Page 13

Rosabelle

Chapter 13

The impact takes my breath away.

Like a small explosion, light streaks across my vision. I can almost see the sparks as the gun strikes my head, a blinding pain spearing my right eye. The sound of Clara’s scream slows and stretches, warping in the slowing frame rate of the moment. I lift my head and everything blurs.

I regret nothing about spitting in Sebastian’s face.

At the same time, I regret it deeply.

Never have I displayed anything but careful respect for Sebastian, and now I’ve shown my hand. Worse: Clara will suffer for the small, fleeting satisfaction of the moment.

A pyrrhic victory.

A trickle of blood has carved its way into my eye, and I blink painfully, diverting its path to my mouth. The morning air is bracing, the damp ground painting patches at my knees. My arms are still wrenched behind my back, nearly pulled from their sockets. I hear the flap of wings, a distant caw , crows beginning to circle. The events of the morning return to me in agonizing flashes: the asylum order nailed to the front door; the guilty look on the face of the man I’m meant to marry; the violence of the unannounced entry moments later.

Clara.

What is it, Rosa? What’s wrong? Why are they here? Rosa— Wait, why are they taking you— Why are you taking her? ROSA— NO—

Someone touches me and I recoil, prizing my eyes apart to find Sebastian tenderly wiping the blood from my face. Inspiration arrives unbidden:

A rusted shovel.

I’ll cut off his head with a rusted shovel. Dull, impractical. It’ll take forever. He’ll scream endlessly.

“Sometimes we don’t know what’s best for us,” Sebastian is saying, his fingers grazing the bruise forming along my temple. “And I only want the best for you, Rosa. You’ll see.”

For so long, I accepted this life like a debt deferred: my parents had refused to pay the price, so I would. My father was a traitor; I was not. My mother had chosen death; I would not.

When nothing made sense, logic sustained me.

The Reestablishment had always protected me; it was my father who’d betrayed me. It was my mother who’d left me. It was my parents who’d failed us.

If I could be all that they weren’t, I could fix everything. I could be stronger. I could be better.

I could be patient.

I gave the past ten years of my life to this system, trusting that as long as I kept my head down and worked hard, I’d be rewarded for my loyalty. I trusted that, ultimately, an apparatus of justice underpinned my daily suffering.

But now—

I turn my head, searching past the smear of Sebastian’s face. Now I can’t see Clara anymore.

They must’ve dragged her away, out of my sight line, still screaming. I feel the stutter of my nervous system again; a glitch in my heart; the telltale tremble of my right arm.

Hope, like breath, leaves my body.

I can see it: the bruises their hands will leave on her skin; the cruelty with which they’ll strap her down; the frozen abyss of her rotting cell; the putrid scraps they’ll toss her; the unclean water she’ll be forced to drink; the endlessness of solitude—and worse, and worse—

I’m no better than my parents.

I’ve failed us, too.

A cold paralysis seizes my body. I lose feeling in my legs. My chest locks down, compressing my lungs. My vision fades in and out. Clara, three years old, covered in my mother’s blood. Clara, four years old, clinging to me constantly. Clara, five years old, wanting to know what it feels like to be full—

Do you remember, Rosa? Can you describe it?

A feverish sweat breaks across my skin, chilling me to the bone. Clara, six years old, vomiting uncontrollably. Clara, seven years old, handing me a note—

I’m sorry for upsetting you when I’m sick I don’t mean to upset you I promise I’ll try to be better

My eyes flutter and I feel it: I’m going to faint.

No.

No, you’ve been dead inside for years, I tell myself. You’ve been dead inside for so long—

Die, I tell myself.

Die.

“What on earth?” Sebastian looks up sharply, over my shoulder. “He’s not supposed to be here yet. He’s not even supposed to be on his feet for another five minutes—”

Shock pierces straight through my deadened skin, penetrating my heart like a blade. Suddenly, I can hear myself breathing, feel myself shaking. Suddenly, I’m freezing.

I know, somehow, it’s him.

James.

Warped memories of the past twenty-four hours rise, like bile, to the surface of my mind, reminding me of all that I’m meant to do, the mission I’m meant to complete.

I can’t remember how to care.

I want to know what they’ve done with Clara.

A murmur moves through the crowd, heads turning all together toward something out of view. One of the soldiers loosens his grip on my arm just enough that I’m able to crane my neck to see—

A dented mini chopper is careening toward us.

The windshield is cracked, obscuring James’s face from view, but he’s only half inside the cockpit; his boots are visible through the open door, footfalls hitting the ground in faster and faster strides. The small, damaged aircraft is hurtling up a slight hill, wobbling on three wheels at a dangerous speed, and when he gains enough momentum he jumps back inside and drives directly into the crowd.