by Kody Boye
“Hey,” I reply, unsure what more to say.
“Shall we walk?”
I nod, and turn toward the path that lays ahead of us.
Fifteen
I pass under the leafy trees as if I am a child being exposed to the world for the first time. Awestruck, mesmerized, in fear and curious, I stare at the world around me as if it is my playground and realize, in but a few short moments, that this is the life I may one day lead.
To think, I wonder, where I came from, what I’ve done, what I will do.
From the Sandstone Hills, to the Glittering City, and all the places in between, I realize that my life, as insignificant as it once happened to be, has gained a monumental purpose.
In days, weeks, months, even years, I could change the face of this city.
And it all starts here.
At my side, Daniel walks slowly, carefully, in pace with me and with his hands in his pockets. His tanned skin glistens in the sunlight filtering down through the leaves above and casts silhouettes of shadow along his features. I wonder, then, if he is quiet because he is simply nervous, or if he is completely and utterly afraid. I know I feel as though my world is crashing down—when, with stars falling from the sky, it burns like a field struck with lightning—and for that reason am compelled to clear my throat.
“Daniel,” I say.
We come to pause at an intersection in the path. He turns his head to face me, his gray eyes filled with storms, and watches me with an expression I cannot read.
“Are you all right?” I decide to ask.
He doesn’t speak at first. Rather, he turns his head to regard the distance, and watches something or someone I don’t bother to turn and see. After a moment, he nods and says, “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Are you nervous?”
“About?”
“Today. What’s to happen. What’ll happen afterward?”
“I’m… not sure,” he replies, turning to once again start up the path. “It just seems so… loud.”
At first, I am unsure what he is speaking of. Surely he must be used to noise, given his work in the fields and on machines. Then I realize that it is not physical noise he is speaking of—noise that can be heard through the ears. It’s the SAD agents walking nearby, and the photojournalists and writers in the distance beyond them. The former walk heavily, in combat boots and with automatic rifles drawn, the latter in whispers as with their cameras raised they wait to take the perfect picture. To know that both of these people hold purpose in our world—one to defend, others to exploit—is enough to summon butterflies within my stomach and the anxious beast within my heart.
“It does seem loud,” I finally say after several moments of hesitation. “The world, I mean. And… our place within it.”
He nods—a casual gesture that seems to be more for himself than in response to me—and in that moment he begins walking, leading me astray from what I both know are his and my emotions. It is at this moment that I become eerily aware of the fact that we are being watched.
Watched.
Like animals in an enclosed space we are observed by the predators outside who wish to make us theirs. There is no casual semblance of a typical outing in our work, in our stride, in our purpose. Rather, we are made to put on a show, and it is here that I realize that this is what our whole lives may eventually consist of, at least for the next little while.
“Kelendra?” Daniel asks, turning his head to face me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
He reaches out to touch my hand.
The first flash from a photojournalist’s camera goes off, though where it has come from I cannot be sure. It seems so close—closer than where I imagine it should be—yet when I crane my head around, I cannot find where it has come from.
“Are you all right?” Daniel says.
“Fine,” I lie. “I—”
Our fingers touch.
Another flash goes off.
I am disoriented, briefly, by the intensity of the light, by the shock of sound that comes as the picture is taken, and instinctively take hold of my husband-to-be’s hand to ground myself to the world around me. This inspires a cacophony of sound, and even more flashes of light.
I can already see it playing out like a movie in my head. Beautiful and Handsome One take hands, the caption says, in anticipation for the rest of their lives. It is juvenile, outrageous, even offensive at that, but it is contagious, and like a virus, it will spread. I realize this quite simply, and as a result, am hesitant to keep holding Daniel’s hand.
“Don’t let go,” he whispers.
“Why—” I start to ask.
I see a flash of crimson out my peripheral and turn my head.
Mother Terra is watching from beyond a wrought-iron fence. Though she is too far away to judge her exact facial expression, it is as if I can feel her gaze boring through me—like hot welds against a bull’s backside.
“All right,” I tell Daniel, turning my head back to face him. “I won’t let go.”
We continue up the path casually, making our way along cobblestone passes and beneath leafy trees which seem to dance and sing at our arrival. As we pass through a square, which I expect to find is full of people but instead is not, I begin to frown, but stop myself before I can do so.
Frowning is an ugly action, my mother used to say. Remember what the old women say?
It takes more muscles to frown than to smile, I’d reply.
Exactly, my mother would then conclude. So don’t act sad even when you feel like you are. It’ll only get you into trouble.
I used to wonder from whom. Now, in this scenario, I realize exactly who it is that will judge me.
We come to stand before a fountain whose countenance is of the Countess Aa’eesha in white granite—and who, with one arm spread, is beckoning forward a dove who on an invisible string of wire is flying toward her. It is here, beneath the ruler of our country’s awe-inspiring purpose, that Daniel chooses to settle down. He takes a seat on the stone bench before the fountain and gestures me to seat myself beside him.
The photojournalists draw forward—like vultures to a fresh kill.
I look on at them, unsure and even more startled.
“You’re nervous,” Daniel finally says after what feels like forever, concern edging his voice.
“Yeah,” I reply, turning to face him. “Aren’t you?”
He expels a breath out his mouth, but nods all the same. “This is the first step in the rest of our lives,” he replies. “How are we not supposed to be nervous?”
“I don’t know,” I say, then laugh—a sound that, while odd and nearly-painful to me, causes him to smile. He reaches forward, then, and brushes a stray hair from my eye, and smiles, which causes a burst of activity to arise from the photojournalists and lights to flash as our picture is taken.
“I love the way you smile,” he says. “It’s like… water rushing over rock.”
“How so?” I ask.
“It’s peaceful. Elegant. Strong. It holds a sense of purpose to me, and most of all, is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
He nods, and reaches down to take hold of my hand. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asks.
“You’re not worried about them hearing?” I reply. I can’t imagine that they have video recording equipment, or even the mechanisms with which to record what we are saying at such a vast distance, but I am not sure. As such, I do not want him to reveal anything that might cause harm.
“I don’t think so,” he replies. “And besides—it’s not as if I care what they think.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t.”
I nod, and say, “All right then. Tell me your secret.”
“I’m nervous too.”
There it is—the one thing I’ve been expecting this entire morning: a declaration with which to confirm my suspicions. For all his qualities, which include but are not limited to his charm
and his sense of purpose, he too bears a thorn upon which his body has been speared. Like me, he possesses an infallible sense of unsurety that makes him all the more human—which, ultimately, inspires me to tighten my hand upon his.
“I’m sorry,” I reply.
“For what?” he asks.
“For making it seem as though I don’t like you.”
“Do you like me?” he asks.
I can’t answer honestly, given that this is only the second time I have met him, so I answer truthfully by saying: “I’m not sure.”
He smiles and says, “Good answer.”
We laugh.
The cameras go off.
My heart flutters as he squeezes my palm.
“I’m sure we’ll get to like each other sooner rather than later,” he says, turning his head to stare at the photojournalists in the distance. “What I want to be most, beyond being your husband, is your friend. Do you think we can do that?”
“I know we can,” I say.
“Good.” He nods. “It’ll make it easier when I do this.”
Daniel reaches into his pocket; and in this moment, it would have appeared, to anyone looking on, that we are simply two people lost to each other, and the world we both exist in, but unfortunately, that is not the case.
No.
Daniel and I couldn’t have been greater strangers if we tried.
There is a brief moment in which I am unsure of his actions—of his purpose, and his declaration because of it. But as he takes hold of whatever it is he is retrieving, then lets go of my hand, I panic, thinking something is wrong.
It is only when he falls to one knee, however, that I realize my future has just begun.
“Kelendra Byron,” he says as he looks up at me from his place on the cobblestone ground. “Will you marry me?”
I want to say no—that this is not right, that it’s too soon, that I’m not ready. But I know, deep down, in the back of my mind, that I can’t. So with guilt in my heart and a pain in my gut, the thorn in my side and the devil in my conscience, I nod and say, “Yes, Daniel Cross. I will marry you.”
He opens the box and reveals a ring—blessed with diamonds that are worth more than my life could ever be—then lifts my hand and slides it onto my finger.
As he rises to face me amid the flashing lights, he looks into my eyes, then leans forward and takes hold of my face with both hands.
I know what’s coming. I know I can’t stop it. But deep down, I want to.
I’d always wanted my first kiss to be special—for it to be something I’d cherish for the rest of my life—but this, this is madness.
When Daniel’s lips press against mine, my whole world seems to fall out from under me.
Lights flash.
People cheer.
My hands reach up to press along his ribcage.
This is it.
This is finally it.
The rest of my life is now conscripted to the Process and everything within it.
As the man who is to be my husband pulls away, I look into his eyes and say, “We’ll get through this.”
He nods and says, “Yeah. Together.”
Together.
Sixteen
I have never felt more alone than on the day of my wedding. Scared, witless, and unsure how or what to expect, I am awakened at dawn on the morning my life is supposed to change and told, in no uncertain terms, that I am to cooperate fully.
“I don’t expect you’ll try anything,” Mother Terra says as I rise and dress into decent clothing, “but I’m aware that you may hold some reservations.”
I want to say, You think? but refrain from doing so for fear that she will retaliate. Already the woman is bristling, like a snake getting ready to strike, and though I imagine it would not be her intent to assault me with insults, words can be barbed, and cause immense amounts of pain.
With a nod to assure her that I will not attempt anything out of the ordinary or that anyone would deem uncouth, I allow her to escort me from the room and into the hallway, where we make our way down the corridor and into the elevator.
Inside, Mother Terra continues her frantic obsession with the hailing device on her wrist.
“Is something wrong?” I decide to ask.
“No,” she replies, though her tone is laced with insincerity. “Nothing is wrong, Kelendra. You need not worry about anything.”
Do I, though? It seems unlikely, considering the state of affairs. While I am a mess internally, my Gentlewoman is one externally. I’m tempted to ask if she’s sure once more when the doors to the elevator open.
Outside, the lobby is filled with dozens upon dozens of SAD agents, all armed, all with their backs facing us.
“What’re they—” I start.
Then I hear them—the photojournalists, yelling, screaming. Cameras flash as they try to take pictures of anything they possibly can, but thankfully the wall of SAD agents, and their body armors and shields, is too thick to see through.
“Come along now,” Mother Terra says, pressing a hand against the small of my back. “Never mind them. For now, you are safe.”
Safe.
What a word to describe a situation where I feel more vulnerable than ever.
After staring for but a moment longer, we successfully navigate to the Gold Room and enter without so much as a glance back.
“Thank God you are here,” Stylus says as he runs forward.
“What’s wrong?” Mother Terra asks, taking the young man by the arms. “Please, tell me nothing is wrong, Stylus; because if there is, I swear to the Great God that I will wring your neck.
“The dress—” he starts.
“The dress what?” Mother Terra asks.
“Is beautiful,” I say.
It is like a sunset spread over a southern desert. Beginning with gold upon the veil, and orange upon the bodice, it bleeds into crimson along the waistline before eventually descending into purple darkness along the skirt. The train—undoubtedly the darkest part of the dress—is sheer black, and bejeweled with rhinestones that appear like a midnight sky. It is like I am looking into a dusty evening—the sun descending, the night coming—and in a mere moment I am overwhelmed. I feel faint, and take a deep breath of the stagnant air to keep from passing out.
“It certainly is different,” Mother Terra says, stepping forward and then lifting the skirt to examine it along its frame.
“Revered Mother,” Harmony says, a stricken expression upon her face. “You agreed that it would be in our best interest if we designed such a dress for Miss Byron.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining. I’m merely remarking on its artistry.”
“I love it,” I say, stepping forward.
For the first time since the Process has begun I feel genuinely excited. As I look upon the dress, taking in all its features and every ounce of its glory, I feel like a princess whose prince has slain the dragon in preparation for our wedding. His sword bloodied, his armor tainted, he is on one knee begging for my hand; and I, the gentle princess, am extending it in marriage.
This feeling, while certainly monumental, does not stop me from feeling nervous about the upcoming event. Butterflies tickle my ribcage and stomach. Unease trickles throughout my brain. My blood, hot as lava, seems to pulse within my veins. It is enough to make me realize that this is truly real, and that the next stage of my life will begin in but an hour.
“We should begin the necessary preparations,” Mother Terra says.
“Yes!” Stylus exclaims, then waves me toward the stool. “Come, my dear. Let’s make you beautiful.”
I go without hesitation, sit without doubt, present myself accordingly, and allow Stylus to do my makeup with the diligence of any esteemed woman. Knowing, without a doubt in my mind, that this is to be the climax of my story, I allow him to apply moisturizer, cover-up, powder, primer, then paint, the whole while imagining what is to occur. My thoughts are devilish in their intent—presenting with glass domes and fine dresses—
and are interspersed with flashing lights that I know will come from the photojournalists. This in itself is not what scares me, for I know I will be protected by a dozen, maybe even two or three-dozen SAD agents. What scares me, in the end, is what will occur in front of that man, in front of that priest, who will preach to us the matters of love and all that it is worth.
When I open my eyes to view Stylus’ craftsmanship, I feel faint.
I am absolutely, stunningly beautiful. Like my dress, I resemble a sunset—with stark colors upon my eyelids and sweeping cat eyes, fine blush and proud lips—and though I want nothing more than to thank him for what he’s done, I cannot, for a second later I am being pulled from the chair.
“Come!” Harmony says. “We must hurry!”
And we do. I disrobe, step forward, allow her and Stylus to remove the dress from its frame and then center it along my body. Then they are pushing me inside it and allowing the fabric and corset to swallow me as if it is the great maw of some monster.
The corset is laced, the drawstrings tightened, my skirt lifted and shoes slid onto my feet.
In the mirror I am nothing short of perfection.
Inside, I feel that caged beast coming alive to chase away any good feelings I could possibly have.
“Come now,” Mother Terra says, stepping forward to take hold of my hands. “It is time.”
“Now?” I ask.
She nods.
“How?” I inquire.
“We’ll go out the back,” Mother Terra says. “The street’s already been cordoned off by SAD agents. Their shields are tall. You will not be seen until we reach the Dome.”
I want to say Thank the Great God, but am too stunned and nervous to do so. For that reason alone, I simply allow her to pull me forward and out of the Golden Room.
The flashbangs of light continue to assault us as we weave across the room, careful to avoid plush furniture and SAD agent alike. It is here, near the edge of the lobby, that we approach a door that is specifically marked for PERSONNEL ONLY; and as we make our way through the passage and into the hallway beyond, I begin to hyperventilate once more.
“Breathe, Kelendra.”
