Ultramarine -- REWRITTEN

Thirteen. [h.s.] -- REWRITTEN

          I had dreamed about her and it frightened me.

          First, I had enjoyed it, but quickly realized that I could've been dreaming about her the entire time while using the consort discs. I wouldn't know, because my dreams were whisked away as soon as I woke up. I had used the discs for close to two weeks, but hadn't one night when she chose to visit me. I had two more weeks to go until I would send them back, but was no longer willing to risk anymore dreams being examined and torn apart by the Consort Data Department. If I had dreamed of Charmaine previously, would Aria kill me for doing so? The Department would see her blue eyes and would surely report it to Aria who would only interrogate me (if I were lucky). I couldn't control my dreams; even if I could, would I stop it?

          With my heart racing, I tugged the box out from underneath my bed and shoved the discs back inside. I exhaled, clicking the box shut and sliding it back. I felt in great danger, but incredibly safe at the same time. Conflicting emotions and feelings tore my body apart, burning out my mind to the point where I wondered if I could think straight. Because of it, frustration stuck to my spine. Sitting on my heels, I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to recall my dream. It was quickly fading away, but I clearly remembered seeing her cerulean eyes and her bright smile. Nothing else came back.

          My sleeve fell down my wrist, exposing black ink--an anchor, from what I was told. I had four others: a heart, a rose, a ship, and a type of cage. I knew nothing of what they symbolized. Charmaine probably knew; her brother was the one who inked me is what she had said weeks ago. Determined, I stood and changed into my uniform.

+++

          "You know about my tattoos," I stated once approaching her chamber. She didn't look up from her tray--which she hadn't touched.

          "Yeah," she croaked. She cleared her throat. Messy blonde hair cascaded around her face. Her finger picked at the roll of bread, and she tore a piece off to roll it between her fingers.

          "Are you okay?" She only groaned, slouching where she sat and glancing over at me.

          "What do you want?"

          I only stood and watched her. There was no doubt that something was off and that she wasn't okay. But what could I do? She looked up at me from her tray of food. Faint streaks painted her cheeks and under eyes, which were darkening by the day. There was no smile on her lips, but a neutral one--almost blank. Her usual attitude was masked by whatever thoughts had taken over. Her usually bright eyes seemed clouded and sunken and something tugged at my heart. She was tired and absent compared to the first few days. I felt at loss for words. Two weeks was already taking its toll. She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you ever seen someone who was sleep deprived?"

           "No. . ."

          "Now you have. Take a good look because it's only going to get worse from here." She threw the small piece of bread she had rolled between her fingers into her mouth, chewing it slowly. She closed her eyes and rested the back of her head against the wall. My fingers fiddled by my side. There should be no mercy for the prisoner, but I couldn't help it. Like a lightning bolt, I finally fully comprehended the fact that she had been away from everything that made her happy and comfortable for longer than she was used to. Under the hard, but carefree exterior, was a longing for home that grew every second that she was stuck here. I couldn't imagine being in a place where the only thing you looked forward to was stepping outside for an hour, or taking a shower. Apparently, sleep was something she no longer looked forward to, and whatever she enjoyed at home so much was enough to keep her ready to run and escape. That and the fact that she was being tortured.