Carrington didn’t even know how to respond. Her face was soaked with tears, her entire body ached, and fear plowed through her at full steam.
“You are nothing without me. I give you purpose; I give you redemption. You will learn to behave and believe, or you will be nothing!” He stepped back, and before she could protest he slammed the door shut.
In the first few moments she was too shocked to respond. Then reality seeped in and self-preservation took over. She pushed on the closed door, banged on it, cried, screamed, kicked it with her feet, but nothing changed her situation. The space was small and dark. She felt around for another way out, but the walls were solid and she couldn’t touch the ceiling.
There seemed to be nothing else in the room with her. No shelves of items, as if the sole purpose of the room was to serve as Isaac’s personal solitary-confinement unit. Carrington struggled to take in breath, beginning to choke on the thought of how little air could actually be in there with her. What if he never came back for her? What if she suffocated? Starved? This prompted more whaling on the door, more frantic pounding, until she realized she was only wasting precious air, and she began swallowing her own saliva to moisten her scratchy throat.
Time was impossible to measure when nothing around her changed. It could have been hours or maybe only minutes, but the darkness seemed to stall the progression of time.
As the stillness grew, Carrington’s mind ran wild. How long had Isaac had this room? Had he used it for others? His first wife? She recalled the time Larkin had mentioned how Isaac’s first wife had mysteriously died. Had she starved to death in this prison? The idea made her bones shiver. Was she sitting where another woman had died?
The thought of death made her think about Arianna and reminded her of why she was in here in the first place—because of Arianna, because Carrington had lost control of herself, because ideas of worth and identity had impregnated the tiny spaces of her brain, the ones you couldn’t locate even with a fine toothpick. Arianna had died because of those ideas and now Carrington would too.
She didn’t know whether she had her eyes open or closed. That was the kind of darkness she was in. She was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. Her stomach growled, but the sound fell on deaf ears because Carrington couldn’t do anything to answer it. Her mind was still going in circles but had slowed to a stumbling walk that nearly ended in a complete standstill.
Isaac’s words echoed behind her eardrums. “You are nothing . . . worthless.” This was a truth she had known but somehow forgotten. For a split second she had thought maybe worth was more than being chosen, more than being a wife and mother, more than status. For a moment she had started to believe that she could be free from the quest for worth, from the weight the word placed on her shoulders.
That moment had come and gone, though, and now she remembered. Life was not a series of forgetting and remembering; it was simply alternate states of delusion and awareness. She’d been playing with a fantasy, and it was safe to say her foolishness had put her in this hole; it was clear it was her own fault she was here.
Freedom: delusion.
Identity: delusion.
Worth: delusion.
Aaron: delusion.
The list grew the longer she thought, and at some point she decided to stop. Her mind slowly shut down, like someone dimming the lights until it was just dark.
When the door finally opened, Carrington thought she was imagining it. It wasn’t Isaac who helped her but a man she didn’t recognize. Maybe she was dead and this was an angel taking her to heaven, or a demon taking her to hell. She couldn’t really be sure of anything in her current state.
The man helped her up, walked her into a room not far from the closet, and attended to her needs. Food and water were delivered, along with a fresh change of clothes. The man surveyed Carrington’s face and gave her something for her pain.
As the fog began to clear from her head Carrington realized she did recognize the man. She had seen him around Isaac’s home before—a member of the household staff. He gave her space as she changed and then, taking a final look at her, left.
She was only alone a couple of minutes before another man entered the room. This one she recognized immediately and her body reacted to his presence. She feared she might throw up the bit of food she had just shoved down her throat.
Isaac walked across the room and sat in a chair near the window. He kept his eyes on her and she tried to keep her stomach settled.
He sighed and rubbed his temples. “God never enjoys punishing a lamb. It hurts Him as it hurts me.”
She said nothing.
“All I do is for your benefit. I want the union between us to be strong and centered. But I need to know that you want the same thing.”
All Carrington wanted was to run for her life, but she knew that wasn’t an option. This was her place, beside him. She turned her eyes to his and nodded. “I do.” Even if it tasted like a lie, it was going to have to become something she believed or could fake well enough that she never ended up in that closet again.
“Good. I was hoping some time alone would help you see what you truly wanted. I want to hear you say it.”
She gave him a confused look.
“I want to know what you believe you are worth?”
Her shoulders fell as she opened her mouth. “Nothing.” That tasted like the truth.
He smiled and stood. “Don’t be sad, my dear. Being broken is a beautiful thing. Now you truly can be molded into your role in the holy plan, according to the Veritas.”
He stood from the chair and walked toward her, coming close enough that Carrington could feel his breath on her skin, and she braced for more abuse. He moved his hand to her face and she flinched. He paused and then continued slowly, placing his fingers under her chin and lifting her face to his. Their eyes connected—his dark and filled with lust. He leaned forward and before Carrington knew what was happening their lips met.
She blinked hard to stop the tears gathering in her eyes as Isaac’s soft mouth held her own. Had she not just been pulled from a closet, had she not felt his hand bruise her face, had she not seen his darkness, she might have enjoyed this moment. But now it felt like another form of torture, and she prayed for it to end.
When he did pull back, he smiled and Carrington forced her own smile out of fear for her safety. That’s what she would be doing from now on: existing in fear.
Isaac looked to the man who had helped her out of the hole. “See that she gets home.” He turned back to Carrington and ran the backs of his knuckles along her bruised cheek. “Get some rest. We have much planning to do.”
He walked to the door, Carrington still cringing from his touch. With a final glance over his shoulder he said, “I assume we won’t have an issue again?”
She shook her head and he nodded in approval.
“Praise be.”
32
She felt like a worm as she slithered in through her front door. It was late morning, which meant the only person Carrington was likely to encounter was her mother. She learned from her escort that it had been nearly two days since she’d been home. It was hard to ignore the twinge of pain that came from realizing her family had not come looking for her. Although it was quite probable that Isaac had fed them some lie to make them believe Carrington was well.
In some other world, a girl in her predicament might try to seek justice for what had been done to her—call the guards, alert the state officials—but Carrington knew all of that would be completely pointless. Even if Isaac admitted to his crimes, she was a woman—a Lint—without a leg to stand on against an Authority member. She would only cause herself more trouble.
The door shut with a soft click behind her and she heard her mother’s feet move from the kitchen. “Carrington?” The older woman came around the corner drying her hands with a plain dish towel and pulled up short at the sight of her daughter. Carrington could see genuine worry in her mother’s face, deep lines of sleepless night
s, shades of anger, and circles of panic, all hidden just under the skin.
She swallowed and took a step toward her daughter. Carrington turned her face away and started toward the stairs. She didn’t have the strength to deal with her mother right now. A sudden rush of pain filled her chest and she fought to keep her tears hidden. Mothers were supposed to be protectors, but hers would gladly offer her up to be slaughtered if that’s what society demanded.
“Carrington,” her mother said. Her voice was strained with emotion, and when Carrington turned her head she saw tears glistening in the woman’s eyes.
Carrington said nothing in response; she just stood, one foot on the first stair, the other on the ground floor.
“Tell me what happened,” her mother said.
“Nothing happened.”
“Why did he keep you there?”
“Does it matter, Mother? Whatever the Authority asks, we do. Right?”
A tear slipped down her mother’s cheek and she aggressively wiped it away. “We follow the laws.”
“And that’s what I am doing. Following the law of my future husband, remembering my place. Doing exactly what you taught me.”
“I just want what’s best for you.”
“What you care about is what’s best for you.” She said the words, dry like desert sand. She was too tired to feel anything other than numb.
“That isn’t true. I am still your mother.”
“Yes, a mother who turns her face away when she sees I am in physical danger, who ignores the pain I am going through, who hides behind the laws to ensure that her daughter is not an utter disappointment.”
“Is that what you really think of me?”
“What I think is irrelevant. Remember? What any of us thinks is irrelevant. You told me that. All that matters is that we do what we are asked and follow orders.”
“What choice do we have?”
“None, Mother. That is the point. We have no choice.”
Carrington ascended two more stairs heading toward her bedroom.
“I hoped you’d find contentment in the law. I only want you to be happy,” her mother cried. Tears unlike Carrington had ever seen rolled down her mother’s cheeks, her face now red and blotchy.
Carrington knew she should feel something at the sight of the woman so devastated, but she was impervious. “We weren’t created for happiness,” she said. The words came, landed between them, and new emotions filled her mother’s face. Pity, aching not for herself but for her daughter. Fear, realizing that the reality of the broken child before her might be a cruel fate of her own making. Anger, knowing she had let a monster turn her daughter into this wooden creature standing on the stairs. Worry, rising in her awareness that she couldn’t fix the problem.
“Carrington,” her mother pleaded, but Carrington was done talking and ignored her. The stairs moaned under her weight; then the door to her bedroom clicked shut and the bed creaked as she climbed into it. Her body ached as she pulled her knees to her chest and yanked the covers up to her chin.
She half expected her mother to follow her, but after a few moments of silence she was satisfied that Vena would leave her be. The silence swallowed her and her mind tried to sort through her emotions, but that only brought pain so she shut it off. She shut off the desire for more, shut off the fear of what was to come, shut off the pain of the past. She shut everything off and lay curled in a ball under the covers and prayed for warmth. Despite her prayers, a deep chill stuck with her as she lay there, knowing sleep wouldn’t come and not really caring if it did; not really caring about much of anything.
Maybe Larkin and Arianna would say she was giving up, that turning it all off was a coward’s way of dealing with the problem, but Carrington saw it differently. She was finally coming to terms with reality, understanding that misery would be with her always and realizing there was no escaping it.
Isaac owned her; she was nothing without him; she was ultimately worthless.
Accepting the truth was easier than trying to change it. This was her truth. This was her purpose. The end.
Days turned into weeks and Carrington floated through them like mist. She kept her mind blank, smashing any rising ideas of change and self-pity the second they appeared and ignoring the worried looks that had become common on her mother’s face. This might not be happiness, but at least it was survival.
Warren kept asking her if she was sick because she wasn’t acting like herself. She kept forcing a smile and saying she was just busy and tired, but even at four, Warren was smart enough to know she was lying. Her mother would step in and tell Warren to leave his sister alone and he would. It was like ripping flesh off Carrington’s bones each time she watched his sad little face turn to leave the room.
She wanted to run to him, scoop him into her arms, cry into his tiny shoulder, confess that she was miserable and frightened, that she never wanted to leave home, that she just wanted to play with him in the sun and chase snowflakes with him when it stormed. But she stopped herself each time, knowing if she lifted the lid on her feelings for her little brother she wouldn’t be able to keep the rest at bay. The only way to get through each day was to keep them barricaded, to keep herself anesthetized to everything her life had become.
Her father watched her closely as well, sometimes staring at her for long moments as if he were working up the courage to say something to her, but he never managed to find the words. She avoided looking at him entirely. His kind, soft gaze would be her undoing, and she couldn’t crumble. Not anymore.
Carrington filled her days with listening to her mother make suggestions about the wedding and agreeing with anything mentioned. Isaac visited often and seemed more interested in the details than she was. She was most often a spectator as her mother and Isaac made final arrangements.
Carrington rubbed a velvety petal between her fingers and wondered how it was that flowers were so soft. The shop around her was filled with lovely aromas as each floral scent blended in perfect combination with the next. The shopkeeper and her mother were discussing delivery of the flowers they had chosen. Her mother’s tone was harsh, which meant they were disagreeing on something.
She turned away from them, hoping that whatever they were arguing about would be resolved quickly. Everywhere she looked was an explosion of color—reds, blues, oranges, pinks—like ribbons of the rainbow. Color danced along every square inch of the shop. Carrington pored over each different kind of flower and paused at one that made her heart drop.
In a single vase, a group of small yellow flowers cut through the landscape of color. Carrington moved toward the bouquet, the pulse under her skin drumming quickly. She reached out and pulled a single stem from the bunch and held it in her hand. It was identical to the flower she had received from the little girl in the shelter, the one Aaron had declared was beautiful at the same time he had declared she was beautiful.
Her fingers started to tremble, and the flower shook. She couldn’t stop staring at it; the cage in her chest that she labored so hard to keep shut was working its way open. Suddenly the air around her seemed overfilled with musty heat, the smells overwhelming, the space too cramped to be comfortable. Carrington dropped the flower and it fell straight to the floor as she turned and headed for the door.
“Carrington, where are you going?” her mother asked.
“I just need some air,” Carrington said, pushing open the shop door, a tiny bell signaling her departure. She rushed out into the busy streets of the city center and inhaled a deep, fresh breath. Her head was spinning—the images of the little girl, the flower, Aaron—around and around, making it hard to walk straight.
Someone yelled at her to get out of the way and she noticed she had stepped into flowing traffic. She apologized and moved back, looking around for somewhere to escape. A shaded alleyway sat a couple of feet to her left and she headed toward it. Once there, the noise of stomping feet, moving bodies, and chattering voices dropped to a dull roar.
Carringto
n leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. She stuffed her emotions back into their tiny prison and wiped the images of that night clean from her mind. She couldn’t go back there, couldn’t let herself once more buy into the falsehoods of freedom she’d been tempted to believe.
She was angry that she had to constantly walk through this process. Before Larkin, before Aaron, before Arianna, she had lived with the same truths she faced now; she’d simply had nothing else to compare them to. They hadn’t made her feel miserable, like she was losing out on something better. She hadn’t believed there was anything more to have, but even now, when she knew there was nothing more, her heart still yearned for it.
This was his fault—that man they called traitor, the one who had slipped into her heart and confused her. He had poisoned her, made her believe lies, given her unattainable hope. Maybe Aaron was branded a criminal for a reason.
“Carrington,” a voice said.
She raised her head and saw Larkin standing farther down the alley in her Lint uniform. A CityWatch guard stood nearby and eyed Larkin suspiciously as the girl started toward Carrington. He moved off the wall he’d been propped against, ready to act if necessary.
Before Carrington could move, Larkin was in front of her, folding her to her chest. She hugged her tightly to herself and Carrington felt her friend’s warmth spread into her. She was still processing the shock of it all when Larkin pulled away.
“How are you?” Larkin asked.
Carrington knew interacting with a Lint was prohibited, and her eyes flickered to the guard, who kept his gaze glued to the girls. She looked back at Larkin, but Larkin had noticed her glance toward the guard and pain crossed her face. She dropped her arms to her sides and took a step back. “Sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”
The Choosing Page 24
