Ruin

Six

A wind kicks up blowing my hair into my face and I shove it back behind my ears as I stand on the balcony, leaning over the rail while watching the people below. I’m alone. Mitchell hasn’t shown himself in the last couple of days and I don’t exactly blame him. The leader of the Southlands was here, looking for me.

The letter from my mom still sits on the table next to the bed where I put it right after he left. I keep hoping for more strength to face the truth, but I've reached my limit and if I try to take any more on I will probably just explode. It's ridiculous. What if her letter contains some important information? Maybe there's an explanation or a warning in it or even just a last "I love you" inside.

The people below all stand around like they normally do. I'm not quite sure what their function is or even if it's the same people every time. I scan the crowd down below again, my fingers resting lightly on the cool rail, and I try my best to start picking out details of people that I can see from stories up so that I can start noting if I see them every day or not. Staring and studying people is rude to do back home, but here no one looks at me. Who would notice a girl three stories up observing everyone?

But someone does. Or perhaps I notice him first. The sunlight catches in his eyes and from three stories up I can spot the impossible green of his irises as he walks forward. I can't look away from him. A dark tank top exposes his arms and the dark spots of tattoos against his tanned skin.

My breath catches for a moment, and in the space it takes to not exhale, another man is attacked.

The crowd below moves suddenly, forming a circle around the man on the ground. At first I think that they're all going to attack him, but then I notice the shirtless man standing in the center.

Muffled pleas are absorbed by the bodies surrounding him who do nothing but watch. But then he manages to call out loudly, "Please!" It bounces into the air and off the tall buildings around us. In response, his attacker kicks him in the face.

My hand falls over my mouth. I'm transfixed, unable to move away from this scene until I know how it ends even though there is only one way this can go.

An object in the attacker's hand catches a glint of sunlight. He holds it down by his side, the shiny sharp point facing down towards the ground. It's a knife he holds, waiting for the moment that he will bring it to use against the man on the ground. He steps to the man with his head lowered, strands of his hair falling forward over his forehead and face. Many of the people in the crowd remain stoic, but some of them fidget, rubbing at their arms as if to press down the goose bumps or stop the chills. A few step back while keeping their eyes on the scene before them. The man in front, the attacker, is someone even they fear.

The attacker kneels down and lifts the hand with the knife to the man's throat. My stomach curdles, and I turn away with a gag and a cough, the image burned into my mind. I know what's happening even if I turned away instinctively, unable to watch.

My one hand is wrapped tightly to the railing. When my eyes open again, I see the attacker finish wiping his blade on the bottom of the man's shirt just before he stands and looks right up at me. I gasp and step away from the rail, those gray eyes, cold and merciless, float to the surface of my memories.

It's Gray Eyes. Even from three stories up, I know it's him. I step back further and bump right into someone behind me.

I hop forward, but an arm reaches out, gently turning me around. Brandon searches my face as he pulls me near. "It's okay." He repeats it twice before my muscles relax enough that he can wrap his arms around me and pull me against his chest.

That breaks me. I slide my hands up to cover my eyes just as the tears start pouring down my fingers. My mouth opens to fight for air, but it only makes the sobs sound louder. Brandon gently pushes me into the apartment, and I go, trying to wipe the fat droplets from my cheeks with my bare hands.

Inside the apartment, the sobs stop, but the tears still flow. I step over to the kitchen sink to pour cool water over my hands and splash my eyes. Brandon stands behind me, a hand on his hip, another on the back of his neck as if he were trying to come up with something to say though there isn't really anything that can be said.

"I'm sorry." Brandon doesn't make a move towards me, but he stands in that space between the kitchen and the living room. I'm essentially blocked in the small space of the kitchen. "I didn't know that today was--"

He stops and I turn around to look at him. "Today was what?"

Brandon sighs. "I didn't know he was doing that today."

I don't know what I expect from Brandon. It wasn't as if he were the one down there. But he knew that would happen. He just didn't expect it was going to happen today. I'm at a loss for words in my disappointment.

Brandon looks at me, the muscles over his brow slightly tensed. “Paula, I don't know what to tell you. We protect the border from the Lost Territory. We also protect the village and all the people in it. There isn't room for disobedience."

At the mention of the Lost Territory, my breath becomes shallow. As bad as this place is, there are places that are worse. Lost Landers are so savage and far from human that they eat each other. There is no safe place left for me. This is it.

My gut tightens. "Or else that?"

He doesn't say anything. His mouth is a hard line reminiscent of the Special Ops soldiers I saw when this entire nightmare began.

I step back from him and brush against the sink. "Or else you just kill them out in the open, in broad daylight, in front of everyone?"

There's a silence that passes swiftly before he quietly says, "I know we seem harsh, but we have to be."

They hate us. Wildlanders blame the Neutrals for what was done in the past, and if this is what they do to their own people what will they do to someone like me? My own father doesn't even know what he wants to do with me. "But that's-- that's so savage. Isn't there a better way?"

"Like banishing them and letting someone else do the dirty work?"

That does it. He still blocks the way, but I try to walk past him and out of the enclosed space of the kitchen by bringing my arms up and pushing. Brandon grabs me, each of his hands wrapping almost all the way around my forearms. I shove with all my weight, but he doesn't budge. I try to rip my hands away, but he doesn't let go. The fingers wrapped around me are like enclosed wire and impossible for me to pull off.

As I struggle with him, he puffs the words out. "I didn't mean-- I shouldn't have said that. Paula, I'm sorry."

I don't let up. Though I know I can't push past him, I still keep trying until he finally lets me go and I can walk into the bedroom and shut the door. I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe deeply, refusing to cry. My cheeks are hot and swollen, but my eyes are dry.

I don't belong here. I won't survive here. I can't even fight here. Brandon goes to training for hours every day. He could have overpowered me easily if he'd really wanted to. I wouldn't have been able to do much more than the man who got attacked if Brandon had really tried. Even now, there's nothing but a door that doesn't lock between us and only his willingness to give me privacy.

The letter sits on the bedside table. Avoiding it for so long has been the stupidest thing I've probably ever done in my life. I've been stalling, trying to avoid the fact that everything has changed. There is no going back.

I pick up the envelope and slide my finger along the top seam, popping it open with small jerks. The couple sheets of papers I pull out are so small and thin in my hand that it almost feels as if the paper will melt from the heat of my body or the ink disintegrate with my tears.

The paper shakes as I open it. Mom's hand writing, normally neat and large, is now small and mashed together. I have a hard time adjusting to this new version of her handwriting, and so I have to sit and stare at it for a while before I start actually seeing the words.



Dearest, I'm sorry. I keep wanting to find the words to explain, something that will make everything clear, and I don't know what to say. I don't have much time, and what I have to say requires time and space.

I should have told you everything. I should have prepared you. But I had hoped that if I kept you clean, they would at least spare you and only punish me. Of course the best punishment for me is to hurt you.

Henri Smith is your father. He is the leader of a very large and substantial tribe in the south that makes the real people in power here nervous. He'll protect you, and he'll be the one to find you a place there where hopefully you can be happy. Trust him.

I don't know how long I'm going to be here, or what's going to happen. But we have to do the best we can. Please try. For me. And I will do what I can for you. Maybe someday we can be together again.



As soon as I reach the last line-- a blatant lie-- I fold the paper up again neatly and put it on top of the envelope that sits on the table. I don't lie down. I just sit still and stare at the letter.

Maybe there's some part of her that believes it. Maybe there is hope. Or maybe we just need that illusion to keep going, and so that's part of her last gift to me. An illusion that will possibly keep me going and doing what I have to in order to adapt and survive.

I don't move for a long time. I don't cry either. I just stare at the blank wall while sitting on Brandon's bed. The light in the room shifts, lengthening the shadows of the old bed posts as the sun works itself past noon.

Things are quiet in the living room. I glance towards the door and listen for sounds of Brandon in the kitchen, but there's nothing. Suddenly I feel very alone.

I get up and open the bedroom door. There's no use peeking if he is out here; I'll just feel silly. But he's not. The living room is empty. On the counter there's a sandwich on a plate left for me. The other plate is cleaned and drying next to the sink. My throat tightens. He didn't have to. I didn't ask him to. He could have just left me nothing.

I sit down to eat the sandwich at the table, taking small bites of the soft bread I watched him make just the other day. I'm not hungry but I eat it anyway because Brandon made it for me. These things don't keep and he's sharing his resources.

This world scares me. The people scare me. But I can't imagine that it'll be better anywhere else.