Insurgence [h.s]

thirteen

The sun has risen and fallen once more by the time Alouette gets to Dacran. By then, the thrill of the escape has turned into something sharper, colder, lodged inside her chest. Even though she hasn't slept for the past thirty-six hours, her mind feels clearer than it has in weeks. The stinging of the cold wind through the open windows does nothing to cool down her euphoria, a constant power surge through her limbs.

Try to catch me now.

Try to catch me now, she keeps saying in her mind, over and over again, even though she knows it's a foolish attempt, hers. He doesn't need to catch her, because she'll come back to him on her own, and they both know that. As long as she needs him, she'll always keep coming back. She knows what it truly is: she didn't escape. He simply opened her cage because he knows she won't fly away, so well he's trained her. He's once told her only the foolish sing victory too early, but she can't help it, though she knows the truth, deep down—after all, until she makes the choice to go back, there's no guarantee she will. Freedom in potentiality is better than no freedom at all—she could still turn it into fact, into actuality. She just has to want it. And she will want it—as soon as she finds an alternative. In her universe of possibilities, she's freed a thousand times over.

She comes to a sudden halt. The road is blocked by a large truck parked in front of a building under construction. It's not the only one she's come across—on this same road, there are four. Five more are new and shiny. The Palace has wasted no time in fixing the damage wrought on the city by the Shade months ago. Her chest tightens. For an instant, she can see how it was then—the explosions, the collapsed buildings, the ringing in her ears, the thick smoke in the air and she couldn't breathe and see anything and breathe, and—

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, forcing herself to stay in the present moment. Nothing to see here, nothing to see here, nothing to see here, she keeps repeating in her mind, because if she does that she won't be thinking of anything else. Nothing to see here, nothing to see here. Nothing to see here. It's fine. She glances around the road. What to do, what to do, what to do? Three thick metal bars are being unloaded from the truck. She can hear the people in front of her shout things to each other through the open car window, and she closes it. She gives another look around. Staying still puts her on edge. Nothing to see here, nothing to see here.

Another truck is coming towards her. Alouette turns the car around and dips into a side street, refusing to get locked in. Nothing to see here. She rounds the block and continues on her way, keeping her eyes on the dark asphalt of the road. New—poured recently. She grips the wheel tighter. Nothing to see here. Memory is ice cold water, and she refuses to dip in it. Nothing to see here, she thinks again, but she's repeated it so often that it comes on automation, and a phantom boom makes her flinch in her seat. She loses control of the wheel and brakes harshly in the middle of the street. She takes another deep breath, and closes her eyes. Think of something else, she urges on, anything, anything. She bites the inside of her cheek so hard she draws blood. Anything.

It's a beautiful thing to refer to someone you love with the name of a bird.

She gasps, and her eyes shoot open to the still-light grey of the sky. Chills run down her spine. It's a beautiful thing to refer to someone you care about with the name of a bird. She can still remember the day her father said those words, sitting at the kitchen table while she dangled her legs under the chair, too little still to touch the floor. He was holding his book in his hands, a pensive smile on his face. Everyone is a bird. We all strive for freedom.

Tears pool in her eyes, and she breathes in slowly to hide the catch in her breath—from who, she doesn't know. She hasn't thought about her father in so long—about the man, not the mystery. About his love for poetry, about his constant fights with her mom, with Ezra, with Asher, because he'd dedicated his life to a dream and couldn't stand anyone being in his way. About the stories he told her when she was little, of magical castles and objects that could speak and all that was winged and majestic under a full moon—all the stories he didn't get to tell Amina. About the times he came back home late from work and put a chocolate on her nightstand for her to find in secret the following morning, because her mother thought they were too expensive and unhealthy. Her breath catches again. Everyone is a bird. We all strive for freedom. She hadn't realised how much of her world was shaped by him. Everyone is a bird. We all strive for freedom.