The Twist | ✓

fifteen.

I was right about one thing and wrong about one thing. I didn't think my family would be on the third floor in their rooms, and I was right. I didn't think they would've kept my things, and I was wrong.

Clara's room was still lived in and covered in books when I checked it, an old copy of Marie Antoinette lying out across her bed, open to a page halfway through. That hadn't surprised me, but I was surprised to find two picture frames next to her bed: one of a young me and a young Mason, smiling and holding a little pink bundle in our tiny arms. I remember how she had grabbed my finger hard and pulled, and how Mason laughed while I just glared down at her. I had looked up at my parents and said I don't like her, and my father smiled and assured me I would one day. The other is a picture of me and Clara, not long before the Selection, sitting next to each other on a garden bench and carefully examining a page in an old book. Sitting on the table beside her is a small leather-bound journal, one that she'd always kept with her. It's open to a page marked with today's date, and the entry is short: Dear Journal, I want to throw up. I miss Alexander terribly. He still isn't home. Will he ever come back? We told the public that he died. His death would probably be easier to handle, though not if I had known that he withered away to nothing in his room. I miss my brother. I want him back. Tears had smeared the ink. I shut the book.

Mason's room was empty too, but there was a cradle for his unborn child. There were pictures of me in his room, too--us when we were young, us just recently. There was also a crumpled and folded piece of paper on the floor, but it felt glossy and strange in my hand when I picked it up. A photograph.

It was me and Cassiana, for the magazines and newspapers and such. In the picture, we're sitting on the small couch they had, smiling and laughing. I couldn't remember what it was that we found so funny now, but I'd never seen myself look so happy in a picture. On the back was not Mason's handwriting, but someone's that I didn't recognize. The ink was smudged a little, pressed with the lines of fingerprints. Two words. My journal.

A quick search of the room turned up a black book. I searched through the book and found an entry with my picture written at the top.

I can't understand why I feel so awful about Alexander's disappearance, it says. I don't mean awful like sympathy or regret or wishing there was something I could have done to prevent it or blaming myself for what happened. I know I'm the cause, one way or another. But I feel awful like he left me. Isn't that horrible? I'm married to Mason, supposed to be in love with Mason, and yet I can't stop thinking about Alexander. I'd never seen such a broken look in someone's eyes. I'd never seen someone shut a person out so fast, never had them slam the door in my face so willingly and quickly. I broke him. I know I did. But he mentioned relapsing. Maybe I wasn't the cause. Maybe I was just the catalyst, and I wish I could go back and fix it. There's so much I did wrong, and I hate myself for it. I--

I stopped reading, threw the book across the room. Reading Cassiana's words made me sick, and I stormed off to my parents room. They had pictures of me, too. I left without doing much of a search.

My room is where I stand now. Or, more exactly, outside of it, staring at the door with something hard in my chest. When I open it, I find that I was wrong.

All of my things are still in place: the bed, not slept in; the stack of papers on my desk, untouched; the clothes I had been in before leaving, thrown across my bed, the only mess in the room. I wonder why they left it. Maybe they had thought I would come back. Well, I am. But not in the way they had been hoping.

"Alexander?" The voice is soft. When I turn, I'm surprised to see my mother in the doorway. Her face seems permanently tearstained, and her eyes are puffy and red. "Are you there?"

"Yes." My voice sounds as hollow as I feel. She takes a step closer, and I take one back, holding up a hand. "Mom, I--I'm not here to come home."

She deflates, the joy in her eyes falling away. "What?"

I swallow hard. "I've come to take my place."

Her eyes land on the gun strapped across my back, and she understands. "You're here to kill us."

"I wasn't given a choice."

She stands straighter, and her expression turns to the solid, reproachful one I grew up with, the one that told me I had done something wrong. "Alexander Kaden Schreave, I raised you to be better and smarter than that. There is always a choice."

"Not if I'm changing the country back to America." My voice is soft. "Not if I'm destroying everything you and Father and my grandparents and Gregory Illéa have spent lifetimes building. I need the rebels on my side."

She moves forward then, wrapping her arms around me. I flinch. I don't deserve her love. Not when I've done so much to hurt her. "I love you, Alexander. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Mom."

She smiles up at me, tears filling her eyes, and takes a small step back. "Go ahead. Take my life. I'm more than ready--I've fallen in love, I've watched my children grow up, and I've made them good people."

"I'm sorry for disappointing and betraying you."

She smiles again, and it's a little brighter. "You could never disappoint me, Alexander."

Those were her last words.