Year 12 (First Draft)

-Chapter 7-

  I walk through the long hall, following the sound of hushed voices.

  "Kane Porter," One man says, his voice resonating out into the hall. I pick up my pace, walking closer and closer.

  All of a sudden, I find myself in a large room, surrounded by Government Agents and countless Government workers, their eye boring into the podium where Kane stands. My throat constricts, tears threatening to pour over.

  "How do you plead?" The large man in the center of the room asks, and I identify him as the judge.

  "Not guilty," Kane says, his voice hollow. "No guiltier than any of you."

  "That's enough," The judge booms, his voice pounding in my ears. "You do know the expected punishment for all you have done, do you not?" The judge asks, sounding more condescending than before.

  Kane simply nods, his confidence faltering. I watch as his gaze slides across the many faces in the room, finally settling on mine. His eyes go wide, his body tensing. Everybody in the room turns to see what has captured his attention. Suddenly, I feel as if I am on trial, their eyes questioning me, their words muffled.

  "Felisha," He whispers it, and there's no way I should be able to hear him, but I do, his words a trickle of chilled water down my back.

  Suddenly, I feel hands around my wrists, forcing my arms behind my back. I feel a man's calloused fingers around my wrists, as he pushes me to the center of the room. His breath is warm on my neck, covering my arms in goose flesh. "Hello, Felisha Martins," My breath catches, my heart dropping to the pit of my stomach. It's the man from the video, the one who threatened to kill me. He pushes me to the stand, his fingernails dig into my skin, and I yelp.

  "Why put away only when criminal when you can put away two?" The man asks the judge, his beady eyes on me. His smug grin turns into a snarl, and my heart beats wildly in my chest.

  "And what do you mean by put away?" The judge asks, his jaw clenched.

  The old man smiles, walking toward me. He steps behind me again, and I feel cool metal against my skin, the barrel of a gun pressed to my temple.

  "I mean to put her and this Year Movement away in a grave," The man says, his voice like salt against a open wound.

  Bang!

  I fall to the ground, my body crumpling beneath me. I see everyone in the room, their pleased grins. I close my eyes, accepting what is to come, just as another shot rings out.

  I wake up, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hands shaking. My nightmares the past few nights have all been the same, although every night, the ending changes slightly. Two nights ago, I saw Kane being hanged. Last night, it was Kane who was shot first, and I was shot not long after. This is the first night where the dream has focused on me.

  I haven't left my room since reading the newest News broadcast. I can't bring myself to face everyone yet. Occasionally a Year Movement worker will stop by with food, asking how I am doing. And earlier this morning, when I woke up at six, Paul stopped by, offering to sit and talk. I turned him down.

  I must have drifted off again, my emotions having caused my energy to drain, my mind to weary to do much more than dream. But my dreams quickly turned to nightmares, horrible images of Kane sprawled out of the ground. A bullet was lodged in his chest, his eyes glossed over, staring straight at me. I think of how the noose had looked around his neck, like a dog on a leash until he stepped off. The people surrounding me had cheered, overpowering my sobs. The nightmares were terrifying, but there's something just below the surface that is making the nightmares ten times worse. Those nightmares that have haunted my sleep, they could become a reality. Mine and Kane's reality.