The War Outside Page 6

  We’re meant to build the future, I think, for the glory of our country.

  Only the most beautiful women, and the strongest and smartest men, are chosen to become Handsome and Beautiful Ones. Why else would we be selected if not to conceive?

  I shake my head, then, and make my way toward the bed.

  “Are you all right?” Daniel asks as I brush past him.

  “Just… tired,” I say. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

  “All right.”

  I slide my slippers off my feet and pull back the corner of the quilt to crawl between the sheets.

  “Kel?” Daniel asks.

  I lift my eyes to face him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Making this harder.”

  “You’re not,” I say, then roll onto my side and close my eyes.

  If anything, Daniel is making this all the more bearable.

  Though I know I don’t love him yet, I feel that I could, in time.

  They say that all great loves are built upon unwavering friendships.

  If we can form that bond, then nothing—and, by that, I mean nothing—can stop them.

  It is this thought that I drift off to sleep with, and this thought that carries me into the world of dream.

  Five

  Birdsong, and the faint light streaming in through the window across from the bed, is what wakens me on my first morning within the Cross family home. Still tired after a long night’s sleep, and nervous over what the day could potentially bring, I long to do nothing more than burrow deeper into the covers and sleep the morning away, but know that would be inappropriate considering.

  Well, I think. I guess it’s take to wake up.

  To face the day wholeheartedly and without regret will require feats of endurance I’m not sure I have. With Daniel having awoken earlier to make his way into the fields for a day’s worth of work, I will be left to either figure things out for myself or ask his mother for help, neither of which fill me with pride.

  Sighing, I push myself upright and brush my hair over my shoulders as I contemplate what all is transpiring within my life.

  The wedding—

  The move—

  The talk—

  I try not to think about what Daniel and I discussed the night before, but find it blossoming within my conscience—expanding ever so quickly until it is everything I am focusing upon.

  Last night, awkward as it happened to be, only further cemented my unease over everything the Process entails.

  It’s what you wanted, my conscience is quick to remind me, and for that, I cannot argue with that logic.

  After pushing the blankets off my body, I roll my legs over the mattress, plant my feet on the floor, and prepare to face my first day as a member of Daniel Cross’ family.

  Showering is a process, dressing is a chore, applying makeup a labor that I wish I did not have to complete.

  By the time I have finished, I look ready to face the day in a simple white shirt and blue jeans, pink lipstick and rosy blush.

  Facing the door that exits into the second floor, however, is a task that leaves me trembling.

  What’re you nervous about? I think. It’s just his mother. It’s not like she’s going to judge you.

  Will she, though? In the grand scheme of things, I am not very well educated. I cannot cook to save my life, clean to make things resemble perfection, nor have I any useful talents like sewing. Truth be told: I am as naive as they come, and because of that, I feel I will be judged.

  “She’ll only judge what she sees fit,” I whisper, squaring my shoulders and straightening my posture. “There’s nothing more you can think or do until then.”

  With that thought in mind, I open the door and slip into the hallway.

  I can already hear Mariah Cross as she makes her way throughout the kitchen, humming and walking and, from the smell of it, cooking. I take the stairs hesitantly—gripping the banister, then the railing before making my way down.

  The sound of stairs creaking underfoot instantly make me wince.

  “Kelendra, honey?” Mariah Cross asks. “Are you up?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say.

  She peeks her head around the corner and offers me a warm smile. “I was wondering when you would wake. Come—be with me.”

  I descend the last few stairs, then round the corner and enter the kitchen with her.

  “I’m sorry I slept so late,” I say. “I didn’t mean for you to do anything by yourself.”

  “Nonsense, dear. You’re still acclimating to all of this.” Mariah makes her way to the stove and pulls it open to examine the contents within. “The breakfast rolls are almost ready.”

  “Do you need me to help you with anything?” I ask.

  “No, no. You sit. I’ll fetch you something to drink.”

  I seat myself in one of the stools and watch as she maneuvers about the kitchen, running a hand along the counter tops before reaching the refrigeration unit. She reaches inside, spilling white light across her features, and returns with a pitcher filled with water.

  “How early do Daniel and his father wake up to go into the fields?” I ask.

  “Before dawn,” Mariah says, sliding a glass of crystal-clear water to me. “They work early hours to ensure that they can return home before the afternoon is over.”

  “I see.” I sip from my glass and wait for her to speak further. When she doesn’t, I clear my throat and ask, “What do you do all day while they’re gone?”

  “Cook. Read. Watch the television.”

  “That’s the box that plays moving pictures, right?”

  “Yes, dear. It is.”

  Struck with nerves, I blush, and turn my head toward the windows that look out at the fields. “Must they be there?” I ask. “I mean, considering last night’s rain?”

  “They’re likely harvesting today—or, at the very least, preparing for it. A cold snap is supposed to roll in from the ocean.”

  “We’re not very from it, are we?”

  Mariah shakes her head. “No. We’re not.”

  “Daniel says the oceans rose because of climate change. Is… that why we’re closer to it now?”

  “It flooded a great deal of the east. Swallowed entire cities too, from what I understand.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “It truly is, which is why it’s imperative that things return to balance as soon as possible.” Mariah sighs and leans against the counter to look me in the eyes. “Daniel says you wish to dedicate yourself to war.”

  “That was my Designated Purpose,” I agree.

  “While I don’t agree with girls getting involved in such horrible things, I can applaud you for doing what you think is right.”

  “My father’s been out there for years. I just… I’d like to do something for them, even if it’s something small.”

  “I understand.” Mariah closes her eyes and inhales a breath. “I’m sorry that you have to go through this. It must be hard, being so young and away from your family.”

  “I just wish they could be here. With me.”

  “I know, honey. It’s never been any different, though—which, I believe, is not fair in the slightest to you girls who are chosen.”

  “Were you ever worried about Daniel?”

  “In what way, dear?”

  “That he’d choose to dedicate himself to military work?”

  “I thank the Great God that my son does not have a death wish. It seems like the more we push, the more aggressive the North gets.”

  “Where were you when it started?”

  “The war, you mean?” Mariah pauses. “I was here, in the Glittering City, trying my hardest to help my husband maintain the farm while struggling in the process.”

  “What do you mean struggling?” I find it hard to believe that they were ever in dire straits considering the scale of their farm.

  “You see, the great flooding that took place over t
he years caused the people from the east and the west to move inland, which meant that the farms the country so heavily relied on were abandoned. People were starving, stealing food, disabling our Silvers and even, at some points, killing our farmhands. That was when the president at the time decreed that the southern farmlands’ food belonged to the people. It isn’t easy to make a living when you’re giving something away for free.”

  “I understand.”

  “I was angry. Incredibly angry. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when a revolution began. When the bottom line of society has to fight tooth and nail to remain afloat, you know that something will have to give eventually.”

  “The revolution—”

  “Was a simply an idea at first. But when word spread of a plan to replace the leaders of the government, it wasn’t long before people came out of the woodwork to try and contribute.”

  “Which is why the Countess ordered the assassination.”

  “I watched it happen live,” Mariah says. “I was just sitting in my chair, minding my own business, relaxing after a day’s worth of work, when the special presidential broadcast came on. President Connor was trying to unite the people with one last desperate push toward the poor, but by that point, it was too late. We were angry—so very, very angry. I wasn’t surprised when the Countess ordered him to be killed.”

  “Was she a very political figure before that?”

  “She was very vocal, and incredibly outspoken about her beliefs, but she was not a politician—at least, not at first. Some people say our Countess has a lust for blood. I believe she was simply trying to remove a problem before it could be made worse.”

  “How long was… President Connor… president?”

  “Eight years. Eight long, hard years.”

  “It’s almost impossible for me to imagine a time before… well… my life.”

  “It wasn’t much different. The way things are now are better for some, worse for others. You’ve seen and experienced firsthand what the divide does to people.”

  Have I? I’d always assumed that the Countess had been responsible for my family’s suffering, because for as long as I could remember, people had been denouncing the evils that inhabit the government. Hearing this, now, and realizing what all had happened beforehand, is enough to make me reconsider everything I’ve ever known and been taught.

  Is she really evil? I wonder, thinking back to that night when she’d stepped out and revealed herself to this year’s section of Beautiful Ones. Or is she just a leader who seems cruel?

  I don’t know how she created a system of government that dictates a young woman’s body be exclusively for them, nor do I wish to. I feel that, the further I delve into this so-called ‘mystery,’ the more I will begin to find that it makes sense—and, as a result, become complicit to every demand.

  Mariah Cross sighs and turns to check on the breakfast rolls inside the oven. “I’m sorry if this overwhelmed you,” she says. “I just wanted to paint a clearer picture of what I saw happen.”

  “Nothing is black and white,” I say.

  “There’s always hints of gray,” Mariah agrees.

  I try not to think of what those gray areas mean for me and my Purpose, but find myself dwelling on them regardless.

  Maybe—just maybe—I am meant to be where I am, and was always meant to dedicate my Purpose to the war to help change things.

  The only question is: will the Countess, the Commandant, and the judge who will sign off on it see me as a visionary, or as defiant?

  I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me.

  As Mariah Cross pulls the breakfast rolls from the oven and serves me two on a cool plate, I try not to imagine what it must be like for my father and the other soldiers in the fields, but to no avail.

  This world is cruel.

  But maybe I can make it better.

  I fall into domestic duties shortly after breakfast has concluded. Wiping clean the counters, scrubbing the floors, washing cutlery, and learning how to run the electrical appliances throughout the home are only a few of the tasks that I am taught.

  By the time the morning is over, I am both exhausted and overwhelmed.

  Remember, Mariah Cross said at one point, that a domestic woman must learn how to grin, bear, and run her home, all without complaint.

  My mother-in-law’s words haunt me in the later hours of the afternoon. Having retreated upstairs to change in anticipation for Daniel and his father’s arrival, I am left without distraction, and as a result, vulnerable to my thoughts and feelings.

  Dressing, plainly, in a sleeveless blouse and long skirt, I find myself dreading the days ahead.

  You’re just nervous, I think, smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirt.

  Am I, though? Fact of the matter is: I have committed myself to a life I know nothing about, to an existence that feels arbitrary and monotonous. It is not glamorous in any way, shape or form, nor is it what I imagined myself doing with my life.

  But what did you imagine? my conscience offers. Fame? Fortune? Notoriety?

  I don’t know. That’s what confuses me, and leaves me feeling childish and unsure.

  For most of my life, I believed that Beautiful Ones were waited on hand and foot—elevated to the likes of the kings and queens I’d read about in my books. I never expected to have to get my hands dirty, for lack of a better word.

  Is that wrong?

  I don’t know, and because of that, try not to dwell on it as I lift my head to consider my reflection in the mirror.

  The sag of my shoulders, the weight in my spine, and the unsurety in my eyes beg to question whether or not I will be able to keep this happy facade up.

  Whatever you do, I think, don’t complain.

  I won’t. I know that, while burdened by a day’s worth of learning, I am still adjusting to this life. It will take some time to get used to it.

  With that in mind, I turn, and am just about to head out the door when I am distracted by the glittering robotics in the field.

  Stepping forward, I lean against the desk and watch as they begin to cut the wheat. One arm grasping, the other cutting, the Silver a stone’s throw from the home turns and deposits the stalk within a wheelbarrow before moving on to the next. It is a process that seems so simple and typical, and yet, it is done with such advanced machinery. I can only imagine how the yields outside the city would be if this technology existed beyond these walls.

  Without warning, I am struck with thoughts of home.

  Of the frost coming early—

  Of the crop going bad—

  Of my mother, and the girls who were once my friends, starving, and forced to hunt for food in the deserts—

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath to compel myself to calm down, but find that even that doesn’t work.

  You’re overreacting, my conscience offers. Nothing’s going to happen.

  How can I possibly know that, though? It’s not as if I can predict the future; and even if I could, how would I work to prevent something so horrible from happening?

  You can’t, that devilish notion continues, because you’re nothing more than a scared little girl with a pretty face.

  “No,” I whisper, balling my hand into a fist. “I’m more than that. I know I am.”

  As silly as it sounds: I have the power to change the future. No one, and no thing, can take that away from me.

  “Kelendra!” Mariah calls up the stairs. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Cross!” I call back. “I’m coming right now!”

  My mother-in-law doesn’t respond.

  Content with the coaching I have given myself, I turn and exit the bedroom.

  I have just made my way down the stairs when the door opens and Daniel walks in. Smelling of sweat and oil, and with his shoulders sagging and eyes drooping, he offers me little more than a smile and a kiss on the cheek before saying, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I reply, taking note of his appearance—from the jeans
upon his legs, to the plain white shirt flecked with dirt on his chest. “How was work?”

  “Long. Exhausting.”

  “You say that every day,” his mother offers from the kitchen. “Kelendra, dear—could you help me set the table?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say, turning into the kitchen.

  “I’ll be down after I shower, Ma,” Daniel says before marching up the stairs.

  “Men,” Mariah Cross offers, opening a cupboard before passing me stack of dishes.

  I make my way into the dining area that lies adjacent to the kitchen and begin to prepare the table for dinner—setting place mats, arranging silverware, tucking napkins under plates. I hear the front door open and lift my eyes to find Mister Cross walking through the front door.

  “Hello, Kelendra,” he says, offering me a short nod.

  “Sir,” I reply.

  “How was your day?”

  “It’s been fine, sir.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” He steps up to his wife and offers her a kiss on the cheek. “What did you two lovely ladies make us?”

  “We’ve prepared soup and bread bowls,” Mariah says. “Isn’t that right, Kelendra?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say.

  “She’s such a polite young lady. Isn’t she, Frank?”

  “That she is,” Mister Cross replies.

  I shrink under their gazes and turn toward the window that looks out at the field, hoping to avoid their judgment, be it good or bad. I wonder, for one brief moment, if they’ve ever expected me to act anything other than polite, then find myself bubbling with newfound anxiety.

  They didn’t expect you to be so kind, my conscience says. So proper. So considerate.

  In that sense, I wonder how they must think the world outside these walls operates. Are we, in their minds, godless heathens? Petulant children? Unruly people who do not know how to act and behave?

  I am just about to turn and look at Mister and Missus Cross when I hear the creaking steps reverberating under the weight of Daniel’s feet.