Chasm

Chapter 22

TRIS POV

The apartment is stuffy and gloomy when I enter, the summer rain probably having something to do with it. It is barely dawn, though it is difficult to tell with the clouds looming overhead. I watch the heavy drops trickle down the near floor-to-ceiling windows before I remember why I am here.

I sniffle and rub my stinging eyes, finding that I can't seem to shake off the remnants of my harsh crying. I was up all night, and if I didn't have other things to take care of, I wouldn't find it in me to deny my body of its much-needed sleep; the quilt on the bed makes my heart constrict as it simultaneously calls out my name.

In his closet there is a duffel bag. I pull it out and begin filling it with clothes—comfortable shirts, sweatpants, underwear, socks. I won't be back here for a while, so I don't see it as a harmful thing that I take as much as could possibly be needed. That must explain why I take the computer too.

On my way out, I glance back at the bare apartment, desperate to stay. But that isn't a realistic option anymore.

As soon as I step into the hallway, my hood is up and over my head. I keep my face down to conceal it. The Erudite haven't released anything yet as far as I know, but I am not keen on showing my face even before it comes. Who knows how quickly they will find me with just a simple article.

Dauntless is already lively at this time of morning. People bustle about and run through their daily routines. The newly initiated members are probably signing up for their lifelong occupations, or still celebrating their survival. It could have been that easy for me if I had heeded my brother's advice to stay out of trouble.

But reckless is who I am.

I cross the Pit, lingering in the shadows of the rock walls. Nobody pays attention to me and for that I am glad. I go unnoticed by doctors and nurses when I walk into the infirmary too, as they yawn into their coffees and check on patients.

The infirmary is wide and open, since there are too many injuries to account for in Dauntless, and there is no point of walls getting in the way of extra beds. However, I am thankful that the bed I am heading to is the one in the far corner and is sectioned off by a curtain.

Tobias looks the same as how I left him: pale, peaceful, but still lacking consciousness. The doctors had stripped him of his clothes so they could provide life-saving medical help, leaving him clad in only his black boxer briefs. I notice that they have raised his leg with some kind of hanging support in preparation for when he wakes up; with the bullet wound in the back of his thigh, it would be painful to lie flat.

I set the duffel on the floor and take a seat on the creaking chair next to the bed, curling my legs up into my chest.

He was lucky. The doctors told me that I didn't have much reason to be worried about him dying in the first place, even from blood loss. The bullet went straight into his leg and dug itself in, but it managed to miss everything important, even nerves. It was imbedded in the muscle, and he was perfectly safe once they removed it.

Their reassurances did nothing to erase the distress that still hasn't worn off. And it certainly doesn't take back what he told me in his deathlike state.

It was too surreal to think that I was going to move in with him without issues, choose a workplace, settle my life here in Dauntless. This experience—and my inner struggle that accompanied it—served to confirm that. But frustrating as it is, I am more appalled by the tiny, sickening piece of me that wants to put temporary space in between us because of it.