Bereavement

Chapter 12

"Tobias, wake up."

The softly spoken words stir me awake, but I stubbornly keep my eyes closed. I'm too comfortable to move, so I just hum in response when fingers comb through my hair gently.

"Tobias," Tris whispers. My mind registers that my head is resting on her chest when I feel it rise and fall beneath me.

Unwilling to move, I tighten my arm around her waist and blow out a heavy, exhausted breath. I don't know where we are or why I need to get up, but I do know that I am worn out, for whatever reason. I just want to stay here, content, for as long as I can.

"No," I huff when she shifts, causing her to laugh quietly. My eyes finally open to reveal my Dauntless apartment, and they land on the phrase "Fear God Alone," which is permanently etched on the wall across from me.

Fluttering my eyelids shut, I admit to her, "I'm so tired."

Tired from what, I am unsure. All I know is that I feel defeated. I am done.

"I know." She runs her hand up the back of my shirt, and I sigh from its warmth, pressing my forehead more insistently against her collarbone. Why do I feel as if she will disappear any second? "But you have to keep going. You're not done yet."

A lone, irrational tear escapes from my eye and slides over the bridge of my nose. "I don't have the strength," I mumble. I am weak. I am jaded.

"Of course you do," she states, leaving no room for argument. "You just have to get up first. Find your footing. Reclaim your motivation."

I am doubtful that I have the durability, so I ask, "And if I can't?"

She pauses momentarily before saying, "You can; I believe it. Even if you don't think you are strong enough, all you have to do is remember to have courage."

She buries her face in my hair and whispers, "Be brave, Tobias. I love you."

xXxXx

Everything hurts.

I have had my fair share of pain in life, with my father beating me every chance he got, getting shot, losing my friends, losing Tris... The list goes on. I should be used to agony by now.

But, at the end of the day, I am human, so I feel the harsh effects of the explosion.

The first thing I do is moan deeply in pain, stopping straight away and sucking in a sharp breath when my chest burns even more from the effort of making the noise. This is evidently the wrong thing to do, I discover, when I end up coughing painfully because of the dust I inhale. When I manage to quell the coughing and reduce my breathing to wheezing, I crack open my eyes to see the result of the grenade around me.

The floor tiles have shattered, and chunks of the brick from the walls and ceiling litter the ground. It is too dusty—plus, my vision is not the greatest at the moment—and I am unable to see clearly, so I shut my eyes.

There is only one positive thing that I can find in this situation: the lights around me have been destroyed, making this part of the long hallway both dimmer and eerie, and it soothes my headache.

I lie in the same spot for a few minutes, reluctant to initiate any movement, since just holding still is painful enough. I try to listen for the sound of gunshots, then for the sound of anything, but I am unable to hear anything past the ringing in my ears.

In the silence, I find myself thinking, can I please die?

I have done enough. I have lived long enough. I am tired of life, and now I am begging for this to end.