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"Correct."
Father's voice is soft, but it carries across the room.
The pain follows. Searing, it shoots up my legs and into my arms, my eyes, my skin. It ends quickly- no more than two seconds, any more and I might faint -but the pain lingers. The memory of the shock hurts almost as badly as the shock itself.
The first thing I see when my vision clears is Elizabeth, smiling at me.
No- not at me. At my pain.
We are seated across from each other, that each might watch the other at all times throughout the exam. The bindings on our ankles and wrists shackle us to the desks. The exam has been three hours, and shows no sign of stopping.
Father waits for my breathing to resume. He looks down to the paper in his hands, and reads. "Antigen, when injected into the body, activates specific lymphocytes in the...?"
MALT. Mucosa-associated lymphoid tissue.
"The MALT," answers Elizabeth. "Mucosa-associated lymphoid tissue."
"Correct," replies Father. Behind him, the technician presses the button. I close my eyes.
-fire in my veins, teeth clamped like iron, it hurts it hurts it HURTS-
It takes 2.6 extra seconds for my breathing to resume. I see Father, frowning at me. Elizabeth has taken 6 shocks since the exam began; I have taken 43. This is well below my average.
("I'll give you a few," Elizabeth said, "So it doesn't look suspicious.")
I know he is disappointed. I am meant to challenge. Elizabeth is expected to win, but he does not want her to win easily. In this, today, I am failing him.
"This next question is for Rohan alone." I look up, surprised. "What is the optimum pH for cultivating vexa-proteins?"
I look to Elizabeth.
She smiles.
"I don't know," I say, and the pain is not far behind.
---
My whole body aches. There are no scars where the clamps dug into my skin, but I feel the pain there, buzzing like a field of angry wasps.
Worse still was the look in Father's eyes as I passed him.
That night, 10 minutes before curfew, I pass the guards and make my way to Elizabeth's room. She is waiting for me. She is very beautiful when she smiles.
"You did well today. I think we shall have to make a habit of this in the future," she says, beaming.
"The picture," I say, numbly. "You promised. You promised you'd give it back."
"Oh- right. Almost forgot." She turns to her desk drawer and rummages through it before coming up with the wrinkled photograph. "Why you're so attached to this, I'll never know. Don't you have any pictures of them on social media? Get on that, Ro."
I unfold the photo. Fresh black scribbles rest over my parents' faces. Elizabeth is watching, waiting for my tears.
I place the photo in my pocket and walk to my room in silence. Only when I am sure she can't hear me do I begin to weep.
---
I feel weak.
I feel helpless.
I feel trapped.
And my heart swells with hatred- not for Elizabeth, not for her father, but for myself.
I am weak, and I hate.
---
"Why did you lose?"
I jolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. For a moment, I am back in the rubble, and he is standing over me, and I know I am about to die.
Over the next few seconds, understanding dawns- it is night. I am in my bed at Blackthorne Estate. The voice is my father's, as he is sitting in a chair across from my bed. I look at him in fear.
"You knew the answers," he says, his face expressionless. "I saw it in your eyes. You took the shocks anyway. Why?"
Elizabeth. Do I dare tell him the truth?
I don't have to. He says her name, and glances to my box, where I keep my precious things. The things from Before.
The things Elizabeth stole from my room earlier this year. The things she still has, hidden somewhere I don't dare look.
I am silent.
"Do you know why my daughter hates you, Rohan?"
"No." My voice is small, and weak, and I hate it, I hate it.
Father's face is a black silhouette in the moonlight. "Because she doesn't like to be afraid."
---
We are in the examination room again. The dig of the clamps in my ankles and wrists has become an almost comfortingly familiar sensation.
"The optimum pH of Thiobacillus thiooxidans is-"
The words are not out of his mouth before I answer. "2.0 to 3.5."
Elizabeth glares at me in surprise- and rage. This was not part of the deal.
27 shocks for me, 73 for Elizabeth.
I smile through them all.
---
I smell the fire before I see it. Father is out on a business trip, and if the servants saw Elizabeth throwing my stolen possessions into the fireplace, they had the wisdom to remain silent.
She's already gone by the time I enter the hearth, and half of my things are burned beyond recognition. I can still make a few out, though- the blanket my mother wove when I was born, the little cloth doll my brother used to love. The shirt that still smelled faintly of my father.
The fire is consuming them all.
My fingers find the photo in my pocket, crumpled and worn. Without hesitation, I open the grille and drop the photo on to the flames.
It's easier to watch my family burn the second time.
---
Dad's stories always leave me with goosebumps, even the ones with happy endings. I shiver as he finishes with the last line: "...and no matter how big our flock became from then on out, the big bad wolf never bothered us again."
He kisses my forehead. The brush of his mustache on my bare skin makes me giggle, and I am embarrassed. I am getting too old for such childish stories. I am becoming a young lady. A few days from now, it will be our first Christmas in the city. Soon after, it will be the new year.
"Sleep well, little Ro," my Dad says, and turns down the dial on my lamp. "Love you."
Outside, the snow is falling.
I sleep, and dream of wolves.
Father's voice is soft, but it carries across the room.
The pain follows. Searing, it shoots up my legs and into my arms, my eyes, my skin. It ends quickly- no more than two seconds, any more and I might faint -but the pain lingers. The memory of the shock hurts almost as badly as the shock itself.
The first thing I see when my vision clears is Elizabeth, smiling at me.
No- not at me. At my pain.
We are seated across from each other, that each might watch the other at all times throughout the exam. The bindings on our ankles and wrists shackle us to the desks. The exam has been three hours, and shows no sign of stopping.
Father waits for my breathing to resume. He looks down to the paper in his hands, and reads. "Antigen, when injected into the body, activates specific lymphocytes in the...?"
MALT. Mucosa-associated lymphoid tissue.
"The MALT," answers Elizabeth. "Mucosa-associated lymphoid tissue."
"Correct," replies Father. Behind him, the technician presses the button. I close my eyes.
-fire in my veins, teeth clamped like iron, it hurts it hurts it HURTS-
It takes 2.6 extra seconds for my breathing to resume. I see Father, frowning at me. Elizabeth has taken 6 shocks since the exam began; I have taken 43. This is well below my average.
("I'll give you a few," Elizabeth said, "So it doesn't look suspicious.")
I know he is disappointed. I am meant to challenge. Elizabeth is expected to win, but he does not want her to win easily. In this, today, I am failing him.
"This next question is for Rohan alone." I look up, surprised. "What is the optimum pH for cultivating vexa-proteins?"
I look to Elizabeth.
She smiles.
"I don't know," I say, and the pain is not far behind.
---
My whole body aches. There are no scars where the clamps dug into my skin, but I feel the pain there, buzzing like a field of angry wasps.
Worse still was the look in Father's eyes as I passed him.
That night, 10 minutes before curfew, I pass the guards and make my way to Elizabeth's room. She is waiting for me. She is very beautiful when she smiles.
"You did well today. I think we shall have to make a habit of this in the future," she says, beaming.
"The picture," I say, numbly. "You promised. You promised you'd give it back."
"Oh- right. Almost forgot." She turns to her desk drawer and rummages through it before coming up with the wrinkled photograph. "Why you're so attached to this, I'll never know. Don't you have any pictures of them on social media? Get on that, Ro."
I unfold the photo. Fresh black scribbles rest over my parents' faces. Elizabeth is watching, waiting for my tears.
I place the photo in my pocket and walk to my room in silence. Only when I am sure she can't hear me do I begin to weep.
---
I feel weak.
I feel helpless.
I feel trapped.
And my heart swells with hatred- not for Elizabeth, not for her father, but for myself.
I am weak, and I hate.
---
"Why did you lose?"
I jolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. For a moment, I am back in the rubble, and he is standing over me, and I know I am about to die.
Over the next few seconds, understanding dawns- it is night. I am in my bed at Blackthorne Estate. The voice is my father's, as he is sitting in a chair across from my bed. I look at him in fear.
"You knew the answers," he says, his face expressionless. "I saw it in your eyes. You took the shocks anyway. Why?"
Elizabeth. Do I dare tell him the truth?
I don't have to. He says her name, and glances to my box, where I keep my precious things. The things from Before.
The things Elizabeth stole from my room earlier this year. The things she still has, hidden somewhere I don't dare look.
I am silent.
"Do you know why my daughter hates you, Rohan?"
"No." My voice is small, and weak, and I hate it, I hate it.
Father's face is a black silhouette in the moonlight. "Because she doesn't like to be afraid."
---
We are in the examination room again. The dig of the clamps in my ankles and wrists has become an almost comfortingly familiar sensation.
"The optimum pH of Thiobacillus thiooxidans is-"
The words are not out of his mouth before I answer. "2.0 to 3.5."
Elizabeth glares at me in surprise- and rage. This was not part of the deal.
27 shocks for me, 73 for Elizabeth.
I smile through them all.
---
I smell the fire before I see it. Father is out on a business trip, and if the servants saw Elizabeth throwing my stolen possessions into the fireplace, they had the wisdom to remain silent.
She's already gone by the time I enter the hearth, and half of my things are burned beyond recognition. I can still make a few out, though- the blanket my mother wove when I was born, the little cloth doll my brother used to love. The shirt that still smelled faintly of my father.
The fire is consuming them all.
My fingers find the photo in my pocket, crumpled and worn. Without hesitation, I open the grille and drop the photo on to the flames.
It's easier to watch my family burn the second time.
---
Dad's stories always leave me with goosebumps, even the ones with happy endings. I shiver as he finishes with the last line: "...and no matter how big our flock became from then on out, the big bad wolf never bothered us again."
He kisses my forehead. The brush of his mustache on my bare skin makes me giggle, and I am embarrassed. I am getting too old for such childish stories. I am becoming a young lady. A few days from now, it will be our first Christmas in the city. Soon after, it will be the new year.
"Sleep well, little Ro," my Dad says, and turns down the dial on my lamp. "Love you."
Outside, the snow is falling.
I sleep, and dream of wolves.
