Page 13 of The Duplicity of Thieves

“Wash up first. Wouldn’t wanna scare the children,” he laughs and leaves me sitting there stewing in my own anger.

I sigh with exasperation. It has been four years to the day since that shitty night where we lost everything. It seems like no one remembers, but I guess Stafford does. It feels like I could sigh every minute for the rest of my life and it would never be enough. The piece that dislodged inside of me never returned, and there is a hole where Killian used to be that has made me ruthless. It’s the only thing I know for certain. It has been a constant war between love and reality.

I drag myself from the chair into the shower, and watch the pink tinted water run down the drain, washing away another night of bullshit. Even this has become a little monotonous. Stafford is right. I need to socialize. My friends will make me feel better.

I can hear them outside grilling and hollering. The Remnant as a whole, are a secluded bunch, full of laughter and love, but we’re tight knit even in our off-shoot community in Asphodel. Some are defectors who didn’t agree with the customs or wanted to see the world. Others were looking for a better life with less starvation and sickness. The rest were born Remnant but have never seen the Republic. I listen to their jovial cheers through the open window, letting it drive me.

Standing in front of the steamy bathroom mirror, I examine myself, glazing over my scars. The night of my accident they were bright red, hardly healed. Now they have faded to a bluish gray, tired of their own existence. With a giant sigh, I try to stop my mind from running. This is why I never fucking sleep.

I roughly wipe the towel over my skin and throw it at the mirror. At least I didn’t try to shatter it at the sight of myself this time. I’ve lost count of how many mirrors I’ve broken in the throes of my incessant thinking. It’s been a task keeping it from Vivian. The next time it happens I can just live without the mirror.

I plait my wet hair into a braid, throw on some clothes, and head downstairs. It won’t be long before Stafford sends someone to come find me if I hide away.

Vivian’s going away party is in full swing outside. Everyone is milling around, drunk as hell. I already feel lighter. Vivian is sweaty in the humidity and very, very intoxicated.

“Jo!” she shouts, attracting unwanted attention.

I give her a tight hug. “Hey, Viv.”

“I didn’t think you would be back tonight.” She furrows her brows, spilling some of her ale.

“I didn’t either.” I look around wondering how many drinks it will take to make me truly indifferent. How ironic that we’re throwing her a going away party tonight.

“I see you thinking. Stop that.” She shoves my shoulder. “Here. Drink it and forget how tortured you are.” She puts her mug in my hand and holds it to my mouth, forcing me to drink until it’s empty.

The ale burns going down. It’s Caleb’s home brew, which means that I’ll be drunk in no time. Caleb and I work jobs together sometimes when Stafford wants it to be clean. I’m the tribulation and he’s the mercy. His wife, Fiona, approaches.

“Vivian! Josephine!” She wraps her drunken arms around us both. “I’m gonna miss ya.”

Thank the fucking Universe I missed the point in the night I refer to as The Inquisition, where Fiona and the other women pepper me with personal questions.

“Jo will still be here.” Vivian leans her head on Fiona’s shoulder.

“O’ course. We’ll take care o’ her. Don’ worry,” she slurs in her accent.

“Josephine,” Stafford calls out, gesturing for me to join him.

Vivian giggles. “Oh no, here it goes.”

I walk backward, feigning innocence. “What does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means!” she shouts.

“It’s your going away party, don’t you want it to be a memorable one?”

Vivian rolls her eyes and returns to her soulful conversation with Fiona.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to show up.” Caleb gives me a toothy grin. His eyes are glazed over, and his cheeks are red.

I brush off my hands. “Someone had to come out-drink you after that week.”

“Oh, ho, ho. We got a live one, boys,” Stafford shouts. “I’ll assume we have to do your stupid ritual before the games begin?”

“Of course.” I raise my chin with haughty expectation.

He pulls a bottle of clear liquor from the makeshift bar and pours us each three shots.

“How does it go now? One for the night?” We drink.

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