Instead, I wrote myself into a role, defined my character by cruelty; painted myself into the image of a cold, unfeeling monster with a single weakness.
The story suited me.
The story saved me.
Even now, I wonder whether Klaus was able to see to the deeper truth beyond my shields. I wonder if that’s why he sentenced me to death. I wonder if he knows about Clara’s dreams. I wonder what Clara knows about herself. I wonder whether there’s any point in wondering.
My life has been death since it began.
There seems no cause for celebration in the realization that murders great and small are my only strengths. There seems no need for examination of a life that will end shortly.Only in brief, occasional bursts of unsuppressed fear do I wonder how, exactly, Warner was able to activate my own weapon against me.
But this isn’t the time for reflection.
Once I’m certain the footsteps have quieted and the path has cleared, I tighten my cold grip on the rifle and push deeper into the alley, searching for an outlet.
Cursory studies of the area revealed little.
I tried to make a mental map based on signs and cues gathered during the walk from Nazeera’s house to the waffle shop, but it was after dark, and there was little to distinguish this neighborhood from others I’d seen upon escaping from prison.
The only notable difference is that this area seems more walkable.
There are fewer cars overall. The streets seem unusually dead at this hour. Many shops already appear to be closed, despite the fact that the sun went down only recently. I wonder, again, at the number of soldiers I’d seen in plainclothes at the diner.
You’ll be safe on campus, James had said to his brother.
I hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time, but now I’m beginning to wonder. I draw my hand along a brick wall as I go, reading the streets for secrets. There’s no gum or trash beaten into the brick, no chipped edges or obvious wear. Things feel especially clean here; newer, neater. Garbage bins are arranged tidily in the alleys, undisturbed; I see no signs of graffiti.
She’s pretty contained in The Waffle, Nazeera had said.
The Waffle.
The sign outside the diner had readThe Waffle’s Waffles.
A feeling of foreboding creeps up my neck, low-grade fear pushing against my mind. Where are all the soldiers? Where is the mayhem, the urgency, the chaos of upheaval?
Why is there no indication of disturbance?
I dart from dark corner to dark corner and, save the occasional gust of wind rattling a bin or scattering leaves, I hear nothing. No distant sounds or cries.
No footsteps. No voices.
It’s too quiet.
My heart picks up as I run, stealthily dodging shafts of light and imagined movement. My eyes widen as I go, pupils dilating in the gloom to read the quaint shop signs above darkened windows—
The Kitchen
Mo’s Market
Alphabet Snacks
Snips & Blooms
I come to an abrupt halt. I look around, my eyes pinging off picturesque buildings and perfectly paved sidewalks. Green areas have been forged gently throughout the neighborhoods, teardrops of grass and sweeping bike paths intercut with occasional swing sets and clean benches. My heart pounds harder as I take it all in, my breaths puffing in the cold.
It doesn’t feel real.
I tell myself it’s quiet because so many people were called away at once; I tell myself there’s no foot traffic because people have gone indoors, taking shelter.
