I wake to sweaty palms and a pang of guilt in my chest. I am
lying in the chair in the mirrored room. When I tilt my head
back, I see Tori behind me. She pinches her lips together and removes electrodes from our heads. I wait for her to say something about the test—that it’s over, or that I did well,
although how could I do poorly on a test like this?—but she
says nothing, just pulls the wires from my forehead.
I sit forward and wipe my palms off on my slacks. I had to have done something wrong, even if it only happened in my mind. Is that strange look on Tori’s face because she doesn’t know how to tell me what a terrible person I am? I wish she would just come out with it.
“That,” she says, “was perplexing. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Perplexing?
I bring my knees to my chest and bury my face in them. I wish I felt like crying, because the tears might bring me a sense of release, but I don’t. How can you fail a test you aren’t allowed to prepare for?
As the moments pass, I get more nervous. I have to wipe off my hands every few seconds as the sweat collects—or maybe I just do it because it helps me feel calmer. What if they tell me that I’m not cut out for any faction? I would have to live on the streets, with the factionless. I can’t do that. To live factionless is not just to live in poverty and discomfort; it is to live divorced from society, separated from the most important thing in life: community.
My mother told me once that we can’t survive alone, but even if we could, we wouldn’t want to. Without a faction, we have no purpose and no reason to live.
I shake my head. I can’t think like this. I have to stay calm.
Finally the door opens, and Tori walks back in. I grip the arms of the chair.
“Sorry to worry you,” Tori says. She stands by my feet with her hands in her pockets. She looks tense and pale.
“Beatrice, your results were inconclusive,” she says. “Typically, each stage of the simulation eliminates one or more of the factions, but in your case, only two have been ruled out.”
lying in the chair in the mirrored room. When I tilt my head
back, I see Tori behind me. She pinches her lips together and removes electrodes from our heads. I wait for her to say something about the test—that it’s over, or that I did well,
although how could I do poorly on a test like this?—but she
says nothing, just pulls the wires from my forehead.
I sit forward and wipe my palms off on my slacks. I had to have done something wrong, even if it only happened in my mind. Is that strange look on Tori’s face because she doesn’t know how to tell me what a terrible person I am? I wish she would just come out with it.
“That,” she says, “was perplexing. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Perplexing?
I bring my knees to my chest and bury my face in them. I wish I felt like crying, because the tears might bring me a sense of release, but I don’t. How can you fail a test you aren’t allowed to prepare for?
As the moments pass, I get more nervous. I have to wipe off my hands every few seconds as the sweat collects—or maybe I just do it because it helps me feel calmer. What if they tell me that I’m not cut out for any faction? I would have to live on the streets, with the factionless. I can’t do that. To live factionless is not just to live in poverty and discomfort; it is to live divorced from society, separated from the most important thing in life: community.
My mother told me once that we can’t survive alone, but even if we could, we wouldn’t want to. Without a faction, we have no purpose and no reason to live.
I shake my head. I can’t think like this. I have to stay calm.
Finally the door opens, and Tori walks back in. I grip the arms of the chair.
“Sorry to worry you,” Tori says. She stands by my feet with her hands in her pockets. She looks tense and pale.
“Beatrice, your results were inconclusive,” she says. “Typically, each stage of the simulation eliminates one or more of the factions, but in your case, only two have been ruled out.”
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