The Parables

Tomas - Precinct Sixteen

Tomas - Precinct Sixteen

My shoulder begins to throb again. Sighing, I rub it gently, easing the pain away. It's just one of the agonising reminders of the events that unfolded yesterday. The other reminders are swarming through my brain, making me feel nauseous and terrifying me even more. I'll probably be the first ever Martyr from Precinct Sixteen who didn't want to do The Parables. The first Martyr from Precinct Sixteen who didn't get volunteered for because the volunteer Martyr abhorred them.

My stomach tightens at the thought of Rigo and I narrow my eyes. What a bastard. I hope he gets expelled from the training school for what he did to me and what he did to that poor boy who was lumbered with the blame for shooting me with an actual arrow. Rigo's too obsessed with winning to care how his actions affect others. If I hadn't had seen him aiming the arrow at Catnip, the arrow could've paralysed her back. She would never have been able to do anything again without constant assistance. She could've died. My hands clench into fists, my nails digging into my skin. The pain is forcing me to control my fury.

But there's a painful realisation that what Rigo says is right. I'm always daydreaming. All the time. That's why my team barely wins any battles. They're always a soldier down because I'm always cowering in a corner, getting distracted by more beautiful things than the war transpiring in the waterlogged trenches and sodden fields behind the training centre.

As much as I hate to admit it, Rigo had every right in telling me the shameful truth, because it's made me realise what I should have been doing all these years. My parents aren't paying for me to stand around and daydream; they're paying for me to acquire useful skills for later on in life. Training school fees cost an awful amount and as much as I hate learning survival and combat skills, they are pretty damn helpful for later on in life when I'm forced to get a job working in our Precinct's industry, jewel mining. You have to graduate from training school before your twenty-first birthday and if I can't get any passes or more, then I'm screwed.

Glancing out of the window, I watch the sun slowly ascend from its slumber, showering the emerald fields with golden light. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see some catnip plants amongst the grass below. A small smile appears on my face as I begin to think of Catnip. If only they'd drawn out a girl's name at the Retraction. Then she'd be sitting here instead of me. She'd survive, whereas I'm most likely to die on my limited knowledge of the basic skills we've been taught since the age of eleven.

A small tear slides down my cheek. Touching my cheek, I brush the water out of my eyes and relax back in my seat. I have to be strong. I have to show everyone that I am capable of winning, even though I'm clearly not. Maybe I can survive. I've had some training, compared to many other Precincts which don't have any training facilities at all, so that could give me a small slither of a chance. Leaning my head against the window pane, I close my eyes.

"Boyne on your case again?"

I turn my head to see my friend, Catnip, smiling at me. She's stood on the firing step next to me, her chocolate-brown hair slicked back into a ponytail that dangles down her back. Her green eyes shine mischievously. In her hand, she clutches a sword, the tip of it glinting in the glaring light of the sun. Hers is as clean as a whistle, whereas mine is caked in mud and dirt.

"It was kinda my fault this time," I admit. "Again."

Catnip chuckles softly. "It's always your fault, Tomas." I nod sadly. Suddenly, the klaxon sounds and the sound of roaring soldiers fills my ears.

"Ready?" Catnip says, grinning.

I nod my head. "Ready." Together, we pull ourselves up onto no-man's land and charge onto the battlefield.