pageant girl.
If I had been a little older, I would have been in Claudia’s class. I might have shared a room with her. I might have known her better.
All these Terminals. All of us waiting to be harvested. Like the greenhouse vegetables here. Waiting to be used. To save someone else’s life by giving our own.
It’s not true.
But I had seen it myself.
I pulled the covers over my head.
No more dreams. I didn’t want to feel uneasy. Didn’t want to be here anymore.
But what could I do? I remembered Abigail crying. Not just the sounds a Terminal makes when they’re hurt, but that water on her face.
Fight.
I’d rather fight.
I’d rather get away.
Save the Terminals, like Gideon said. Like Abigail and Daniel said.
Save myself.
Have a bit of the promise.
There were no promises here except that our lives would end.
I rolled over. It was still dark outside.
Right before I fell asleep, I remembered Gideon saying he wanted me to go with them, too.
I tried to make my face smile at the memory, but it just wouldn’t.
* * *
It wasn’t so easy to not drink the Tonic. Even though no one looked to see if we did. They trusted we would. And we did. I mean, we always had. I always had. Why check on something that is so secure already?
We were, all of us, creatures of habit.
Trained.
Still I felt I must drink that Tonic. Go to bed at night. Down the Tonic. Get up in the morning, drink the Tonic. Take in a breath, let it out. Stand when you are called from lunch. Walk down the hall with the others. Sleep when Brahms begins. Awake with Mozart. Give your arm. Give your lung. Give something that might keep you alive.
The next morning, I reached for that little cup sitting on my nightstand. Not even sitting up all the way, I readied to swallow the drink. My body told me to. My hand reached out on its own.
Wait!
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Everyone got ready. Morning called. Time to begin the day.
I will be free. Will fight to be free.
My hand shook as I set the cup aside. Abigail raised her cup to me then turned her back. When she looked at me again, I saw a bit of the red juice on her lips, the color of Amy Steed’s dress.
Fine—I could do it, too. I tossed the drink in my mouth, then hurried to the bathroom. The insides of my cheeks stung.
Go, go, go.
I pushed through into the bathroom, walked into a stall, locked the door behind me, and spit everything in the toilet, washing the bright red liquid away with a flush.
A few sips of that drink. A couple of ounces? Who would think it could control me?
When I stood, my head banged. A headache. A splitter of a headache. Even my ears hurt.
“You okay, Shiloh?” Abigail. I saw her feet on the tiles outside where I crouched.
“My head hurts,” I said. I opened the door, went to the sink, splashed water on my face. The overhead light stabbed at my eyes. The pain under my skull was so intense, it pounded through my skin.
“Listen,” Abigail said as Elizabeth hurried in to dress. Our roommate nodded to our reflections in the mirror and we nodded back. Elizabeth went into the stall I had been in.
“Oh, this is bad,” Elizabeth said. “Someone didn’t flush and I don’t know what’s in the toilet.”
She came out of the stall, her clothes folded in her arms. The skin on her face was red and puckered, cut close to the bone.
Abigail flushed the toilet again. “I’ve seen that happen,” she said to Elizabeth. “The water is red. A couple of tries and it goes away. Don’t give it another thought. I took care of it.”
“I won’t,” Elizabeth said.
Okay, so down the toilet didn’t work. Then where? My head throbbed. I wet a washcloth in cool water and buried my face in it. I heard Elizabeth go into a different stall.
“The pain starts right away, if you’re a few hours late taking the Tonic,” Abigail said in a hushed tone, turning the faucet on full blast. Sounds stabbed at my ears. “Whatever you do, act normal. This
If I had been a little older, I would have been in Claudia’s class. I might have shared a room with her. I might have known her better.
All these Terminals. All of us waiting to be harvested. Like the greenhouse vegetables here. Waiting to be used. To save someone else’s life by giving our own.
It’s not true.
But I had seen it myself.
I pulled the covers over my head.
No more dreams. I didn’t want to feel uneasy. Didn’t want to be here anymore.
But what could I do? I remembered Abigail crying. Not just the sounds a Terminal makes when they’re hurt, but that water on her face.
Fight.
I’d rather fight.
I’d rather get away.
Save the Terminals, like Gideon said. Like Abigail and Daniel said.
Save myself.
Have a bit of the promise.
There were no promises here except that our lives would end.
I rolled over. It was still dark outside.
Right before I fell asleep, I remembered Gideon saying he wanted me to go with them, too.
I tried to make my face smile at the memory, but it just wouldn’t.
* * *
It wasn’t so easy to not drink the Tonic. Even though no one looked to see if we did. They trusted we would. And we did. I mean, we always had. I always had. Why check on something that is so secure already?
We were, all of us, creatures of habit.
Trained.
Still I felt I must drink that Tonic. Go to bed at night. Down the Tonic. Get up in the morning, drink the Tonic. Take in a breath, let it out. Stand when you are called from lunch. Walk down the hall with the others. Sleep when Brahms begins. Awake with Mozart. Give your arm. Give your lung. Give something that might keep you alive.
The next morning, I reached for that little cup sitting on my nightstand. Not even sitting up all the way, I readied to swallow the drink. My body told me to. My hand reached out on its own.
Wait!
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Everyone got ready. Morning called. Time to begin the day.
I will be free. Will fight to be free.
My hand shook as I set the cup aside. Abigail raised her cup to me then turned her back. When she looked at me again, I saw a bit of the red juice on her lips, the color of Amy Steed’s dress.
Fine—I could do it, too. I tossed the drink in my mouth, then hurried to the bathroom. The insides of my cheeks stung.
Go, go, go.
I pushed through into the bathroom, walked into a stall, locked the door behind me, and spit everything in the toilet, washing the bright red liquid away with a flush.
A few sips of that drink. A couple of ounces? Who would think it could control me?
When I stood, my head banged. A headache. A splitter of a headache. Even my ears hurt.
“You okay, Shiloh?” Abigail. I saw her feet on the tiles outside where I crouched.
“My head hurts,” I said. I opened the door, went to the sink, splashed water on my face. The overhead light stabbed at my eyes. The pain under my skull was so intense, it pounded through my skin.
“Listen,” Abigail said as Elizabeth hurried in to dress. Our roommate nodded to our reflections in the mirror and we nodded back. Elizabeth went into the stall I had been in.
“Oh, this is bad,” Elizabeth said. “Someone didn’t flush and I don’t know what’s in the toilet.”
She came out of the stall, her clothes folded in her arms. The skin on her face was red and puckered, cut close to the bone.
Abigail flushed the toilet again. “I’ve seen that happen,” she said to Elizabeth. “The water is red. A couple of tries and it goes away. Don’t give it another thought. I took care of it.”
“I won’t,” Elizabeth said.
Okay, so down the toilet didn’t work. Then where? My head throbbed. I wet a washcloth in cool water and buried my face in it. I heard Elizabeth go into a different stall.
“The pain starts right away, if you’re a few hours late taking the Tonic,” Abigail said in a hushed tone, turning the faucet on full blast. Sounds stabbed at my ears. “Whatever you do, act normal. This
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