by Rae Thomas
Violet
Rae Thomas
Copyright 2014 by Rae Thomas
Smashwords Edition
Cover Art by Brad Jones
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part I: CERNO—Eligo
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Part II: CERNO—Summus
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Part III: EARTH—Amara
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Prologue
I go into the washroom and flip the lock behind me. I splash some water on my face and look at myself in the mirror.
My face. The same face I've seen every day since I woke. Every day that I remember.
I find myself tracing the veins on my left wrist with the fingers of my right hand. I stop and open the medicine cabinet. Yes, that’s what I’m looking for.
I pick up the shaving blade from where it sits on the shelf. I look again to my wrist, but when I return to my reflection, the image is blurry. The tears have distorted my vision, and though I was determined not to cry, I am powerless against them.
Some would say that this is a choice, but what choice do I really have? I can’t stand living with all the things I don’t know.
I press the point of the blade into the middle of my wrist and wince at the pain. Fat tears plop onto the skin of my forearm. But I do not stop. I pull the razor further, making a conscious effort to steady my hand against the sobs. There is less blood than I thought there would be.
At this moment, there is a knock on the door. I don’t answer immediately, but then I hear his voice.
“Violet?”
I turn toward the door and say, “I’m coming.”
Part I:
CERNO—Eligo
One
I am not the type of person whose body gradually becomes aware of soft daylight filtering in the window, whose limbs and muscles stretch to rid themselves of sleep, whose eyes softly flutter open, whose mind becomes aware that rest is no longer necessary and gets up to greet the day. I am the type of person whose dreams gradually change into conscious thoughts so seamlessly that I do not remember waking; I simply come to the realization that I am awake.
Now that I know that I am awake, I take in my surroundings, none of which I greet with much familiarity. This is not alarming. We have only been here a short time. Bed. Nightstand. Armoire. This house has been equipped with very expensive pieces of furniture that serve a mostly decorative purpose. They are minimally functional, but cosmetically give our house the impression of a place in the country reminiscent of a simpler time. At least that’s what the brochures say. To me, furniture made so expensively in an effort to seem inexpensive is contradictory, but Father seems to be happy here and so I will be happy, too.
I silently leave my room, out through our common room which shares the design of the rest of the house. A wooden mantle gnarled and twisted with artificial age hangs above the fireplace. The fireplace is particularly irritating to me. No one needs a fireplace. Our atmospheric temperatures are strictly regulated. Just another purposeless feature. Atop the mantle are framed photographs placed in chronological order. A young man that I know to be my father with his arms around a young woman that I know to be my mother. Big smiles. Soon the pictures include a baby version of me. Mother cradling me on the day of my birth. Father holding his hands just out of my reach on the day that I took my first step. In one family photograph, I stand between Father and Mother holding a First Place medallion. The pride on my face is evident. I do not remember that day. As the row of photos progresses, my mother is no longer present. The photographs of my father and I continue, though our smiles are never quite as big, and our eyes are never quite as bright. Still, the resemblance is uncanny. I am my father’s daughter.
I walk toward the kitchen, passing the wall adorned with my father’s accomplishments. Medals and plaques for military bravery as well as for scientific discovery. I placed them on the wall myself a few days ago. It was meant to be a surprise. I found the awards in a box, and I felt that hanging them was perhaps something that my mother would have done. I waited with anxious anticipation for my father to notice. When he saw them, he said only, “Where did you find those?” And I replied by saying, “In a box.” And then he said, “Oh.” And he walked away.
Though my father is a man of few words, his reaction had still been uncharacteristically distant. My father is not prideful, but he is not afflicted with false modesty; he knows that he is a good scientist, but he also understands his limitations. Perhaps his reaction displayed regret for having retired from The Vox.
The Vox is our military. My father had enlisted as a soldier, but his scientific aptitude was soon discovered, and so he was assigned to the Claro, the Scientific Order of The Vox. I do not know much about The Vox, only that signs along the roadway depict men in uniform with the caption The Vox: The Voice of the People.
As I enter the kitchen, I find my father seated at our incredibly fashionable dining table. Almost without exception, what is fashionable is also what is considered to be difficult to attain. At some point in time, people desired to have everything covered in precious metals and gemstones. Now, thousands are spent replicating a wood called “pine” and aging it to create a kitchen table that seems to have been made from an antique barn door.
“Morning.” I give my father a slight smile as I sit down next to him where a plate is waiting with my breakfast.
“Good morning, Violet. Did you sleep well?”
“Well, I slept, which is an improvement, I suppose.” I have not been sleeping lately.
“You’re just getting used to our new surroundings. When you become more settled, I’m sure your sleep will be more restful.”
My father has high hopes that I will embrace our new life here. So far, his optimism has not been catching. Even so, I can’t argue that country life seems to have had positive effects on his appearance. He’s spending more time outdoors since his retirement, and it shows. In sharp contrast to what was once a pallid complexion due to long hours spent in his lab, my father has allowed his facial hair to grow a little. His tanned skin accentuates the crinkles at the corners of his striking blue eyes, and his hair has remained dark brown except the wisps of grey that have appeared at his temples. Members of The Vox traditionally keep their hair very short, but his has begun to grow shaggy and extends over the tops of his ears and in the back it just barely brushes the top of his collar. To a passerby, this might not be the same man at all. My father looks downright rugged.
He continues, “I really enjoy living out here, but I can’t get over how different everything is. As a child, you always wanted to play outside, but you were so disappointed by the small parks in Summus. Do you remember?”
As soon as he says this, my father steels himself for my response. I can see the hope in his eyes; I look down at my hands, no longer hungry.
After a few seconds of silence, my father places his hand on mine and squeezes gently.
“You know I’m just trying to help you, V.”
I’m still not looking at him.
“If you want to help, just let me move on,” I say. “I’m tired of trying to remember. That’s why I want to start my lessons. I’ve fallen far enough behind as it is. We can’t put our lives on hold, hoping for something that might never happen.”
There is a little more venom in my voice than I intended. I can tell that I have wounded him, and I immediately regret it. As he begins to pull his hand away, I grab it in both of mine.
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it.”
“Violet, I—”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I slide my chair out from under the table, flash him a smile as I put my plate in the sink and say, “I’ve got to get ready for my lessons. I don’t want to be late on the first day.”
He smiles sadly but I pretend not to notice; I kiss him on the top of his head as I walk behind his chair and call over my shoulder, “I’ll be ready shortly!”
* * *
The ride is silent. My father and I refrain from speaking often during this drive; we take the time to appreciate the scenery, which is so different from that of Summus, the city where my father and I once lived. However, this morning our usual peaceful silence is full of tension—words that are not being said. Still, I intend to enjoy the landscape.
Eligo is a large, sprawling area. Houses dot the countryside and are separated by rolling, vibrant hills with tall, lush grasses. I always take time to admire the way the daylight peeks over our horizon, but I particularly enjoy the way the sky colors begin to change and the swirls eventually fade into a blue so bright that it can only be matched by the green of the grasses. Summus is so crowded with buildings that one cannot see much of the sky from the ground. Besides, from what I understand, people in Summus do not value things like sky colors the way the residents of Eligo do.
I know that my father will not tolerate this for long. He hates feeling tension between us. I know that he will try to discuss our situation with me, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. For the past months, all I’ve done is talk, talk, talk, and try to remember. Now, I just want to exist the way I am. My father does not accept this—will not accept this. His stubborn refusal will lead him to begin a conversation. Awkwardly. He won’t know what to say, his words will come, but haltingly—he will not want to upset me as he did in the kitchen. I will feel uncomfortable. I will give him short, sharp answers that hurt him even more, and I will hate myself for it. Oh, well. I just need to bear with it until we arrive; when I go home, we will both pretend that nothing has happened. We will go back to the way we were yesterday. This is how our relationship works, and it’s good enough for me.
The simultaneously unsure yet determined look on his face tells me that my father is preparing himself to say something. Here we go. However, when my father begins to speak, he does not follow the pattern that I was expecting.
“I love living in Eligo. After being in the city for so long, Eligo is such a welcome relief. I can’t tell you how many times she begged me to find a way out of The Vox—or at least to apply for a transfer, so we could take you out of the city. But then she would smile her beautiful smile and crinkle her nose and laugh because she didn’t want me to feel guilty for loving my job. The Claro would not condescend to have a lab here, where people are aware of the beauty of life without being afflicted with a necessity to know how and why it works. The Claro looks down on people like this. But I promised her that one day we would move. I would quit or retire or do whatever I had to do, and we would come to Eligo.”
Here, my father pauses. He does not usually say her name; even to whisper it causes him pain. My mother is the only “she” he ever mentions. I can see several tears making the journey from his eyes to his chin, but I can also hear in his voice that he is holding back a lot more. My father loved my mother more than anything in existence. More than anything. More than science, more than money, more than me. He loves me, there is no question; he would lay down his life for mine in a moment. However, I often wonder if he would rather have lost me to disease than my mother. After all, they could always have had more children; he will never have another Tara.
Perhaps this is why my father and I have never created a functional relationship in the wake of her death. He keeps me at a distance; I know this. But perhaps I do the same to him. She was the link between us; we both loved her desperately. That much is evident from our photos alone. Perhaps I am guilty of the same crime that I accuse him of; if I could have chosen, which of my parents would be alive today? Maybe I am lucky that I do not remember.
As soon as I finish formulating this thought, my father begins to speak again, but his voice sounds thick with sadness and regret. “This is what she would want. We need to make this work for her. She used to tell me that Eligo is a gift that we have been given, and it’s true. Cerno gave us a new start, a second chance to do everything right.”
My father speaks of new starts and second chances, but the truth is, he is not interested in starting over. That’s what I want. All he wants is the old Violet. The Violet who remembers my mother. I think that my mother’s memory has a lot to do with my father’s reluctance to let me start over. If I had it my way, we wouldn’t mention our old lives. We would just take the time to cultivate our new ones. This is a problem for my father. If I never regain my memory, he will be the only one who remembers my mother. It will be like she died again; like we died together. I recall the pictures on the mantle. I look at them every day, but every day that nothing changes, my hope fades. I can see the admiration on mine and my father’s faces as we gaze lovingly at my mother. It’s one thing to know that you love someone. It’s another thing entirely to actually love her. My father still feels that love. He still feels the hole in his heart where she belongs. While we are forever biologically linked, the truth is that I’m not his daughter anymore. I’m just a stranger with Violet’s face.
As if he can read my thoughts (and in an attempt to refute them), my father says, “You’re a lot like her, you know.”
What he means is that I used to be like her. The old Violet, his Violet, was like her. I don’t respond. Anything I could say would only serve to reinforce what a disappointment I am. I turn my attention once again to the landscape, but I just can’t seem to enjoy it anymore. I sigh, defeated. Again, it’s as if my father knows what I’m thinking when he says, “I don’t mean just before the accident either, V. She was always so self-assured, so determined. Once she set her mind to something, she was going to do it. No matter what, she would find a way to make it happen.”
Now I know that my father only sees her in me because he wishes it. I can’t imagine what actions on my part he could possibly allow his mind to warp into self-assuredness. I don’t remember anything about myself. I’m not confident about any aspect of my life. In fact, the opposite is true. My confidence is constantly undermined by my injury. I am surprised to find myself a little disappointed. I suppose I was hoping that he’d be able to draw a true parallel between my mother and me. After all, it would be nice to know that I share some quality, however small, with someone my father is so affected by.
My father continues, “When you told me that you were going to start your lessons, no matter what, I knew for sure. You’re going to remember, Violet. The old you is still in there somewhere.”
After such a long time trying to remember, I had refused to compromise on the subject, it’s true. I had tried it his way, and now I would try it mine. I told him that I was going to begin my lessons, and essentially implied that there was nothing he could do about it. I suppose that does take some determination. Still, this link to my old self is tenuous at best. For now, I think I’ll have to leave the hoping to my father. Luckily, I do not have to respond. We have arrived.
Two
I step out of our vehicle, and as my shoe meets the curb, I look up. A large, dark stone building, the coldness of this place does not match the beauty that surrounds it. The large awning is adorned with jet black letters that read Eligo Academy, and in smaller print beneath it, Region 019.
My arrival goes unnoticed by most of the other students, just as my presence has been mostly unnoticed since moving here. This is not something that bothers me. I have a lot of thoughts; when I am alone, I have ample time to think my thoughts without interruption. I don’t have much patience for people my own age.
As I step into the corridor, I note a very long window in the stone. It takes up the entire right wall of the hallw
ay; there are only about six inches of stone near the ceiling, and another six inches near the floor. The rest of the wall is made of this translucent, semi-solid substance. This is very curious. As I get closer, I realize what I am seeing. I read about this material in one of my father’s scientific journals. The window is made of a gel-like substance that is mostly solid, but cannot shatter. It is a safety precaution. Ideally, this substance would absorb the shock of any explosion from within the lab while maintaining the structural integrity of the building. I am not sure that it would do much for the people inside, though. I assume that The Vox is more concerned with protecting monetary commodities than student safety. Academic facilities are more difficult to replace than students.
Coincidentally, this gel also has a reflective property, which explains why males and females alike line up to verify that their hairstyles are just as intact as they were the last time they were checked. I do not stop to look at my own reflection, but I do make note of it as I pass. Dark brown hair that brushes my shoulders, fair skin, my father’s eyes. Nothing special, though I do take pride in my eyes. The same bright blue as my father’s, though mine are not as open, not as friendly as his. My father’s eyes have a very charming, inviting quality. He is very charismatic. Mine are just as bright, just as blue, but more reserved. Perhaps this is because I am so unsure of everything. Oh, well. My reflection is satisfactory, if not pleasing. I do not often wonder or care whether my peers find me attractive. But sometimes, I do.
I enter the reception area opposite the science lab with caution, and I keep my eyes to the floor in an effort to avoid any potential classmates who might want to make a target of the new student. I tell the receptionist that I am unregistered, and she sighs and hands me a card to fill out, mumbling something like, “I don’t know why anyone would think it’s a good idea to register on the first day.” Whoops. My father and I hadn’t really thought about that.
