Truth (a Divergent Fanfic)

Chapter Eleven

"It's hard to answer the question 'What's wrong?' when nothing's right."~ Anonymous

*****

Candor is keeping a secret from me. Imagine that. Candor keeping a secret. God, I can’t tell you how much I’m laughing at the irony of this right now.

For once, this afternoon, nothing is scheduled. I mean, normally on your average day, not much happens that is exciting but it happens nonetheless. I stare at the timetable on the computer in shock, because the only words on it are ‘Trainer Only Information’.

And the first thought that crops up in my mind is that I need to know what we are doing, just in case it requires preparation (mentally or physically) and basically just because I’m curious and nosy and Erudite at heart. It’s a puzzle, burning its way through my veins, and somehow, for my sake and Callie’s sake and Jules’s sake, I must fit the pieces together.

The only question is how.

There are certain things that I have always had… let’s say special talents in. and the only thing I will ever give credit to Eric Peter Seacole for is for hurting me enough so that one day at first school, I snapped. My world imploded, and I honestly don’t remember what I really did in my state of madness, but I do know that somehow I knocked myself out.

When I woke, I was in the medical station. A quiet nurse stood over me, addressing to the sizeable and sticky-with-blood gash on my forehead, and a silent, Abnegation boy sat, with his head lowered so that I could not see his face, sat on the edge of my bed, trying in the way that only that faction does, to pretend that only the rest of the world exists, and not himself. Only his hands were moving, twisting, but I couldn’t quite see what was gripped between those pale fingers.

Slowly, I inched my body upwards to a sitting position, and the covers fell off my frail, broken body. I noticed a scar on the boy’s right cheek. Without thinking, I reached out to touch it, but as soon as my fingers made contact with the skin of his face, he flinched away from me, not in any physical pain, but in fright. His eyes raised themselves from the floor to look at me, and his eyes almost immediately captivate me. He had fascinating deep-set dark blue eyes, so dark that they were almost black, and long, beautiful lashes decorated them, but it was the small patch of lighter blue on the left iris, right on the corner of his eye, that convinced me to trust him. Somehow, I could sense that he was a kindred spirit. Somehow, I could tell in an empathetic way, without even knowing his name, that he had been broken too – something about his family, about his life, had changed him and tempered him, and under pressure, he had snapped, like I had done today. What had I done? Had I hurt anyone? I stared again at the scar across his high, delicate cheekbone.

My voice shook with fright as I asked him the question that I had to know the answer to: “Di-Did I do that to you?”

Silently, the boy shook his head, which was a relief, but he didn’t offer any information on who had, either. I leaned my head forward to see him better, but my caramel hair swung forward, obstructing my view. As I reached my arm up to brush it away, a searing pain shot through it, causing me to wince in pain and cry out. Instinctively, my other arm rushed to cradle the aching limb, which I didn’t even remember injuring. Apparently I had contracted short-term memory loss.