Burning Sunflowers

Chapter 2

"Violet, sweetie, its time to get up," my father's voice carries throughout the house, surely coming from his regular place at our kitchen table. The smell of sweet syrup wafting up with it to meet my nose making my stomach turn sour. 

"Coming!" I'm not sure why I expect my answer to sound any different today as if the decision I must make would somehow change my very being. It feels as if it should. 

I force myself from my bed, turning back to glance at the bright red covers and yellow sheets, the colors always too bold to reside in a place to sleep in my opinion. 

Putting my thoughts aside, I mechanically get dressed, opting for a tank top, being persuaded by the first hint of warm sun peeking through my window in weeks. 

My window. 

My chair.

My bed. 

My dresser. 

Things I didn't think I could preemptively miss staring at me, creating a hole in my chest. Tears well in my eyes as I take one last survey of my room and close the door on my childhood. 

At some point last night I had made the decision that I must leave. 

"Vi-" I cut my father's call off short, pacing into the kitchen and giving him his customary hug. 

"Good morning, girly," he speaks into my ear. The smell of him envelops me, trees and grass and the plant-based detergent that all families in Amity use. 

"Morning, daddy." My response, in front of anyone but my family would make me feel childish, not at all the brash girl of 18 that I am to the world. But here, in the room I've eaten in for all my years of life, in the arms of my father, it feels right. 

"Come on, the food will get cold if you two don't hurry up," my mother teases. 

At this we both let go, him flashing me a soft smile that I mirror. 

"Someone's just jealous," he whispers to me with a wink. 

"Come here," I turn and say, listening to the warmth of my mother's laugh as I give her a hug as well. I catch a glance at the clock from over her shoulder and a fresh wave of panic shoots over me, making me pull away too quick.

"Uh, did anyone notice the time?" 

At my comment, a harsh horn blares through the house three times. The signal from the trucks that they're about to leave. 

"Oh, shoot. You didn't even get to eat," concern laces the face in front of me, her hands still placed on my shoulders. 

"Its alright, Hazel, she can just eat when we return. We'll make it a family affair, maybe even invite over all the kids, I'm sure Violet will be wanting to ask them all questions on the initiation process considering how recent they went through it." My father's assurance, though calming to my mother, only brings me a new wave of guilt as we rush out of our house. 

Not our house anymore, but theirs. 

+ + +

People fill the large room quickly, forcing the bulk of Amity to take a seat sooner than they'd like. My parents and I lay claim to a set of seats towards the front, as customary for families of an ancestry such as ours. Our lineage has sat in these seats every year for as long as the ceremony has existed.  Most of my friends, Beck especially, are located near the back, left to work their way up with more and more faithful generations. 

If my blood is to land anywhere else but in the bowl of soil today, I will be a shun on this tradition, casting my family and their next offspring to the farthest most chairs from the center. 

My palms sweat as I watch Marcus Eaton make his way to the small raised platform, this year being Abnegation's to host. My mind trails off while he speaks of the formation of the factions, having heard this many times before. My parents sit at my right, leaving me the aisle seat so I may rise uninhibited when my name is called. 

This also leaves me with my left to the Abnegation and to their left the Dauntless. Even in the midst of a serious occasion, I see many them struggle to stay still, their legs bouncing and hands twitching, much like mine do now as well. 

Am I really to join them? Am I to cast aside my comfortable life for one of- what? Brutality? That is at least what my parents and peers whisper when the black-clad soldiers walk past us. My faction sees Dauntless as a group of overly pierced neanderthals with a killing streak. Not exactly the kindest view, but a long-held stereotype nonetheless; one that has stopped any transfers from our faction to theirs in the past 30 years. Even then, it's unsure if the Amity even made it through their initiation, some gossip saying as much as that the poor man died before he stepped foot into their compound. 

"Beck Forester." 

I'm ripped back into reality as I hear his name and turn to watch him rise from his seat. I feel his eyes land on me but can't allow myself to meet them, knowing their intensity with make me question my decision.  Nevertheless, his hand grips my shoulder gently as he walks past, making my stomach flip. 

He steps with confidence, his body well built, muscular from all his work on the farms. I hear feminine whispers around me, no doubt admiring what we can all see. I watch him take the knife, its place in his hand so foreign that even he seems taken aback by it. He hesitates for a moment, and I can tell that the weapon has managed to scare him. 

He cuts the skin on his palm, turning so I can no longer see the red puddle forming, and swiftly lets it fall into the bowl in front of him. 

Only, it makes a splash when it hits. 

The room goes still. 

"Erudite." 

What? No, no that's not right. The Beck I know is Amity incarnate.

Surely enough, he takes the bandage given to him and walks to a separate group than from which he came. One that is covered in blue. 

No, he was supposed to stay, to make up for my leaving. He was supposed to be the one to explain to my family that I did this out of nature, not hate. 

"Violet Fairweather." 

Oh, God. 

My mother squeezes my hand as I rise and a see a confident smile on her face. It makes my heart palpitate. 

I walk to the bowl on legs that would shake if I was any less shocked. Meeting Marcus' deep blue eyes, I feel myself take the knife from him but don't mentally comprehend what it is that I hold. So this is what a weapon feels like. 

The handle of the blade is one of polished wood, the metal a shining silver. Nothing like the butter knives my family uses at the dinner table. 

The Abnegation leader gives me a nod as if telling me to choose already, and with that, I slice my palm. A sting spreads its way up my arm, but I pay it no mind. I watch as the blood pools in my palm, only I can't do as Beck did, allowing my choice to be made with my backed turned and head down. 

No, the bowl I need sits in a direct line with the seats my faction takes.  

My arm doesn't wobble as I extend it and let my blood sizzle on hot coals. 

"Dauntless."