Pit

Chapter 3

TRIS POV

I wake up with a headache and dry cheeks.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I glance at the clock and realize that I slept in for three hours longer than I should have. Dez was supposed to wake me up on time so we could go work in the fields. Oh well, no point in rushing now.

The effects of my crying fit from the previous night are still present. My nose is nearly impossible to breathe through, and I feel drowsy with nostalgia. The sleeves of Tobias's sweatshirt have been ruined by my salty tears.

I would like to think this was a hiccup in my attitude, but I know better. For the last few months, I have been slipping back into the familiar depths of depression, and it wouldn't surprise me if these moments of overwhelming sadness hit me again periodically. It has become increasingly difficult to hold it together when I have nobody to hold me together.

With a sigh to myself, I pull the hood up over my head and curl up with my back to the window.

Sometimes his absence makes me want to shut down. Sometimes, when I remember the way he whispered my name, I want to kick and scream and break things.

My eyes sting from incoming tears, and I shut them tightly. No. I did this last night, and I refuse to dwell on how much I miss him again. It will only chip off another piece of me.

Struggling to find a distraction or some relief, I reach toward the nightstand and remove the last thing Tobias gave to me: his gun.

It is oddly comforting to me as I pass it back and forth between my palms—my airway isn't so tight anymore. It reminds me of draining days in the training room, and how it used to make me feel in control when I shot a gun. Now I am too tainted to enjoy cradling the metal weapon in my hands, but at least I can hold it without panicking. That's a start, I guess.

Maybe I take comfort in the fact that he left me this piece of him so that I could protect myself if it came down to it. Or really, I see it as him protecting me. With that thought in mind, I remove my pocketknife from the drawer too and begin carving into the rubber part of the grip.

My fear landscape comes to mind as I work. If a war is indeed approaching, then I need to think through my fear of guns. Can I hold a gun? Yes. Can I shoot it? I suppose.

Could I shoot someone if it came down to it?

I'm not sure I can answer that question yet by the way my stomach swells with dread. For now though, I can ponder the idea until I can convince myself that I would do it to protect the people I love. Maybe I already can, but there is no guarantee that I won't freeze up when the time comes.

Despite my low value of my life, I need to be able to defend myself if I want to have any chance of making it home someday.

I will start this process of building confidence by having the strength I need pressed right into my palm.

With a satisfied smile, I skim my thumb over the symbol now permanently etched into the gun.

4

xXxXx

"Sorry I missed you in the fields today," Dez apologizes when we sit down to dinner. "One of my friends needed some help tending to the chickens and—"

"You're fine, Dez. You don't have to explain yourself." I pause to skim my fingers over each other, testing for pain. My hands are raw from the grueling work that my job entailed today. I have to admit, it is nothing like bashing my knuckles into a leather bag.

Remembering that I am sort of bothered by her, I chastise, "You shouldn't have let me sleep in so late this morning though."

My friend darts her eyes around the cafeteria until they settle on her plate. "I'm sorry, I just..." She figures out her word choice. "I don't want you to be embarrassed or anything, but I heard you crying last night."