AN: Hi again! I'm doing something I've not done since my early writing days - posting a new story without the active one being finished. My active story is all set, however this is a true work in progress and I don't have a schedule I can promise as yet. Please review, since this is such a work in progress I'd be happy to incorporate some ideas :) thank you always for your continued support and a special shout out to Michaela18 for her encouragement to get this one out there.
Everything is void of color.
Concrete blocks make up the walls, with layers of light grey paint that showed the age of the decrepit building. The basic furniture in the room screamed minimalism like what was taught in Abnegation. A single cot, made with something I've learned were called safety sheets, to reduce of the chances of someone making a makeshift weapon to harm themselves or others. A chair and desk, both bolted to the floor, however there were no papers or writing instruments available.
Those privileges had to be earned.
There was a shared bathroom on each wing, and supplies had to be checked out. Razors weren't readily available, more of the privileges that needed to be earned, and I certainly did the bare minimum to earn mine. I'm not quite in solitary confinement, but the unit I'm temporarily assigned to doesn't allow much.
I'm ushered through a slow moving line to get food. It's so much like Dauntless, except it's not, and I watch as bland food is scooped into the compartments of my tray. Growing up in Abnegation, I was used to the lack of seasonings, but almost every meal here there's someone who loses it over the fact that we're not allowed condiments.
Everywhere you looked, it was a shade of grey. For a faction that hated the Abnegation to the point of destroying anyone and everything in its path, Erudite surely adopted their color palette, or lack thereof, when they had designed this place. Even the food lacked any normal color, and what we were given was always eaten with a spoon.
They didn't even trust us with forks.
We were ushered in to each scheduled event like children, in a single file line and told not to talk. It's not like I wanted to talk anyway, no matter how hard they tried. But they stared, always watching me to see what I was going to do next. I never gave them shit to talk about, I went only where I was forced to, I ate what I was forced to eat, took the medication I was forced to take. I didn't care about anything else.
Every night we are also forced to go to group therapy, and for the entirety of my time here thus far I've simply observed. I don't feel like talking, or sharing my feelings, I should be dead. Why am I even here?
Every time it is exactly the same, they want to know who I am, and what brought me to this place. I never answer out loud, so for six days I've simply stared at them.
What do they want from me?
What do they want me to say?
"You've been here almost a week and have yet to talk, would you like to share with the group tonight?" A friendly voice asks. I think her name is Kristen.
She reminds me too much of Christina.
"We all know who she is. One of thewar heroes, we have to hear that shit all the time." Someone scoffs.
"I'm not a fucking hero." I growl quietly.
l can feel all of their eyes on me, and the noise in the room diminishes. I only hear the occasional breath, and the squeak of people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
"Why don't you tell us who you are then?" Kristen prods gently.
I can feel myself shaking, the beads of sweat cold on my heated back, I shake my head violently and try to hold back tears.
"The war hero has some serious issues," Someone else whispers.
"Shut the fuck up!" I scream.
"Tell us who you are, not all of us understand what happened out there. Let us in." Another person says and she smiles quickly at me.
"Seriously after a week of silence you'll end up in solitude." The same asshole who's been chiding me says.
He reminds me of Peter. I bet he's a former Candor.
Like Christina.
Kristin's eyes meet mine, "He's right, and it won't be my choice to stop them. We have rules here." She replies and for a split second I think about slitting her throat.
"My name is Tris Prior, and I'm here because everyone I have ever loved is dead, and it's all my fault."
"I'm pleased to hear that you opened up in group therapy," Myron says as he peers at me over his glasses later that evening.
Myron Richie is literally the largest man I've ever seen, a gleaming bald head, wild beard, dark skin and easily almost seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds. When it came to having a personal therapist, I had no choice in the matter, and apparently Myron is who they thought could get me to break my silence.
He tries, I'll give him that.
"I didn't open up. I told them my name."
His chocolate brown eyes meet mine, "You also said more, I'd like you to elaborate on that."
"You already know what I said, it's right there on your paper." I replied.
"Are you ready to tell me why you blame yourself?" He presses.
"Because it's my fault, just like I said today. Read the fucking notes."
I cross my arms and look down at the floor, once again trying to hold back the tears that always threaten to fall.
"You think an entire war is your fault, Tris?" He asks me.
"It's my fault people died. That's not heroic." I reply angrily.
"You are one of the war heroes, Tris. I know you don't like the attention it brings you, however you could try to focus on the good you did-"
"No." I shake my head, "It was a fucking war, Myron. Nothing good came out of it."
"You helped to stop it." He argues.
"It never should have started!" I yell.
"How could you have prevented it? We all heard the testimonies, Jeanine Matthews and Max Powell were working together. They had cooperation from other Erudite and Dauntless leaders, they injected everyone with what they said was a tracker. How could you have stopped it? You had just finished your initiation the night before, you were barely even a member of your faction, an eighteen year old-"
"SHUT UP!" I scream and I jump up from the table, pushing my metal chair harshly against it.
I pick up the chair to throw it at him and he ducks as the door flies open just like it does every time I'm in my one on one therapy appointment. Once again the guards have their needles in hand and are poised to stop me.
"I don't want that! I don't want any fucking serums! Get away from me!" I scream as I feel them tying my wrists together, "No!" I kick out at them, sending a vial crashing to the floor, taking pleasure in the sound of the glass shattering.
Why do they use glass in a fucking mental institution?
I can hear them calling for backup, and the sweet baritone voice of Myron trying to calm me down. I don't give a fuck, I wish they'd have let me just fucking die.
Like everyone else did.
"There's an emergency down D hall, take her through F." Someone calls over the radio.
They drag me down an unfamiliar hall, and I stare at the grey tiles of the floor as they move under my feet. My slip on shoe gets stuck and falls off, and I'm vaguely aware of someone stopping long enough to pick it up.
"Get the fuck away from me!" A male voice roars and I look up to see a large man struggling with the orderlies who are escorting him.
"They should have given him a personality wipe too," My own escort mutters as I'm pulled back against a wall, "We'll wait here for them to get him moved."
I look at the other man as they approach, pale skin, buzzed dark blonde hair, and when his eyes meet mine a flash of memories pass through my mind.
"Today, initiate."
"Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"A Stiff, how cute. You won't last a week."
"I need to keep an eye on you, we train soldiers, not rebels."
His tattoos are gone, as well as the piercings he once wore, and he stopped struggling against his escorts as soon as our eyes met. There's something there, a flash of almost fear, and I can't help the name that slips quietly from my lips.
"Eric." I whisper
This time, there's a flash of recognition but as quickly as it was there it seemed broken when his escorts stand between us with their backs to me, facing their struggling patient.
"Paul, we know it's been hard on you being in solitary, but if you want to be successful here you've got to behave. You're going to your new room, you'll have others on the same hall as you, this is what you've wanted, right?" They ask him.
He doesn't answer, instead he's trying to look around the man so he can see me. I feel a tug on my arm as my own escort rumbles a command for me to keep moving.
"Fuck off!" The man they're calling Paul yells and I'm yanked down the hall. I turn my head to watch the struggle continue between this man and his escorts and his eyes once again meet mine.
When they do, he slides to a seated position against the wall, putting his hands up in a sign of surrender. I watch them zip tie his wrists tighter before I am dragged around the corner and out of his view.
"Who was that?" I ask my escorts.
"Keep walking, Tris. You don't want to end up like him."
I shudder at the response, and finally put one foot in front of the other, but I am soon failing as the serums begin to take effect. I feel my head rolling as I'm carried into my room, and dropped on my bed. I close my eyes as the door shuts and my last thought before sleep comes is a question.
How is Eric Coulter here?
