“It’s a .40 caliber Glock. It’s a subcompact so it’ll fit perfectly in your hands. Just try it.”
I stand with my feet shoulder-width apart, using both hands to steady myself. I shoot and miss the red circle around the target. Crap. I glance at others as they shoot, feeling self-conscious because they all seem comfortable with what they’re doing. Even the younger citizens seem at ease.
“It’s okay. You’ll get better with practice—lots of practice.” Keegan encourages me.
I exhale. I’ve got to improve. I fill my clip again and try from a closer standpoint. The gun kicks as I squeeze the trigger, but a small hole appears in the target. Excitement over this small accomplishment gives me some satisfaction. I try again and hit it again. It’s not close to the first hole, but I hit it twice in a row.
Saturday. I wake up and see two tin cans sitting in the corner of my room with two paintbrushes lying on top. I jump out of bed and touch them to make sure they’re real. Black paint fills the first one and the second one contains red. I inhale, and the fumes make me light-headed, but I don’t care. It’s here. It’s real, and I get to paint. Thank you, Keegan.
After grabbing a small breakfast at the cafeteria, I shuffle back to my room. I keep my head low, making sure to avoid eye contact with everyone. I have no desire for small talk. The only goal I have right now is to get back to my room without an incident.
I balance my body just right to ensure I don’t fall over when painting. This is different from anything I’ve ever painted before. It’s the future. I arrange the tins perfectly in order to access both colors. I brush up and down, left and right, red and black, black and red. My arms go numb from painting so long.
When I’m not eating, sleeping, or training, I paint. The tension melts away as I do it. I draw the silhouettes of my father and Alyssa sitting on Lexington bay, watching the waves roll in and out.
“What’s that?” Keegan asks as he points to the Monet-style paintings.
I jump, almost falling off the stool.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Just watching.”
I begin putting the brushes away and placing the lids back on the cans. “Squint your eyes and look left to right.”
His eyes widen as he inspects my work. “Holy cow. It’s the Hole getting blown to pieces,” he says while shaking his head. “Damn, that’s amazing. I didn’t know you could paint. It’s kinda Gothic. I like it.” He smiles with satisfaction until his eyes come to rest on part of the painting.
“Is that…?” He stares at the figure of our father.
“Yes, and my friend Alyssa who died of some kind of virus.”
“Was she from the outside?” He sits down on my bed, taking in the bay. It’s breathtaking even when painted in black and red.
“Yes, but she was exiled to the Hole.”
“So how’d you meet her?”
“At the hospital. She was very sick. Sutton did everything he could to save her.”
He looks at me with questioning eyes.
“There’s not a lot of meds available here. Maybe she would’ve survived if she was treated in another place.” It feels like years ago now but hurts all the same.
Keegan shakes his head in loathing. “That’s disgusting. How can they deny a life?”
“You’re a hypocrite.”
“What? How?”
“You’re going to deny lots of lives with this revolt.”
“That doesn’t count.”
I don’t respond.
“Who’s that laying in a puddle of blood?” he asks, changing the subject. His eyes squint as he peers at a small figure in the corner of the painting.
“Me.”
He nods with confusion. An uncomfortable silence lingers, so he stands and leaves.
I turn off my lights and lie in darkness. I smell like sweat, but getting in the shower requires energy, and right now, I don’t have any reserves. I kick off my boots but can’t kick this feeling of abandonment. I thought we both wanted the same thing—to be together. Isn’t this the only way?
I squeeze my eyes closed, but his face, his beautiful face, is etched perfectly in my mind—his long, dark lashes over his charcoal eyes, his dimples when he smiles, his full lips kissing me. Oh God, I’m withering inside.
CHAPTER 19
Tuesday. Target shooting.
Wednesday. Obstacles. Climbing ropes, scaling walls, running through a course, and crawling through another. My hands are raw and my knuckles are scabbed over. It’s the only thing that gives me comfort.
Thursday. Shooting moving targets, shooting while lying down, falling, running, jumping, shooting everything.
Friday. Scenario training.
Saturday. Knife training. Bomb training. Training in everything. It feels good to keep my brain busy.
Sunday. I run my finger up my calves and thighs, feeling the bumps and rigid muscles forming. I’m secretly satisfied.