestry representing all the memories I made in my youth. In my life that I'm about to leave behind.

The old fears and insecurities are intruding again. Can I really do this? Just get up and leave, to go to a faction I know next to nothing about? Is it wiser to not want to go? How can I be sure I won't regret it?

I grit my teeth. Eric and I made plans to go together. I made a promise to my brother, and I can't break it.

What the hell, man. He already said you wouldn't need to tell him. Remember? He said, just do what you have to do.

But that would still count as a betrayal. I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to relieve the pressure. I wish I could find a distraction.

Instantly, my mind forms an image of my mom. Thinking about her always calms me down. Now I wonder how she found the strength to choose, even if it meant walking away from her family and friends.

Someone once said that inertia carried my mom to Abnegation. That it was the "path of least resistance". Maybe it's the path I'm meant for, too. I can actually see it happening in my mind, with me standing among those bowls, the knife in my hand. I see my blood dripping onto the gray stones. I see myself going back home. And it makes a lot of sense. There are four other factions I don't fully trust, with strange practices I can't understand, and only one that's familiar, predictable, comprehensible.

Hey, if choosing Abnegation won't make you the happiest man in the world, at least you'll be comfortable.

I gulp. No, I won't. Wait, why am I saying this? It comes from the childish part of me, the part that's afraid of the man holding court in the living room. The man whose knuckles I know better than his embrace.

See, that's what makes you unfit for Dauntless. You think you're brave, when you plan on running from your own dad?

I feel so weighed down with my thoughts of the Ceremony, of my test results, of the decisions I need to make. And I don't want to be. So instead of entertaining these thoughts, I turn back to my art. I pick up each of my precious possessions, turning it in my hands, so I've memorized every part of every one.

I'm startled awake by Marcus' footsteps in the hallway just outside the bedroom. Oh, shit, I think. I'm lying on the bed with my art scattered all around me. I know I've got only seconds to spare, so I pick up the spark plugs and the motherboard and the other objects, flinging them carelessly into the trunk. Then I swing the lid shut and lock it, dropping the key in my pocket.

I realize, at the last second, that one work of art is still out. It's the sculpture I helped Eric make. I thrust it under the pillow and, as I'm moving forward, I propel the trunk back under the bed with my foot.

Goddamn it. I didn't push hard enough, so part of the trunk can still be seen. But it's too late to do anything. Marcus has already opened the door.

On seeing my face, he squints at me distrustfully. "What are you doing, looking at me like that?" he questions me. "Were you doing something forbidden?"

The words come out on instinct. "No, sir."

"That's the second time you've lied to me today," Marcus accuses. "I didn't raise my son to be a liar."

"I…" I can't think of a good answer to that, so I decide to just close my mouth. But wiggling in the back of my mind is the thought, I need to move the trunk out of sight. Now. My heel makes contact with the wood, and very slowly, I nudge it further under the bed.

Before I know it, Marcus' eyes have shifted to the space beneath my mattress. Shit. Shit. Shit. "What were you doing in here that you didn't want me to see?" he presses.

I step away from the bed, shoving both my hands in my pockets. Anything to keep his suspicion at bay. "Nothing," I say quietly.

"That's three lies," he responds, and his voice is low but hard as flint. He starts toward me, and of course I back up. But instead of hitting me, he bends down and pulls the trunk out from beneath the bed, then tries the lid. Sure enough, it doesn't give way.

Fear slides into my gut like a blade. I pinch the hem of my shirt to keep my fingers from shaking, but I don't succeed.

"Your mother claimed this was for blankets," Marcus says, pointing to the trunk. "Said you got cold at night. But what I've always wondered is, if it's just for blankets, why do you keep it locked?"

He extends his hand, palm up. I know what he wants - the key. And I have to give it to him. I have to, because he can see when I'm lying. I have no idea how, but he can see everything about me. With extreme reluctance, I reach into my pocket, then I surrender the key to my biggest enemy.

Now the familiar shallow breathing has started. The panicked heaving of my chest when I know Marcus is going to explode, and I'll be caught in the blast.

I shut my eyes tight as he opens the trunk.

"What is this?" Marcus' hand invades the space where my beloved objects lie. It feels like a violation, having him touch them, then flick them aside. One by one, he snatches them up and hurls them at my feet. "What do you need with this, or this!"

I flinch. I couldn't answer him, even if I tried. Because I don't need them. I don't need any of them.

"This is rank with self-indulgence!" he roars, kicking the trunk over so its contents spill all over the floor. "It poisons this house with selfishness!"

I want so badly to stop him. But I can't. Or I'll be hit by the shockwave.

But the worst of it is still to come. Marcus pauses when he glimpses the portrait of my best friend. It lies on the floor where he threw it, but it remains mostly intact.

"What?" Marcus seethes. "I can't fathom it. In your spare time, you… you were painting a flattering portrait of one of them?" His blood pressure must be through the roof. It actually hurts, seeing the vehement hatred in his eyes as he looks at Eric's likeness, at his smiling face.

Then Marcus does the unthinkable. He brings his foot down hard on the painting, squashing it beneath his weight. I watch in horror as my friend's face disintegrates before my eyes.

Still, it's only phase one. Now Marcus sets his sights on the other treasures, stomping on each creation until it's been mashed or dented beyond recognition. His booted foot is like a pestle, grinding and pulverizing, brutally destroying years of fond memories.

Meanwhile, I can't move. Even though I want to, more than anything.

Marcus sucks in a breath, lifts the trunk into the air, and throws it with all his strength against the wall. On impact, the lid snaps off the hinges.

Finally, Marcus' tantrum is over, his anger stalled. "This…" He gesticulates at the wreckage surrounding him. "Was for your own good. I hope you learned a lesson about self-indulgence."

I don't reply. I feel like I've been paralyzed.

Thankfully, Marcus doesn't seem to care. He just turns and plods away, out the door and down the hall. Silence falls over the room, and I'm not sure whether it's soothing or suffocating.

Wincing, I force myself to look at the scraps on the floor. These objects once had meaning. They once added color to my life. But they're broken now, and they can't ever be fixed. They, like my current self, are damaged.

I crouch on the floor to clean them up. My legs are shaking. Slowly, after making a small pile, I empty the whole thing into the wastebasket, piece by piece.

Why couldn't you move? Why couldn't you stop him?

Looking at the remnants of my childhood, mourning their loss, the answer suddenly rings clear as a bell. I was too scared to stand up to Marcus. My time in Abnegation trained me to mindlessly obey, to not speak up in response to unfair treatment, to not do anything to make a change. If I choose to stay in this hellhole, I'm not going to get any stronger. I'll just curl up and die.

A voice in my head pipes up. It says, I have to get out.

It's a thought with a lot of force behind it. But I'm in need of a push. I think it again. I have to get out. I have to get away from Marcus, from this house, and from the faction beyond it. I have to transfer to Dauntless.

I have to get out.

There's nothing worth lingering for, not anymore. I had Eric, but he's going to transfer, too. I had my art, but Marcus took all of it away.

I have to get out.

Only one faction's going to teach me how to stand up for myself. Only one will give me the strength I need to make it in this world.

Tomorrow, I'm getting out!

Tomorrow, as planned, I'll join my brother in Dauntless. I'll pull off the greatest act of defiance ever witnessed in Abnegation. I'll set an example for other kids like me, who were never allowed to speak. And then, after that, I'll make a change. I'll get strong enough to fight back, and I'll never let Marcus silence me, never again.

Despite the painful loss I suffered, when I tuck myself into bed that night, I feel completely at peace.

AN: I think this is the best one I've written yet! I had so much fun coming up with the stories behind the objects! Hope you enjoyed, and please leave a review!