ACT II, CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ❛ the empty space between us ❜ content: drug use (morphling), heavy angst, ptsd, depression.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▬▬▬▬
The night before Reaping Day, Madaket takes a train into Smogborough, same as every year Since. And as always, she purposefully chooses the latest train, right before the lines shut down for the night, so the only passengers are the bleary-eyed workers swaying on their feet after their long shifts, too tired to recognize her or too tired to care. Even still, she's cautious enough to conceal the bottom half of her face behind her thick wool scarf. The heat of a midsummer's day still lingers in the air and being bundled up in a scarf makes sweat bead on her brow. Hot and uncomfortable, but thankfully unrecognized, Madaket jumps the gap between train and station, out into the ash-wind streets of Smogborough.
Nothing about the city has changed since the year before. Every inch of it is familiar to her: the echoing sound of her steps against the stained cobblestones; the dim streetlights chasing away small patches of shadow, painting the world in sickly yellow; the smell of a distant trash fire; the guarded looks that passersby with dark circles under their eyes shoot her, always suspicious. She stares at them right back, all too aware of the knife tucked in her sleeve.
But she doubts anyone will give her trouble. This close to curfew, only a handful of people are walking the streets, and even then, they walk swiftly toward their destinations. They know that, in less than an hour, Peacekeepers will be out with guns drawn, searching for curfew-breakers.
The punishment for being on the street after midnight is death, a bullet straight through the brain. Then they leave your body to rot in an alleyway till someone calls the corpse collectors.
Madaket goes the most direct route to the apartment building. The route's become burned in her memory over the past five years. She doesn't need to check the address anymore. She simply walks in, heads for the stairwell, and climbs the five floors to Silvia Kwon's russet-colored front door.
She pauses for a minute just outside, fingers running over the envelope inside her pocket, stuffed with a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
It's hard not to imagine a young Wylan Kwon racing across this hallway, laughing all the way down to this very door. Tonight, though, the hallway is silent as the grave. The only person still living in the apartment is Wylan's sister. The world is so empty now, she thinks with a frown.
Loosing a rough sigh, Madaket slides the envelope through the crack beneath the door. The handwritten note attached to the money will be explanation enough:
$15,000 to help pay for groceries, bills, or anything else. Don't try to pay me back. All of it belongs to you.
Madaket has never attached her name to her gifts. She likes to think Silvia Kwon will open it tomorrow morning and breathe a sigh of relief. Fifteen-thousand dollars is life-changing for any poor soul living in Smogborough. It's more money than most ever see. And it's the least Madaket can do for Wylan's sister.
