Broken (Divergent/Fourtris story)

Hello reader, 

It is June 30th, 2020. 

I wrote this story seven years ago when I was eleven years old. So, please keep in mind that most of this is through the eyes of an eleven year old's perspective on the world. I was immature. I was insensitive. I did not know what I was writing, or the severity of the issues I was writing about. I've never directly had anyone message me about any problems with what I've written (and I gave up on reading comments a little over five years ago) and so I wanted to first and foremost apologize if I've ever offended or hurt anyone with my writing. I was writing about mental illness, abuse, rape and suicide without an inkling of any knowledge or experience with these topics, and I seriously should have been stopped. 

And, I mean, this story was also cringey as fuck when I look back on it. But I'm going to leave it posted and try my best to edit it into a story better fit to my improved understanding. 

Thank you to any reader who has come back to read this (or any new readers, if there're still Divergent fans out there!) for your continuous, heart-warming support.

Prologue (Chapter One)

The walk home from the bookstore feels different today. Climactic. Like something's going to jump out at me and yell, "Nevermind! Life's back to normal!"

There's no 'normal' anymore, though. Not after what happened last time. Not after what I had to escape. 

And certainly not while living under the same roof as my new foster parents. 

For a few seconds I sway at the doorway of the bungalow fumbling for my keys. The metal is warm against my fingers, cold-kissed with the undertones of chill in the September air. I glance into the window and detect no movement, my heart lifting for a moment in the hopes that the house may be empty, and give the door a nudge open. Closing the door behind me, I sigh and kick off my shoes. Finally home. Finally alone in the silence.

But that doesn't mean the work is over, it just means the patron has changed, and the task is more menial. 

I don't waste a second before stalking over to the kitchen and getting started on the dishes. It's mostly leftovers from last night and whatever Theresa and Burt scrounged up this morning. Though they've never necessarily explicitly asked me to do the dishes, I've always been the one to do them. A way of showing gratitude for having a place to live, despite the shitty, unwelcoming hosts in my accommodations. 

At least someone took you in, the voice says at the back of my mind. 

Nine times out of ten I want to fucking strangle that voice. 

Even with the soft music in my ears, my nerves feel fried. I just want to shower, to decompress, to let it all go. But there's always something to do, always another task or chore on my list that needs to be ticked off before I can succumb to the fatigue perpetually plaguing my body. And right now this pile of dishes really isn't helping.

It takes me good hour to finish them, and by the time I'm done, my fingers are raw and numb. My shirt is soaked with water and the smell of 'Lemon Summer' fills the air. I switch off my music and walk to my room, sighing and collapsing onto my unmade bed. The sheets caress me and I just want to escape into their warmth that envelops me. But I can't.

Because I start school tomorrow.

And if there's one thing that's worse about starting school and having the summer come to an end, is starting your senior year with no friends and no sweet fucking clue of what I'm going to do with my life. I sure as hell didn't have the money to go to college. And that job at the book store was not going to pay rent when I turned 18 and finally moved out. 

So I guess, as usual, I was fucked. 

Not to mention the life I'd run from. The life I'd completely ruined at the hands of my captors, my saviours. What I had to promise to never touch again, should I ever want to slip back into my old habits, and destroy myself completely. 

I push myself back into a sitting position and bury my face into my hands. I'm a complete mess. A complete monster.

But instead of throwing myself a pity party, I push it all to the back of my mind and box it up, delicately, as if I could break the memories if I hold on to them too tight. Maybe I should break them. Maybe I'll wipe them all away. I can start fresh. I can be someone that's not me and no one would notice. No one knows me at the school I'm going to.
I know though, deep inside of me, I wouldn't be something other than myself. Love the monster or hate it. Either is fine with me (but the love part is definitely not going to happen).

The door creaks open, a dreadful sound that makes me cringe.

"Tris!" my foster mother, Theresa, calls. The front door shuts with a thud and I uncoil like a spring.