In a nightmare world ravaged by misery, the Imperium offers utopia to a select few. When Arya and Everett are recruited into this elite society, they choose to leave their homes against their families' wishes.
Naive and young, Arya and Everett are...
I pull away from Everett just enough to catch a breath of the rain-soaked air. His lips stretch into a smile against my cheek, and I find myself grinning in response. Standing with him on a lush carpet of green, under a velvety ceiling of blue, the sudden realization this moment is only fleeting knocks the euphoria right out of me.
At that moment, a sharp sting on the base of my spine causes me to yelp and collide forcefully with Everett. Instinctively, I press my open palm to the throbbing spot on my back.
Everett drapes a protective arm around my shoulder when his attention flits to a point directly behind me. Turning slowly, I find almost a dozen citizens standing in a tight cluster. The man in the front is holding up his shears, the sharp ends eagerly raised to shove me again.
"Get back to work," he barks to be heard over the rain, his mouth twisted in a vulgar scowl.
Cursing under his breath, Everett surges forward, his fist raised in the air. The citizens take a shaky step backward, but the one with the shears still has his blades raised menacingly.
"Don't, Everett! Please!" I scramble to grab him, pulling him away so his knuckles miss the angry citizen's clenched jaw by an inch. I coax him towards the rows of bushes where the remaining citizens watch us in silence.
Once we take our places at the last two rows in the garden, the citizens return to work, their faces reverting to the usual impassiveness.
The adrenaline ebbs from my system, and I become acutely aware of the constant ache in my back. I can already feel a large, menacing bruise coloring my skin. As I look around, my eyes land on the pair of shears and gloves I had dropped before Everett and I fled from the rain. I'm clenching my teeth - bracing myself for the fresh wave of pain that is sure to come if I bend to pick them up - when Everett swiftly snatches them from the ground for me. A grateful sigh of relief escapes my lips.
"Are you okay?" he asks, handing me the gloves and shears, the blades glinting with drops of rainwater. His kind blue eyes, which were smiling into mine just a few minutes ago, are now burning with anguish. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm okay, and it's not your fault." I give a small smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. Tipping my head towards the uncut leaves, I mutter, "Let's just get this over with."
We fall silent as we return to work, and the rain gradually recedes before completely disappearing. I work in silence, raising my eyes to reassure Everett whenever he turns to glance at me worriedly.
As the sky progressively turns into darker shades of blue, raindrops drain away from the leaves and pink petals, and along with them, the last traces of the only good thing about today disappear into the fading light.
▲
Two days later, my back still hurts to the touch. Although I can't see the bruise, I feel its presence in the form of dull pain every time I lie on my back.
Now, the afternoon sun shines down on the botanical garden, so bright and warm that the rain from the other day feels like a figment of my imagination. The only sound in the air is a distorted chorus of several pairs of shears fastidiously snipping the bushes.
I stop for a break, dropping my shears and gloves to the ground before reaching for the canteen hanging from a loop on my suit. The insides of my eyelids are bright red as I close my eyes and take a swig of the water. Returning the bottle to its place, I grab the shears and hold them up to the sunlight. A small, deep green stem has somehow attached itself to one of the blades. Unthinkingly, I lift one hand - unprotected by the gloves - to the razor-sharp blade in an attempt to remove the stem.
And that's when a memory slams into me with so much force that I feel like I've run straight into a wall.
My mother, weeping in pain next to me as I pretended to sleep, while my father applied a salve on the ugly red welts in her palms. Welts that grew bigger and bloodier every day that she toiled in the mills.
"I promise you, I'll make everything better," my father said fiercely. "The Resistance is going to change everything."
I'm forced back into the present with a jolt, and I don't notice the pain until my vision focuses on the gash across three of my fingers, sliced open by the shears, blood streaking down my palm. Gasping, I drop the blades and scramble away.
"E-Everett," I cry out, unhooking my canteen and spilling what's left of my water on the wound. Everett looks up from his row of flowers, his eyes widening as they fall on my blood-soaked fingers.
"Arya!" he yells, throwing his gloves and shears to the side and rushing over. "What happened?!"
"It's my fault, I wasn't concentrating," I mumble. When I notice him pulling out his canteen to clean my hand with his share of water, I shake my head vehemently. The movement makes me dizzy, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay upright. "No, it's your-"
"Shh," he interjects, wrapping one hand around my wrist to hold it steady. Furrowing his eyebrows at the relentless flow of blood, he sighs worriedly.
"It doesn't hurt that bad," I lie with a half-hearted shrug, watching the clean water cascade over the wound.
Unconvinced, Everett - still holding onto my wrist in his gentle grip - leads me away from our rows of sickly-sweet smelling blooms. He stops in front of the woman closest to us and says, "We need help, please, she's hurt. Can you tell us where to go?"
The woman throws a cursory glance at us before silently returning to her work. The neighboring citizens swiftly turn away when Everett implores them pleadingly.
"They won't help us," I say softly, resting my uninjured hand on his tense shoulder.
"That place where we met the Foreman. He's our only choice."
I consider disagreeing, but my throbbing hand causes me to begrudgingly walk with Everett towards the arch covered in white blooms. The petals shimmer in strange, hypnotizing patterns under the bright sun.
The moment we step out of the archway, the sound of alarms shatters the afternoon tranquility. Seized by panic, I stop short and tug Everett back towards the garden.
"Arya, it'll be okay," he says firmly. He turns to face me, his back to the sun, a golden-orange halo forming around his wavy hair. "Let's go find that building, fast."
With a resigned nod, I throw a glance at the botanical garden over my shoulder before breaking into a run alongside Everett as the sirens continue to roar.
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