We piled into trucks with large, flat beds and set off for the wall. My curiosity to see what was on the other side—combined with the invigoration that comes with finally being allowed to do something that has always been forbidden to you—quickly overpowered my nervousness. Nevertheless, I perched on the edge of my seat and wrapped my blanket more tightly around myself as we approached. The high wall sloped slightly inward and cast a large shadow for hundreds of yards throughout the streets. Although the familiar purple tinge of the sky could be seen above, it was almost twilight-dark nearing the last few feet before the outer entrance.
I tried to brush off the guilt weighing on my shoulders. My last thought before we passed through the small, heavily guarded entryway was an overused phrase my schoolteacher used to recite during shortage years: the night is always darkest before dawn. I had always dreaded hearing those words; however, my thoughts could not have rung truer than a premonition when I saw what was waiting for me on the other side.
Suddenly, I am met with the most spectacular, overwhelming array of colors I have ever seen. The sky is ablaze with reds, golds, pinks, and oranges, all too vivid to be true, impossibly melded into one another both seamlessly and separately. I stare, transfixed, pausing only to look incredulously around me at the other members carelessly chatting away, oblivious to the miracle I am witnessing. I have no way to describe it, only that I now seemed to have an innate, fundamental understanding of how humans could be capable of music and art and madness and I wanted more than anything to be part of it.
I felt a sudden outpouring of pity for the Abnegation I had left behind, for those who are encouraged to be shut away indoors by the time evening has fallen. They had never seen anything like this before; it made me wonder if the other enclosed factions had experienced or even heard about life-changing moments such as this. I certainly never had.
I caught myself beaming like a child. I folded my lips between my teeth in an attempt to stifle the emotion, to no avail: my grin expanded tenfold and was accompanied by an instant of quiet laughter as a cool breeze ruffled the freed wisps of hair around my face. A few seconds later, however, I remembered what my mother used to say to me whenever she saw such a display, and felt the corners of my mouth sink into a pained grimace.
I had always hated that my face was so expressive. It was like being forced to wear my heart on my sleeve, making me an easy target for ridicule, or worse. I had tried for years to settle my face into the blank, unreadable expression so prized among Abnegation, only to have my mom doubly admonish me after a scolding to stop looking at her 'like a lost child.' There is something shameful and helpless about not being able to control your features. It was my eyes that gave me away: the outsides were old and haggard, with bruised circles, doughy pouches, and swollen lids perpetually half-closed in an attempt to ward off pain and fatigue. But my eyes themselves were that of a child's, almost impossibly huge, deep, dark brown, stupidly, carelessly trusting, knowing when advantage was being taken but choosing increasingly darkened lids over assertiveness time and time again.
I met the eye of another Amity sitting across from me; before I could avert my gaze—and instead of averting hers— she briefly matched my smile in warmth and ardor before turning back to her conversation. Here, everyone was allowed to show exactly what they were feeling. Here, maybe there could be friendship and acceptance instead of isolation.
I had never seen such kindness except within single familial units in Abnegation. Family is regarded above any and all relationships, responsible for providing you with all the love you will ever need.
When you are loved, you are strong and right and true. But when it is taken from you, or worse, if it was never there to begin with, if it is held aloft so you strain your calves just for the chance to graze it with your fingertips, you can never be sure you are doing the right thing. I remember my father's favorite words, spoken day after exhausting day, when my mother and I were expected to work for hours, only to come home to cook and clean while he slept in his chair near the window.
"Go," he would loudly declare, "find someone who will take care of you like we do. Find someone who will treat you as well as we do."
I had kept my head down and my mouth shut to keep the blame and anger away from my mother, but the words had wormed their way under my skin and settled solidly between my ribs. Such as when you're too anemic to bruise, but you can feel the ache that lasts for weeks underneath the surface. I felt no protectiveness towards my sister, who was two years my senior and whose personality mirrored my father's in every way imaginable; she had left for Candor, leaving me secretly relieved for not having yet another apathetic, idle person to constantly attend to. And while I did my best to protect my mother, she was emotionally a child, incapable of criticism or change, needing constant validation of being the perfect parent yet only ever using us as a crutch or a shield. But my brother was five years younger than me, and the thought of leaving him alone with my parents kept me up for nights on end. No matter how much I hated it here, I couldn't leave him. In the end, however, he was the one who ended up saving me.
"You have to leave," he had told me one evening, washing dishes as I was preparing dinner before our parents had returned. When I tried to protest: "You can't blame yourself for the people they are, and if you do, you're just as bad. I'm leaving for Erudite in a few years; I can handle them until then. If you don't go, neither one of us will ever forgive you."
After that night, I had vowed to myself that I would leave in any way possible, no matter what. And now, I finally had. I was free.