Savage

Chapter Three - Treyton

Chapter Three

Treyton

Rule Number Six: Never stand in front of an uncovered window.

Mom would slap me upside the head if she knew what I was doing. Luckily for me, she's upstairs taking a shower or a bath or something like that. I lean my elbows against the window sill and move my face only inches from the glass. From this window, I can see a wide cluster of trees, along with a short rocky expanse a few feet to the right.

Watch-the-forest is one of my favorite self-torture games. I like to stand in front of a window and remind myself of everywhere I'm not allowed to go. I'm hardly allowed to leave my bedroom, let alone the house. But I have. It wasn't until a year and a half ago that I finally got the nerve to sneak out in the middle of the night. It was terrifying and cold, but I liked the way air moved, I liked the wind and the pine scent. I've only been to the forest twice in the last six months because Mom's been suspicious of late. Part of me wants to tell her how amazing it was to finally be free, but I know she'd never understand.

I'm just about to unlatch the window, just to breathe the air, when Mom's heavy footsteps pound overhead. I immediately spring from the window and into my room, which is about the smallest bedroom you could ever imagine. It's thin and rectangular and meant to be a storage space. I have a whopping two pieces of furniture: Mom's old mattress and a run-down treadmill. Wedged between the two is a meager supply of weights, most of which are far too light to be useful.

I dip under the treadmill's front bar and start messing with the old-fashioned controls. It's a little loud for Mom's preference, which is why I usually don't use it, but today, I'm not really in the mood for quiet. I start running, pausing every few minutes to crank the speed up another notch. I let my eyes fall shut and imagine that somehow, I've escaped this dinky basement and entered the lush forest. There are no glass walls or cramped bedrooms, only miles of rough-skinned trees.

"Treyton."

I have no idea how long I've been going, but there's a thick layer of sweat on my arms and chest. I pinch my eyes tighter and try to stay with the green fantasy.

"Treyton," says Mom again. Her voice is just as quiet, only closer now.

I lock my chin to my chest and pretend that her voice is just an echo of the Torrentum River. She says my name again, this time with a sharper tone. She knows I can hear her, but she won't yell at me. I've never heard her scream or cry or lose her cool for even a second. She's always in-control, ready to adapt to whatever is thrown at her. I know that her composed nature is what's kept me alive for the last several years, but I'm tired of all the whispers and hand motions and written notes.

"Treyton." Her cold fingers press against my wrist.

"What?" I ask. I click the emergency stop button and snap my hand from hers.

"The new neighbors are here," she says. "One woman, two children."

"Okay?" I brush past her and take my shirt off. "I'll be here, as usual."

"Don't get smart with me," she says. "I need you to set up the hologram. I'm going to clean up the house, in case they ask to come inside."

"Fine," I say. My chest feels like it's about to freaking explode, but in a good way. Like maybe I'll just die before the government has a chance to kill me.

"Do you want the Statio?" she asks. "They'll probably be over sometime today."

I shake my head, but then change my mind and nod. I doubt I'll actually watch the meeting. There are only so many times you can watch women chatting without wanting to gouge your eyes out.

"Give me the signal if you see them coming," says Mom. She hands me the Statio from her back pocket and leaves.

Her fists are clenched and she's doing that look-back-every-other-step thing that she only does when she wants me to know she's mad. I want to tell her I couldn't care less whether she's mad at me, but she's too far away and I'm not allowed to raise my voice.

The neighbors do end up coming. I barely catch it in time, too. If it wasn't for the woman's pumpkin-colored hair, I never would've seen them. I pound my fist against the ceiling three times, loud enough for Mom to hear, but quiet enough that none of the neighbors will. Then I set up the hologram, which hangs from the ceiling like a clunky ornament, and watch as my room dissolves into an innocent storage room, full of dusted boxes. At least, that's what Mom tells me. I can only see the neon blue light, cutting against my eyes every time I open them.

The Statio is a handheld recording system, which connects to our outside security cameras. There are three views: the street, the porch, and the house's second floor. I switch to the porch view and watch as Mom roughly greets the three women. Of course, I don't actually know how she's greeting them since there's no sound. But with Mom, it's safe to assume the conversation isn't pleasant.

They don't stay long. The red-haired woman and tan-skinned girl stand just behind the blonde one. She's kind of strange looking with a crooked nose and creepily pale features. Still, I like looking at her for reasons I can't explain. She rocks back on her heels and scratches her head and purses her lips. She looks like she's about to pass out from nerves, which means Mom must be doing the bad-cop routine. As always.

And then they're gone. Mom waits ten minutes before returning to my room. She tucks her dark hair behind her ears and holds her hand toward the Statio.

"How were they?" I ask.

"Fine."

"Think they'll be any trouble?" I can't help but ask that question. All it takes is one suspicious neighbor to get the police sniffing around the area, and that's the last thing we need. As much as I hate this house, I know it's nothing compared to a Brute ward. From what Mom tells me, the men are starved, beaten, even killed. She could be exaggerating, but I doubt it.

"No, they're fine." Mom switches the Statio views once or twice before pushing it into her pocket.

"What was the girl's name?" I ask.

"Which one?" Her eyes do that suspicious what-are-your-intentions look.

"The blonde one," I say, trying to sound casually. Of course, I can't act casual when asking about a woman.

"I can't remember," says Mom, which I know is a lie. Mom remembers everything. "Why do you want to know?"

"No reason," I say with a shrug. But of course there's a reason. She's my age and she's intriguing and she could be my friend, if only I had been born the superior gender.

"Well, she's fine. Don't waste time thinking about her," says Mom.

But I do. I wonder about her. And I hate myself for not paying more attention to her visit. Was she wearing a dress? How long was her hair? Did she seem nice? It doesn't matter though because she lives beyond my glass house, and I never will.