Esme’s house was destroyed.
Most of her windows were broken, part of the upstairs—where the mini grenade had gone off—was charred and ruined from the fire. The wood was all shot up with bullet holes, and the wooden steps were cracked. I sat on those cracked steps, not crying, but the old tears remained on my cheeks. In my hands were the broken shards of a flower pot, the plant lying strangled and flaccid on the sidewalk, and of everything, that was what had me so angry and distraught.
It was just a freaking plant. It did nothing but photosynthesize and live and try not to die. What right did they have to destroy it?
Nobody bothered me outside. And I was out there for hours, just staring at the dying plant and the broken pot, feeling so much rage and helplessness I thought I would explode. Eventually, though, the door opened, and August joined me on the step. He smelled like sweat and sawdust and exhaustion, if one could sense such a thing.
For the first few moments he didn’t talk. He braced his forearms on his knees, staring out into the woods, maybe imagining all the Prophets hiding out. Maybe wondering if any more were there now, watching us, waiting to shoot.
I found I didn’t even care if there were. Let them shoot. Let the pain end.
August grabbed a piece of gravel by his foot and rolled it in his palm. “When you said you were leaving, I thought you’d be gone for good.”
I said nothing, because there was nothing for me to say.
“You don’t deserve this, El. I don’t care what anybody says, you don’t. Nobody does.”
The plant was wilting, melting into the sidewalk with the intermittent late afternoon sun.
“How are your hands?”
“Fine,” I told him in a quiet whisper, nearly inaudible.
“Hm. Okay. I’ll pretend that’s true for the moment.” He tossed the rock and picked up another. “You know what I’m going to ask, right?”
I did. I just didn’t feel like answering. “Yes.”
“What did Muffy say to you?”
The first thing that came to mind was all the confusing government talk, and her knowledge of my tattoo. I almost mentioned it to August, but some things I believed were better kept to yourself. Until, at least, it was life or death. But there was nothing huge about a bunch of numbers branded to my back. Who knows. Maybe my parents had one too and it was a weird tradition thing. They died before I could care enough to ask. “Nothing,” I replied. “I want to fix this.”
“I don’t believe that.” He turned to me. “And fix what?”
“This pot.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What did she say?”
“A bunch of mumbo jumbo I didn’t listen to. I was drained.”
“Okay. For the sake of both our sanities, for the moment, I’ll pretend that’s true, too. So why do you want to fix the pot?”
YOU ARE READING
Alive (Book 1)
Action(Ellie Armstrong Trilogy Book #1) Ellie Armstrong was alive, and that was the problem. She was alive, and different, and for some reason, that made her dangerous. On the run from those who wish her harm, all she wants to do is survive and find answe...
