Democracy

Glass

On my way to my room, I don't look up from the black tiles. After the years I've spent in this hellhole, I could map every nook and cranny from memory. Everybody knows well enough to stay out of my way. Maids hurry past with piles of cloth and buckets; they're going to clean up the mess, no questions asked. The mess that is all my fault.

Trapped within my thoughts, I round a corner. Crashing into a body I whip out my sword quickly, roaring. The blade is against a woman's throat. I wipe my eyes. Shocked, the woman drops the glass in her hand. She swears. Stepping backward to outreach my sword, she crouches down to pick up the pieces of shattered glass. Lowering my sword, I move down to help her. Barehanded I scrape the glass into my hand allowing it to cut my palm.
Her eyes widen at the sight of blood.
"No, no stop. That is not your job," she hurriedly mutters. I continue. The woman wears a silky green dress that has a dangerously low neckline and stops short of her legs. She shouldn't be collecting glass of the ground. This maiden is a sister- the girls who nobody but my father should look at if they value their lives. I do believe she is the only sister left.

"It isn't yours either, my lady." For the first time, she looks up at me. Her face becomes a reflection of shock. She backs slightly away.

"Ty- Tyler," her stutter is only built from her nerves upon seeing me. How I wish I could be a nobody. As if dizzy, she begins to sway. Then she falls forward onto her hands into the glass. I grab her and push her back onto her knees.

"Shit." Her hands are a brilliant red. I pull her up. "Come on, we need a med kit." I hold onto her arm to guide her through the halls. Finally reaching my room, I set her on the bed and grab the med kit of the wall. She stares forward barely acknowledging her surroundings. Even as I press the cotton buds against her palm she doesn't look at me.

Eventually she winces when I apply water to her cuts. Then her eyes begin to search my face.

"Tyler." She mutters. Then she begins to beam. "Tyler!" she leaps forward wrapping me into a hug. "Oh thank fuck, I'd thought I wouldn't see you!" Freaked out, I push her off me. Nobody has ever reacted in that way before. It's like she thinks she knows me.

"I'm just going to bandage your hands, okay?" A look of confusion creeps across her face. Before her expression changes to one of no emotion, sadness flashes in her eyes. Without creating anymore of a scene, I begin to wrap some bandages around her hands.

She begins to protest. "The president won't like this. He'll say my hands need to be bare. He won't allow it. He would rather I bleed than be covered in these." She sighs and makes an attempt to unwrap the bandages. I place my hands over hers.

"No, keep them on. The president isn't always right. His words don't instantly become law." Under my breath, I mutter, "making you bleed would make him an even sicker man than I originally thought." Looking up at her face, I know she heard my treacherous words. Damn, I should be more careful. I should have been quieter. I should have said nothing at all. But a glint in her eye suggests she is more happy than outraged by my words.

There is a pounding on the door and before I can answer it is open. Drass stands in the entryway. He breathes a sigh of relief. I get to my feet as Drass moves into the room, but he moves past me.

"My lady, the President has been looking for you. Did you not get his message to wait in his chambers?" The woman suddenly looks nervous. I step forward putting my hand against Drass' chest as a barrier.

"Drass, she hurt her hand. I brought her here to fix it," Drass looks up at me, then down to the girl. For some reason, I feel an urge to protect her. Maybe it is born out of my sympathy for her and her situation. The ritual of the sisters has always seemed barbaric to me. To take so many young girls, kicking and screaming, from their homes only to train them to be silent little slaves. It's awful. "Please, let me finish and let her rest a little. When I see my father, I will apologise." Shaking his head a little, Drass sighs. The bed creaks as the girl moves back into it. Drass glances up at her before looking at me.

"You don't understand," he pauses, looking at the door. "He is on his way here. He is going to-" His words are cut short as the door is opened once again.

My father's face brings a flash of the atrocities I witnessed earlier to the forefront of my mind. At the top of his collar is the smallest dot of red. Looking down at myself, I realise my shirt is smeared with the stuff. I wash my hands across the cloth.

Already, Drass has moved behind me.

"Tyler, I see you have officially met my girl. I assume she has been good company." He is now across the room. He sits on the bed and pulls the girl to his side even against her struggles. I want to punch him until his face is simply a mess of flesh and blood. He can become the Degenerate. My violent visualisations are interrupted by my father's tuts. Pulling the girl's injured hands onto his lap he begins to undo the bandages.

"Stop." I cry out. His eyebrows raise and he peers up at me. "She hurt her hands; they need to heal," I insist. He doesn't bother reacting and continues to unwrap the bandages.

"They can heal on their own time. These are ugly. She needs to be the prettiest thing in the room when Fabien meets her at the dance tonight." I look over to the girl. She is tense. I don't think she has any idea what he is talking about. I hope I am wrong about it.

We were taught in school about how we should act. By school I mean the small room where me and my brother would sit as my father's third wife talked at us. It only lasted for four months after my father decided it was time for his wife's prime minister. We learnt about the way we should stand, how to address people, who did what job and marriage. Although the topics were monotonous and wasn't so separate from the council chambers as I would like, I enjoyed the time away from my father.

His wife, she never told us her name, told us about her engagement. Her father, a council member at that time, organised it. She and my father met at a feast. She said that traditionally engaged couples met at a public event, spent the duration of the event with each other, then kept together for three days after before one day of separation in which wedding preparations would be made for the following day. Even as somebody who knew nothing different, a five day engagement seemed such a short meaningless time. Any couple would be bound together solely by traditions and regulations rather than any actual emotions. I think my father made it that way purposely. He hates emotions.

"You have arranged Fabien's wedding." I sigh aloud. His smug reaction sets the butterflies in my stomach into a rampage. The girl on the bed moves quickly away from my father. She swears loudly. Immediately my father is pushing her down into the bed with his hand tightly clasping her throat. I rush forward to pull him off. Drass begins to move instinctively but stops as his thoughts catch up with him. My fingers grasp the president's shoulders and begin to tug, his hands relax and he lets go of the girl only to slap me with the back of his hand sending me backwards a little. The girl doesn't cough or splutter instead she simply stares, in horror, as I refuse to retaliate to my father. My blood boils as I push down the instinct to gut my father with the sword at my waist. "You can't do this." I say quietly, almost begging.

My father is scowling at me. "Take Drass and find some people to come to the feast, now that you've killed all the council members." I tighten my fists. But before I can punch his asshole face, Drass leads me out of the room. When we are away, Drass stops me.

"What the hell was that?" He hisses. "Why are you suddenly so protective of her? You only just met her!" Confusion grips me. So I wasn't just imagining it- I did mean to protect her. Usually I'll only make an effort to protect myself. People are usually gone by the time I offer any help.

Ignoring Drass, I move forward.

"We'll have to go into the regions and talk to the most loyal citizens." Drass scoffs.

"You mean the richest?" His words aren't treasonous- my father would say the same.

"I mean the richest."

A/N I AM AWARE THESE PARTS ARE GETTING SHORTER AND SHORTER. I'M AM GOING TO TRY TO LENGTHEN PART 4. PLEASE COMMENT ANY FEEDBACK.