Compassion (A Selection Story)

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He peels me away from him, his body shaking slightly with laughter. "Lindsey, oh Lindsey, you are so funny."

I look at him cautiously, "What? How so?"

"Something about the way you care for Fleur, even though you met her barely two weeks ago. It just strikes me as odd that you'd care for someone so much, even after they've died, while you hardly know them."

"I have my reasons," I say, my voice growing cold. Oh come on, Lindsey!  I scream at myself. I'm shutting down; I can feel it. I care for Fleur because she seemed so innocent, yet everything kept happening to her, of all people. That was my mother. She was innocent, and then I showed her the world without castes and she tried so hard to tell me how that life was wrong, and then my father - the real villain in my life - took her away from me. The rebels are my villain now, I suppose, because they took Fleur away from me. I lost them both, two innocent people got mixed up with me - a horrible person - and died.

But, still (and I hate myself for this, because it disrespects my mother's memory) I lay awake at night, fantasizing of that world, free of the castes and Selection.  Still, I hunted around the house for more of those books, craving more knowledge of the world before. I disgust myself.

"Lindsey?" Tobias' voice sounds far away, and I focus in on a hand waving in front of my eyes.

"What- sorry, I was just thinking," I reply hastily.

"We all are," he replies, exhaling noisily and staring up at the sky. "It's hard not to mull things like this over in your head. How are you girls doing? I haven't been very involved in the reparation project."

"We're... okay, I guess. No one really knows what to do. Most of us have just been sitting in the Women's Room, crying or reading. We don't speak except for in small friend groups that we made before, and, even then, conversation is scarce. I - I don't really talk to anyone. I hadn't bothered to branch out at all. It's... it's not the kind of thing," I pause, aware of the tears rolling down my cheeks and the choke in my voice, "that you ever expect to happen."

He places one hand on my shoulder and one on my hands, prompting me to look up at him with blurry eyes. "Hey," he says gently, "Lindsey, it's okay, I understand."

I smile, but it quickly transforms into a look shock and horror when I realize what he said. "Toby! Oh, God, I'm such a narcissist! I was thinking about myself and Fleur... but your father just - God, I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry, I just-"

"Lindsey," he repeats. "It's fine. Don't beat yourself up over it. You think about Fleur more than my father, obviously. Honestly, I have, too. Grief is strange, I guess. None of us know how to handle it, since most of you left come from privileged and tragedy-free families, and nothing of this magnitude has ever happened before. Most of the girls I 'chose' to send home were actually pulled out of the competition."

"I thought families couldn't do that."

"Under normal circumstances, they can't, but three girls and my father dead? We'd get sued if we tried to keep them here. Or maybe we'd be overrun with angry parents instead of rebels."

I laugh and Toby smiles. "Your laugh is nice," he comments. "It's more refreshing than Fleur's. Hers was always reserved, like she was afraid to be happy."

"Did she tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Did she tell you about her life? Did she tell you why she was here, and why she was so sad?"

He hesitates, as if he isn't quite sure of how to answer, but then replies, "Yes. She told me that she was here for her brother. Her family was a terrible, broken family; they were criminals, abusers, and sadly, parents. I don't think they cared about Fleur, or her brother, at all, really."