I stepped out of the shower; water slid off my bare skin, and the patter of drops on the cold tiles was oddly soothing. I padded over to the bed, sat, and pulled on an oversized black T-shirt. I tucked my damp hair behind my ears, grabbed the first-aid kit, and changed the dressing on my leg.
I blotted my hair with a cotton towel and stared, drained, at the closed door. I hadn't seen him since last night. Before the shower I'd checked the living room—he'd been sitting on the sofa, eyes closed.
I rubbed the back of my neck and shut my eyes for a few seconds. What exactly was I going to do? What was the next step? Ashur had said we stayed until the Organisation sent word—but how long was that supposed to be? I'd done my job. I'd done everything I was supposed to do. The only thing I wanted now was my freedom.
I stretched out on the bed and let my wet hair fan across the pillow. I stared at the ceiling—the cobwebs, the hairline cracks. When did I stop being free? Maybe the day they gave us our marks… that cold hallway where we all stood in a line while a middle-aged woman at a podium spoke about the Organisation and its 'achievements'. About how it all started with a 'Mother'—a brilliant woman who founded the Organisation. They called it 'Mother' at first, then later chose the symbol of the 'Rose'.
She split it into branches: Red Rose, Blue Rose, and one I'd only just learnt existed—White Rose. Who knows how many other tiers and units are out there that we know nothing about? Who knows how far this poisoned tree's roots go? I only know a woman started it all—and maybe that was the day our freedom was revoked. We each got our tattoo; we 'graduated'. Funny, in a sick way—not in law or fine arts or medicine. We graduated in murder, pillage, and theft. Maybe the day they handed us those marks and inked our skin… that's when freedom was taken.
But if I look further back… I never understood freedom at all. Even before the marks, we were prisoners. Our childhoods and teens were spent in camps; and I—'luckier' than most—spent a few months locked in a damned lab. The fallout still clings to me: the nightmares, that stale reek. I squeezed my eyes shut, furious. No… earlier than that. We lost our freedom the day we were born. Yeah. That sounds truer. The day the cord was cut, the last thread tying us to peace and happiness snapped.
My head felt frozen; my neck had gone stiff with cold. I don't know how many hours passed while I drowned in thoughts. I only know I finally pushed up, angry, and shuffled towards the bathroom. Limping, I made it to the narrow door in the corner. I tried to save what energy I could; I was sure I'd need all of it soon.
After a moment I managed to stand in front of the mirror. I cupped water in my hands and splashed it over my face. The chill hit my feverish skin and a shiver ran through me. I gripped the sink and stared at my pale reflection. I felt like a stranger with this dark hair… with these flat, exhausted eyes. I'd never felt so alien to myself; there had always been some reason to like who I was, even a little—and now I had none. All I felt for the thing in the mirror was hate.
I shut my eyes and summoned Steven—how he used to look at my face with warmth and wonder, and how I'd glance at the mirror, breathless, trying to see what he saw. I opened my eyes with a lump in my throat—and froze at the sight of Ashur's black, empty eyes in the glass. He stood in the doorway behind me, shoulders squared, his face set and unreadable.
Slowly, I turned. Leaning on the edge of the sink, I faced him. He stood in a vest in the bathroom doorway, voice clipped and warning.
'We have to go.'
My lungs locked. I pushed off the sink and moved to stand in front of him, dazed. 'But you said—'
'The Triangle Union h…have found our l…location.'