Emily

July Short Story

I sat on the wooden bench - my back as straight as a rod and my eyes fixed on the plate of food in front of me. It was a small portion, but a portion nonetheless. All around me, the other Blessed nibbled at their food with ravenous hunger in their eyes, as if they wished to gobble it down but knew they'd be punished if they did.

I picked up the bread roll, turning it over in my hands. It was grey and stone cold – nothing like the golden-brown stuff we had Before. My teeth sunk into it, my mouth salivating as I realised how starving I was.

Clang!

A bell sounded in the dining hall. It was time for the Choosing.

Swaying slightly with the stifling heat, I stood patiently in line. The girl next to me – a scrawny thing of ten or eleven – was sniffling loudly. I longed to put my hand over her mouth; to tell her to be quiet; to hush for just a few seconds longer, before –

She crumpled to the ground.

I kept my eyes front as a bony hand was placed on my shoulder. Cold breath danced on my neck and I let a small grunt of discomfort escape my lips. It was a mistake.

A girl glided around me so that we were looking straight at each other. Her young face was pale and nervous – full of the fears of someone years older than her. Clumps of matted hair clung to her scalp and her teeth were yellow and uneven. Something about her looked familiar, but – hell – everyone looked the same these days. Worried. Lonely. Close to death.

"Matthew Kaden Dashner – Blessed," she said, her voice high-pitched and fast, "You have been chosen to complete a Blessing Ritual. Go to our master at The Field Of The Blessed immediately. This is a great honour."

Honour.

*

I stared at the bodies on the ground. At the girl covered in blood.

Her eyes narrowed as she stood up.

"You're late."

"Emily," my voice cracked with relief.

"Matthew," she said my name in her drawling Texan accent, the way she always did when she was upset or angry.

Hair billowed around her in the bitter cold wind as she stepped forward. I sunk to the ground, placing my hands on the grass with my palms facing upward – a sign of respect. She towered above me, as she always had, and even with blood drying in a smudge across her face, she was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that only Emily could be. Brave. Ferocious. Dangerous.

"Do not call me Emily again." Her voice was sharp and cold.

"Sorry, My Lady."

"Better."

She spun around and walked a few paces before turning to face me again. Her fighting gear was thick and heavy – it clung tightly to her skin. A sword gleamed on the floor; she bent to pick it up, curling her long fingers around the hilt and standing up.

"Rise, Matthew," she ordered.

I obliged.

"Hand."

Stepping towards her, I held out my left palm. The long, white scar on my thumb – from a hunting accident – shone in the moonlight. She came closer to me, so close I could see the mascara smudged along her waterline and the freckles dotted on her nose.

The sword extended and I felt the familiar sting as it cut into my flesh. Emily traced the shape of a five-point star. The blood warmed my skin – tricking down my arm as she encircled my wrist with her fingers and raised it to the sky. Red droplets splattered onto the blade of the sword beneath, dying the shiny silver crimson.

Her mouth curled into a warm smile as she released my wrist and my arm flopped to the side. I cut was deeper than usual – I could feel it – and stinging painfully. I wanted to examine it, but to do so would be a sign of weakness.

"Matthew?"

"Yes, My Lady?"

"You may go now."

Then she swept past me and I was left alone in the darkness, the sound of her voice ringing in my ears.

*

The battle raged on, fire torches lighting the sky. Terror was everywhere. I kept my fingers tightly around the hilt of the sword – so hard that my knuckles turned white. My mouth was dry and itchy and my head ached from trying not to cry. I wanted to cry. I wanted to curl up into a ball and sob until there were no tears left. But I couldn't.

I raised the sword instead, gingerly making my way across the battlefield.

A boy charged towards me, holding a knife. He wasn't more than ten years old; blood and snot ran down his face. He wasn't evil. He couldn't have been. But they didn't care. He was their enemy. And I was expected to kill him.

I dropped the sword.

His eyes filled with shock and terror and I knelt to his level. Jet black hair fell into his eyes but he made no effort to push it back. My chest ached at the cruelty; hot tears pooled in my eyes. He was a child.

A child.

"Do it," I whispered, pulling his hand towards me and pressing the tip of the blade to my heart, "It's OK."

He obeyed.

My body lurched backwards, my head smashing against the hard ground. It wasn't painful. It wasn't really anything. Just black.

Someone took my hand, their cold fingers curling around mine.

Emily.

"I loved you, My Lady," I whispered, my breaths shallow and raspy.

"You may now call me Emily."

I closed my eyes.