𝓜𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 - ꜰᴏᴜʀ / ᴛᴏʙɪᴀꜱ ᴇᴀᴛᴏɴ

Chapter One

I stand in the school cafeteria, but all the long tables are empty, and I look through the glass walls, seeing that it is in fact snowing. On the table in front of me are two baskets. In one is a lump of meat, and in the other, a blade the length of my forearm.

Behind me, a woman's voice says, "Choose."

I tried to turn around but to my dismay, I couldn't.

"Why?" I ask.

"Choose," she repeats.

I look over my shoulder, to find that no one is there. I turn back to the baskets. "What will I do with them?"

"Choose!" she shrieks in my ear and I flinch.

When she shouts at me, my fear slowly fades and stubbornness replaces it. I scowl and cross my arms.

"Have it your way," she says.

The baskets disappear. I hear a door squeak and turn to see what it is. I see a dog with a pointed snout stands a few yards away from me. It stoops low and inches toward me, its lips peeling back from its white teeth. A rich growl gurgles from deep in its throat, and I see why the knife would have come in handy. Or the meat. But it's too late now.

I look at another version of myself, being reminded that this isn't real and that it's only a simulation. I close my eyes to gather my witts and when I open them I see that both the meat and knife are back in their place. I grab the knife and cut the meat in half. I grab one-half of the meat and keep the knife in my right hand, ready in case the meat didn't work.

The dog continues growling at me even when I offer the meat to it. I think about running, but the dog will be faster than me. I can't wrestle it to the ground as I am only a frail sixteen-year-old Abnegation girl. My head pounds. I have to make a decision. If I can jump over one of the tables and use it as a shield, but I quickly rule out that choice. No, I am too short to jump over the tables, and not strong enough to tip one over.

The dog snarls, and I can almost feel the sound vibrating in my skull forming indistinguishable words. I hold up the knife as if I know how to use it.

My biology textbook said that dogs can smell fear because of a chemical secreted by human glands in a state of duress, the same chemical a dog's prey secretes. Smelling fear leads them to attack. The dog inches toward me, its nails scraping the floor. I try to take a deep breath in to slow my racing heart and focus on the task at hand, only to find I am too scared to think straight. 

Breath Amara

I can't run. I can't fight. Instead, I inhale in the smell of the dog's foul breath and try not to think about what it just ate. There are no whites in its eyes, just a dull black gleam.

What else do I know about dogs? I shouldn't look it in the eye. That's a sign of aggression. I remember my sister Beatrice asking my father for a pet dog when we were young, and now, staring at the ground in front of the dog's paws, I can't remember why. It comes closer, still rumbling. If staring into its eyes is a sign of aggression, what's a sign of submission?

My breaths are loud but steady. I toss the knife away as I sink to my knees praying that this will work. The last thing I want to do is lie down on the ground, helpless, in front of the dog whilst making its teeth level with my face, but it's the best option I have at the present. I stretch my legs out behind me and lean on my elbows. The dog creeps closer, and closer until I feel its warm breath on my face. My arms are shaking.

It barks in my ear, and I clench my teeth to keep from shouting out in terror as it might agitate the animal.

Something rough and wet touches my cheek. The dog's growling stops, and when I raise my head to glance at it again, it is panting. It licked my face. I frown and sit on the heels of my feet. The dog props its paws up on my knees and licks my chin. I grimace, wiping the drool from my skin, and laugh.

"You're not such a vicious beast, huh?" I tell the calm creature in front of me, trying not to laugh again.

I get up slowly as I didn't want to startle it, but it seems like a different animal than the one that faced me a few seconds ago. I stretch out a hand, cautiously, so I can draw it back if I need to. The dog nudges my hand with its head. I am suddenly glad I didn't pick up the knife but had no idea how the animal could change character so fast.

I blink, and when my eyes open, a child stands across the room wearing a grey dress. She stretches out both hands and squeals, "Puppy!" I look up at her face to see a younger version of Beatrice.

As she runs toward the dog at my side, I open my mouth to warn her, but I am too late. The dog turns.

My head hits the ground. The dog is gone, and so is the little girl. Instead, I'm alone in the testing room which is now empty. I turn in a slow circle and can't see myself in any of the mirrors. I push the door open and walk into the corridor, but it isn't a corridor; it's a bus, and all the seats are taken.

I stand in the aisle and hold on to a pole. Sitting near me is a man with a newspaper. I can't see his face over the top of the paper, but I can see his hands. They are scared like he was burned, and they clench around the paper like he wants to crumple it.

"Do you know this guy?" he asks. He taps the picture on the front page of the newspaper. The headline reads: "Brutal Murderer Finally Apprehended!" I gawk at the word "murderer." It has been a long time since I last read that word, but even its sight fills me with dismay.

In the picture beneath the title is a young man with a simple face and a beard. I feel like I do know him, though I don't recall how, at the same time, I feel like it would be a bad idea to tell the man that.

"Well?" I hear the anger in his voice. "Do you?"

A bad idea—no, a very bad idea. My heart pounds and I clutch the pole to keep my hands from rattling, from giving me away. If I tell him I know the man from the article, something awful will happen to me, I just don't know what. But I can convince him that I don't. I can clear my throat and shrug my shoulders—but that would be a lie and I have always hated liars.

I clear my throat.

"Do you?" he repeats.

I stand there shocked at the aggression in his tone.

"Well?"

A shudder goes through me. My fear is irrational; this is just a test, it isn't real. "No, but he seems familiar," I say, my voice casual.

"No idea who he is."

He stands, and finally, I see his face. He wears dark sunglasses and his mouth is bent into a snarl. His cheek is rippled with scars, like his hands. He leans close to my face. His breath smells like cigarettes. Not real, I remind myself. It's not real.

"You're lying," he says, infuriated with my claim. 

"You're lying!" He further shouts making me flinch.

"I am not."

"I can see it in your eyes."

I pull myself up straighter. "You can't because it's the truth."

I wake to find I have sweaty palms and a pang of shame in my chest. The feeling of dread overtook my senses. 

What was that all about? I ask myself, wishing I knew.