Three
We walk up three flights of shaky steps. There isn't enough room for us to walk side by side, so Brandon walks in front of me, the duffel bag in his hand which he holds about level with his waist. His shoes make loud thumping noises against the thin concrete steps. The rusty rails vibrate under the palms of my hands with each step he takes.
The third floor is the top. I pause for a second and take in the view. Buildings stretch into the distance. The afternoon light reflects off of them, most that same pale white color. The groups mill about out front still; most of them haven't even changed their position.
Brandon stands in front of a door near the stairs. It's the apartment on the corner. He opens the door for me and lets me walk in first. "I don't know what you're used to, but I know this can't compare." His voice is gentle as he walks in after me and shuts the door quietly.
I press my lips together as I survey the main room. It's a small apartment. The kitchen and the main room are connected. Really the only thing separating them is the small kitchen island. The rest of the apartment is sparse. The white walls are completely bare, and the furniture is old and well used. By the front door sits a small breakfast nook type table with a couple of mismatched chairs pulled up to it. A little further in there is an old couch and a small table.
Brandon steps past me with my bag and heads to the door at the other end of the small room. When he opens the door, I catch a glimpse of a bed made with old blankets. He drops my bag on the bed before he turns around and comes back.
My stomach grumbles, but I'm not quite sure what to say. I just met him, and my head is still swimming.
“You must be hungry.” He smiles as he motions for me to have a seat at the table. "I'll make us some sandwiches."
I nod. The seat I take creaks and wiggles as I watch him in the kitchen. Brandon gathers plates, a loaf of bread, and a knife. He turns around and opens the fridge to take out a small jar of spread. In the quick glimpse I get of the darkened shelves, I can see he's using it as a pantry to stock cans and jars.
I take another glance around the room taking stock of the electrical outlets. All of them are completely bare against the wall. Not a single thing is plugged in. Sitting on one of the tables near the couch, I notice the lamp. It has a knit rope through it with one end soaking up oil from the base. One end is burned.
They don't have electricity. Do they even have working plumbing?
Brandon glances up at me as he puts the sandwiches together. “Don't worry. We do have working toilets.” His eyes twinkle when I turn to look at him. “You just had that look.”
He steps around the kitchen island and hands me a plate with the sandwich on it before he steps back to grab a cup and a jug of clear liquid. “Water. We've got running water, but I wouldn't suggest drinking it.”
"Thank you," I say as I accept the plate from him.
"So you do speak." He grins at me.
I look away from his bright eyes. He doesn't look that old, but I know he's older than me. Though there are no lines on the pale skin of his face, his hands and neck are thicker than the boys I went to school with. He's not that much older than me. I'd guess probably in his early twenties.
"Sorry." The word slips out even as I don't look at him. "It's just..." My throat tightens and the words stop.
He takes a bite of his sandwich and nods. “S'okay. I know.” Oddly, it does seem as if he understands. “After you eat, you should get some rest.”
I nod as I reach for my sandwich. My hand feels heavy. The fingers sink into the soft bread before I've even picked it up.
In the small bedroom, I lay on the bed under the covers. Brandon had suggested I do whatever I need to get comfortable. He said I could stay in the bedroom for as long as I want.
My stomach twists some more, not in hunger, but with the complete wrongness of this entire situation. Under the covers, my jeans and shirt feel thick and make it difficult to move freely. The pillow is cold and unfamiliar. A light musky scent tickles my nose through the clean pillow case.
Wildlanders are savages. Since the Revolution, they've had to live that way. They fight to survive. I wasn't expecting to see an apartment with furniture and a bed.
People are talking and laughing in the alley behind the building. I don't dare look. What little I've seen has been enough. I didn't know what to expect. In school, they don't prepare you for banishment. A good Neutral wouldn't be banished.
My hair falls over my nose and mouth and I don't move it. I focus my attention on the strands as my inhaled breaths pull them against my lips only to push them away again when I exhale. It works well for a short while, but soon I find myself laying still, staring at the wall, curling even tighter into a ball.
Who are these people and why am I here? The thought circles through like a whirlwind and in the eye of the storm are quiet thoughts of my mother that I try to ignore. But they sit in the center, a weight on my heart that squeezes my chest anytime I look too closely at them. There is nothing I can do for her and it hurts to realize it.
I lie on my side on the bed with a hand on my chest. Once the pain begins I lean forward, pressing my fist against the bone protecting my heart and crushing the skin against my knuckle. The physical pain is a focus I can handle. Tears spring to my eyes because of the sharp pain from my knuckles and nothing else. Those tears are easier to ignore. Easier to focus on the pain on my skin than the deeper pain with in.
I'm that way for a while. My body trying to release the tears and my fighting it with every breath. It works for a while. Helps me forget where I am and the fact that a stranger sits in another room waiting for me to fall asleep. Helps me forget my mother and the fact that I once thought I was safe, that there is nowhere safe in this entire world.
I jump up, the bed squeaking under me when I wake. The darkness of the room presses down on me like the Special Ops soldiers did when they were herding me and my mother out to their dark vans parked on the front lawn. My first instinct is to find light, but I pause, stuck in the darkness and scared to find the light.
Frozen there on the bed, I can see a bit of light seeping into the room from under the door. It becomes brighter as the light source moves closer with a soft sound of shoes on a carpeted floor.
There's a knock, and Brandon's voice, strong and so unfamiliar, jerks me out of my stupor. "Are you okay? Can I come in?"
That he asks throws me. It isn't like I have a choice. This is his apartment and his room.
"Yes." My voice shakes.
Brandon opens the door slowly letting the light lead him into the room. I sit up and grab my glasses from the side table, wanting to be prepared even though I don't know what I need to be prepared for. There's no smile on his face as he steps over to me and puts the lamp down on the table. "You're scared of the dark."
He doesn't ask. I glance up at him and nod without bothering to offer an explanation. There really isn't any.
Brandon isn't a tall man but I have to glance up at him from my spot on the bed. He's also not a small skinny man. His body is thick, but not fat. "Mind if I sit down?"
I lift my feet up to make room for him as my heart thuds hard against my skin. He takes a seat and the mattress dips towards him. I have to put a tiny bit of weight on my toes to stop myself from sliding closer to him.
“Mr. Smith stopped by earlier, but we thought it would be best if we didn't wake you.” He pauses when he notes the blank look on my face. "That was the older one on the car ride with you. He never even introduced himself, did he?" I shake my head as he sighs and scratches at the back of his neck with a hand. "Figures. Well, there's some things you should probably know, and I'm the best one to tell you."
There is no twinkle in his blue eyes this time. He has this air of maturity that he didn't have earlier. Brandon seems to watch me carefully, his eyes both gentle and sharp. "Mr. Smith is your dad." He pauses to take a breath and then quickly exhale it. "He's also the leader here."
My breath catches, and I bite my lip. Brandon becomes fuzzy for a moment until I take off my glasses and wipe at my eyes. Mom always had a different story for my father. Sometimes he was a soldier. Sometimes he was a politician. After a while, she would just work it into silly bed time stories, and I'd pretend they were all true. I had a vision of my father being an honest and decent man who just couldn't be with my mother.
My hands shake. I trap them between my body and my knees.
"And he's my father too." Brandon says it quietly, his eyes on me and still lacking that sparkle.
My toes curl against the mattress. I have a brother. For a moment, my mouth falls open and then I look away, down at my bare feet on the blanket. Secretly I always wanted an older brother though I don't know why. All of my friends who had older brothers said they were nothing but pests.
I didn't get a good look at Mr. Smith, but I don't see much similarity between Brandon and him. But Brandon and I do both have dark hair. Like my mother. I bite my lip hard.
"Just him," Brandon adds. "We share blood through Henri. I mean, Mr. Smith."
"So we're only half related?”
Brandon shakes his head, and he frowns. "I don't know what you mean."
"We only share one parent."
"Ah. We don't make distinctions like that here. We share blood. That's all that matters.” Brandon leans back on the bed, one hand behind him as he looks at me. "You don't like us, do you?"
I almost choke, but the words fall out of my mouth quickly. "No, it's not that. It's just--" But my words completely fail me. My hand falls on my mouth as our eyes meet. There is something of a twinkle to his eyes now, but it doesn't look the same. His lips curl up in a smirk like he expected that I wouldn't be able to explain myself.
"Right. Well, you stay here. I'll leave you the lamp tonight just until you get your bearings. We can't do this every night, okay? Oil's not always easy to get." Brandon stands and reaches out to the lamp to twist a knob. It shortens the wick and dims the light. "I'm going to take the couch."