𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒, divergent

chapter one, ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴰᴼ ʸᴼᵁ ᴮᴱᴸᴼᴺᴳ?

My story starts today.

On this somewhat dreaded day, the aptitude test will tell me where I belong: Abnegation, the selfless; Amity, the peaceful; Candor, the honest; Dauntless, the brave; or Erudite, the intelligent. On this day, I'm supposed to find out who I am and where I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life.

It's a daunting thought: that, tomorrow, a sixteen-year-old like myself has to make such a life-changing decision that will alter the way our narratives go. Even more so when I know I can't back out of that decision, whatever goes, is final. The Choosing Ceremony will change the course of my life forever.

With that formidable thought lingering in my head, I climb out of bed. My feet touch the cold, concrete floor. It's a dreary gray color that resembles the dullness of my bedsheets, and my clothes, and the walls, and nearly everything else in this house. Everything in this damned faction is the same lusterless color. I swiftly make my bed, knowing that if I didn't, my mother, Gemma, would scold me. She yells a lot, but I know it's only because of the environment she grew up in.

After slipping into a new set of clothes, I step out of my room. There's a quiet and soft click that echoes when the lock snaps into place. My simple long-sleeved dress swoops to my ankle, the crisp hem tickling my skin with each swaying movement of my body. I'm met by my sister, Dawn, who exits her room at the same time. She's only a year younger than me, yet she looks far more youthful. Her expression is pure and innocent, still partially heedless to the darkness of the divided society we live in.

Oh, what I'd do to be in her shoes again.

When we were younger, around the age of toddlers, people would sometimes confuse us as twins. I've always thought that those people were visually impaired because although we look similar enough, it has never been to that extent.

I nod at Dawn as a greeting and make my way towards one of the hallways. I spot my mother already there, waiting for me. Her dark, almost black, hair is already swept into a simple knot, which tells me that my father, Greyson, had taken the liberty of cutting her hair for her. My father and I like to take turns when it came to who cut my mother's hair.

It's the second day of the third month, which means that we, as Abnegations, are allowed to glance into a mirror for a short amount of time—it's always when we get our haircut. Something about rejecting vanity, or so I'm told. I can't help but admit that I've broken that rule before . . . numerous times.

I lazily place myself on a stood. My mother circles the seat until she stands behind me, her chin jutted up, and her shoulders rolled back. Metal scissors settle comfortably in her calloused hands. The mirror is out, no longer hiding behind the sliding panel. I look into it, only to be met by my own dark brown eyes as the sound of hair being trimmed resounds softly into the air. Dark strands fall to the insipid ground in a messy ring.

Time passes by quietly, but not as briskly as I'd like. Sitting still for long periods has never been a strong suit of mine; I get too fidgety. Finally, though, my mother finishes cutting my hair and pulls it into a neat, low-hanging bun. My mother, knowing my habits, leaves a few curled strands out, letting them frame my face and making it appear smaller than it actually is.

I like to think that three months is enough to change the way I look, but I am sorely mistaken. Nothing around these parts of the city ever changes, not even me—bummer. I still look as I did three months ago: rosy complexion dotted with tan freckles, an oval face, wide, round eyes, and a button nose—I still look like my mother.

Not that it's a bad thing.

But sometimes I wish I had some of my father's features—his light eyes, maybe, or even his bright smile. He looks like a big, soft cuddly bear beside my mother, whose sunken, athletic build makes her look like some fighter.