Awakening

by Shannon Duffy

  Hardly a day would pass without Coral visiting my mother at my house or my mother having tea at hers. They were always too deep in conversation to notice when I came home from school. It’s so hard to think of the Monroes as Noncompliant. I would’ve never imagined they’d end up in the Terrorscape.

  Mom was devastated after hearing the news that Coral and Owen were caught stealing from the distribution center where they work. Last week, the two were immediately whisked away to the Olympus Jail and into the Terrorscape where they’ve been held for questioning. Mom hasn’t seen Coral since and I wonder if she’ll forgive Coral.

  Dad peeks through the window blinds and the swirl of police car lights cast eerie, dancing shadows through the room. “Damn criminals causing chaos.” He shakes his head.

  “C’mon, Griffin,” Mom says, patting the sofa beside her. Their eyes meet a moment and she lifts her eyebrows slightly toward the port screen. “It’ll be over soon.” Dad’s hands clench by his sides as he walks over and drops with a sigh beside Mom.

  It’s not like we’re totally prepared for what we’re about to witness. It’s not often that someone disobeys The Protectorate, and it’s never fun watching their suffering on the port screen—not even when I know the Noncompliant deserve to be punished. But tonight, watching the neighbors whom I’ve grown up with, it will be far worse.

  Mom unmutes the port screen as the regular station is interrupted. A picture of The Empire spreads across the screen. The terracotta-colored building looms into the sky, growing narrower as it rises, like layers on a cake. On the outer tips of each corner perches a stone snowy owl, wide-eyed and looking alert. Rolling granite waves the color of a Caribbean ocean burst out at the crown of the structure. I eye the giant clock at the center, its pearl face shimmering. It reads eight o’clock.

  The picture of The Empire fades and is replaced with images of Coral and Owen as the camera zooms in. They’re strapped side-by-side on their backs to a stretcher. Owen’s face is pale, eyes pinched tight, flickering. He grips the sides of the stretcher as though readying himself for the inevitable. And the unknown.

  But it’s Coral I’m drawn to. She stares straight into the camera, eyes narrowed. She wears an expression I’ve not seen from her before. Disgust? Defiance? She looks nothing like the woman I’ve known my entire life.

  Mom releases a small, startled gasp. I grip her arm tighter, partly to alert her and partly to steady my trembling hands. She clamps her mouth closed and bites her lip. I know we need to appear stoic, showing we fully accept and agree with The Protectorate’s punishment. From the corner of my eye, I notice Dad lace his fingers through hers.

  The hum of the Terrorscape sounds. Although I don’t see a Syncro-Drifter like the one hovering over my bed that links us to its system, the sound coming from the Terrorscape is the same. It sends a familiar soothing ripple of calmness through me, making it difficult to envision anything scary coming from it.

  Soon, Coral’s eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Owen appears relaxed.

  Sharp screams rip through the silence, and my momentary calm disintegrates. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end and I want to look away.

  But I can’t. I’m not allowed.

  My muscles tense. They’re thieves, I remind myself in a vain attempt to steady my breath.

  Owen’s face contorts into odd angles and his eyes burst open as though he’s awake and witnessing his own gruesome death. A muted cry seeps from his lips.

  Coral thrashes in her sleep, pulling at the straps that tie her down for safety. “No!” she cries out.

  And suddenly, I don’t want to stay there one more minute. On other occasions, when I watched people suffer in the Terrorscape, I rationalized they were horrible people deserving to be punished. I envisioned them committing the worst crimes imaginable.

  But Coral and Owen aren’t horrible.

  I can’t make it right in my head. I can’t connect the criminals on the screen with the kind, loving, and fun neighbors I know. It’s like trying to connect two pieces of different puzzles.

  A burning, twisting feeling runs through my body as though a snake were biting its venom into my bloodstream. I want to jump up, scream, rip the pre-binding bracelet from my arm, and run.

  “Four, three, two, one,” the same pleasant voice from the Dreamscape calls out the remaining seconds of the mandatory five-minute viewing.

  Mom shuts off the port screen and folds over herself, and I know she’s trying to hold back tears. Dad quickly guides her to a corner of the room where no port screen could potentially witness her reaction that could be construed as Noncompliance. I run down the hall to my room. Closing the door, I turn my back to it and gasp for air.

  Tossing aside my seascape with a growl, I quickly place a new, blank canvas on the easel. I pull out my hand-held palette and squeeze on multi-colored globs of paint. My heart is pounding, and Coral’s screams echo in my mind.

  I furiously work the brush into the paint and onto the canvas. With each stroke, my emotions fold themselves onto the piece until they and the canvas are one.

  When I’m done, my eyes widen at what I’ve created.

  Gone is my typical seascape, forest scenes, or soaring mountains amid a swirling sky in various shades of blue.

  In its place sits an image of The Empire cloaked in a haze of gray. Orange flames flicker at the top where rolling waves once stood. Within the flames, instead of the clock, rises a black colony of bats shooting upward into the crimson night sky.

  Chapter Six

  An hour later, Mom pokes her head into my room. Before she notices, I quickly stash my new artwork near the back of my stack of paintings against the wall.

  “You okay?” she asks. Her eyes are red, her face still etched in pain. She slides her hand back through her light brown hair and smiles. “I know it’s awful having to watch our friends—like that.” She swallows hard enough for me to notice.

  “I’ll be all right,” I say, pushing down the knot in my throat.

  Mom rests her hand on the doorknob. “Laken’s on the video-com, honey. I just wanted to say good night. Your dad and I are going to bed early. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “And, Desiree?”

  “Yeah?” I head toward the video-com that’s on the wall next to my bed, but steal glances at Mom as I go.

  She widens her eyes and wipes the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose. She smiles slightly. “You missed a spot.” She winks and closes the door.

  I’m sure I’m covered in paint splatter, but I don’t bother checking. I tap on the video-com. “Laken?”

  “Um, yeah?” she says as her image lights up the screen. Her arms are folded over her chest and she rolls her eyes. “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry, Mom patrol. What’s up?”

  “What’s up? You’re kidding me.” She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You did go to your pre-binding formal today, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, shrugging.

  “Smackers, Rae, do I have to come over and shake you or what?” She laughs. “Details. I want them and I want them now. He’s totally cool now, isn’t he? Please tell me he wasn’t rude to you.”

  I sigh and remind myself Laken cares about me. She’s excited about her own pre-binding formal tomorrow and wants to know everything.

  I try to think of the positive aspects of the day to keep her spirits up. Who am I to blow the whole fairy tale? “Well, the pre-binding dynasty is really beautiful,” I say. “It looks like a meadow with a kaleidoscope of butterflies. It’s filled with jade-colored grass, and the sun shimmers in like there’s never been one day of pollution, and—”

  She rolls her eyes again. “That sounds really cute, Rae, but cut the artistic crap and give me the real scoop. You know—about Asher.”

  I chew my thumbnail. Laken believes in the system with all of her being. Not that I don’t, but telling her the truth could dampen her excitement. Usually, I’d c
onfess everything, but if I tell her Asher had eyes for some other girl, she might stress about the same thing happening with her binding mate. The pre-binding formal is nerve-racking enough without adding that kind of stress to the situation.

  She leans in and knocks the video-com screen. The loud sound brings me back. “Earth to Desiree.”

  “It was, um, good.” I force a smile. “Asher seemed okay. He’s taller?”

  She tosses her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Aha, bonus! See, I told you it would turn out okay, didn’t I? The Protectorate knows, Rae. They just do. So, what else? What did he say? Did he tell you how gorgeous you are—how perfect your porcelain skin is?” She practically pants, her eyes blinking, and her excitement oozing through the screen.

  I feel my cheeks burn. No. He was too busy checking out someone else. “Nope, nothing like that. Besides, with the broadcast about Darian’s escape—”

  Her eyes widen. “I meant to ask about that, too, sorry. Are you totally freaked?”

  I fumble with the hem of my shirt and struggle to keep a steady voice. “Yeah, I guess. I mean I thought he was locked away for good.”

  “You still think about the sixth grade?” She giggles. “You know, when you two had a little flirt going on?”

  “We didn’t have a flirt going on,” I hiss. “He just used to stand up for me.” I realize it sounds like I’m defending a murderer, and quickly add, “Must have been his way to get his pent-up anger out at the time.” I hug my elbows. “Then he moved to bigger goals when he killed his parents…so please, don’t say we had a flirt going on. It kind of makes me sick.”

  “Sheesh, okay, relax. Such a waste though, huh? Did you see his mug shot? He’s totally hot, in an I-killed-my-parents sort of way.” She laughs.

  “River…” I say with a sigh. Whenever I call her River instead of Laken, it’s her signal that I’m really getting annoyed.

  “All right. I’m not worried about it, though. They’ll catch him. It’s just a matter of time before he’s back in Olympus Jail and sleeping with the Terrorscape—” She inhales a sharp breath and slaps a hand over her mouth, then squeals, “Shoot! The Monroes! Are you okay? You want me to come over?”

  “It’s almost eleven, Laken. I’m going to bed, but thanks.”

  “You sure?” She arches a brow. “I know you love that family. But hopefully they learned their lesson for what they did and will never do anything like that again. Whatever it is they stole is so not worth it. But things will die down in a few weeks and people will start to forget.”

  I don’t know how likely that is. People don’t tend to forget those who were convicted of being Noncompliant. “Yeah, I know,” I say.

  “Listen, I know I’m rambling on. I’m just excited about our pre-binding formals and stuff. You know I love you, right?”

  I give her a smile and nod. Of course I know she loves me. She’s my best friend in the world. One time in the third grade when I’d gotten in trouble for eating another kid’s apple, she took the blame. Laken told the teacher she gave it to me and said it was hers and that I could have it. She’d do anything to keep me out of trouble, help make me happy.

  “Hey,” she says. “You want me to come over tomorrow morning?” she asks. “I can bring your favorite cookie dough…”

  She knows my weakness. Every time we bake cookies together, my half never makes it to the oven. The ooey-gooey, chocolate chip cookie dough is like my own personal tongue heaven.

  “You won’t have time for that. Your pre-binding’s tomorrow,” I say as though I need to remind her. “You need to get all dolled up for…what’s his name?” I tap my pointer finger against my cheek, pretending I forget.

  “Rowen,” she pretty much coos, a huge smile spreading across her face.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I say with a chuckle. “Maybe Sunday though? Anyway, don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m going to see if Shia can come with me to the Grange.”

  “Got more artwork to sell?”

  “Always.” I jerk my head over my shoulder toward my pile of paintings.

  “I can see you’ve been busy painting anyway. You kind of look like a rainbow right now.” She chuckles. “You’re so talented—hey, what are you going to do with all that money you’re saving up anyway?”

  “Lulu, get to bed, chipmunk,” Laken’s mom calls out in the background using two of the zillion pet names she calls her.

  I snort. “Yeah, chipmunk, go grab a nut and get some sleep,” I whisper.

  Laken laughs. “Sure thing, Rae. Love ya.”

  “Love you, too, and good luck tomorrow.” I shut off the video-com and wince at my forced enthusiasm for the whole pre-binding formal. I hope Laken’s experience is better than mine. For her sake.

  I amble to my bathroom and splash water on my face and try scrubbing off the paint. From the corner of my eye, I notice the shower. I’d give anything to jump in right now, but since the mass water shortages of the Manic Age, The Protectorate has implemented a strict five minute shower once daily. Other than that, we get five extra minutes of cold water a day to brush our teeth or wash our hands. The last drops of water trickle from the tap, and I wipe my hand across my face. Orange paint smudges run across my nose and drag across my cheek.

  With a groan, I snatch a towel from the rack, shove my face into it, and hold it there while inhaling deeply and staggering back to my bed, anxious for sleep. I want to forget the whole day and dream something good. Besides the Asher part, everything else will be perfect. I hope tonight’s dream will be something about hiking in the mountains and a picnic by Shanty Springs. I always love that one.

  But, before I make it to my bed, I smack into something hard.

  Firm hands grip my arms.

  I drop the towel.

  My mouth gapes open.

  I’ve never forgotten the face that towers above me. His black hair is buzzed short, and his indigo-blue eyes stare down into mine.

  Darian grins at me and winks.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m about to scream but before I can, Darian spins me around and holds his hand over my mouth.

  “Please, Desiree,” he whispers into my ear. “Don’t.” His warm breath fans my cheek, and I shudder.

  Just hearing him say my name makes me cringe. I nod in agreement, only wanting him to let me go.

  “You promise you’ll be quiet?”

  I nod again, more enthusiastically this time. My mind is racing. I’m stuck alone in my room with a murderer. This day just went from bad, to worse, to pure hell.

  Darian slowly releases his hand and I scoot away, backing against the wall. I blink up at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Relax, Rae.” He rubs the back of his fingers against his olive-toned cheek and smirks. “Still into the artist scene I take it?”

  I wipe my face furiously. “Never mind that. What are you doing here?”

  He steps over a black backpack at his feet, walks over to my pile of paintings against the wall, and browses through them casually. His white shirt is clearly two sizes too small, and the sleeves are pushed up as if he’s trying to hide the fact they’re too short. I wonder where he got it in the first place, since it isn’t exactly the standard-issue Olympus Jail dull green. Darian continues to shift through my work, and the lean muscles on his arms flex as he moves through them.

  “Hey, stop it,” I say and start to walk toward him, but decide against it at the last minute and stand still instead. “That’s private, Darian.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. What I really want to do is wrench my beloved paintings from his criminal hands. But he’s about 6’3 and, as tough as I’d like to think I am, I know I’m no match for him. His own parents certainly weren’t.

  He twists around and a crooked smile raises the edges of his lips. “So, you remember my name, huh?”

  I avert my eyes from his, take a step back, and say nothing. It was about two years ago that he was arrested. Of course I remember hi
m.

  “You still believe all The Protectorate hype, Rae?”

  That’s the second time he’s used my nickname. I snap my gaze back to his, meeting Darian’s stare. “Don’t call me that!” I slap my hand over my mouth and suck in a sharp breath. I should know better than to get mouthy with a murderer. But he looks so much like the Darian I used to know. I mean, he’s taller and has a frantic, edgy buzz about him—the kind of look I imagine two years of nights spent in the Terrorscape would cause. There’s a wildness in his tired eyes, and a thin white scar runs down the side of his neck. But other than that, he’s the same.

  While I watch him, a smirk twists his lips. He’s taunting me. He knows I have questions. I fidget with my hands behind my back, but finally can’t contain myself any longer. “Why did you do it?” I blurt.

  The smirk slides off his face. “You do believe the hype, sunshine. I hoped you knew me well enough to know better.” He stalks toward me, and I hold my hands up defensively, backing into the wall, ignoring that he just called me sunshine, the other nickname he and his parents used to call me, which he derived from Rae of sunshine.

  “Well…the evidence shows—”

  Darian’s face contorts into a scowl, and I inwardly curse myself—and my big mouth. He plants both of his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wall. “Evidence?” he says with a growl. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  I swallow hard and part my lips to scream—but then Darian leans back.

  He shakes his head and clenches his teeth. “Shit, Desiree, I didn’t kill my parents, okay?”

  As if he’d admit to it if he had.

  Darian frowns, looking wounded, and grumbles as he shoves off from the wall. “I always knew you were a follower, Rae, but I didn’t think for a second you’d believe I’d kill my own parents, damn it. We were friends.” He sighs. “I thought we still were.”

  He looks toward the window of my bedroom. The one I assume he jimmied to get in. “I came here because I hoped you’d help me.” His blue eyes are intense and his face holds a pensive expression.