Page 59 of The Flame

The citizens of Capra, all of us, are a nation of rehabilitated people. Look to your left, to the mother who was committed to rehab for the crime of speaking her mind. Look to your right, to the man who walked out from rehab with his emotions, spontaneity and personality wiped.

They are not as different from you and me as we would like to believe.

From the day we’re born, we are trained to stunt our creativity and stifle our curiosity. Because when your world is contained within walls that cannot be looked over, walls that cannot be breached or traversed, walls that reduce your world to what and who we know, what is there to question? What is there to be curious or spontaneous about?

We have forgotten how to ask questions.

We have forgotten how to demand answers.

We have forgotten that once this world was a landscape so vast, it could never fill our imagination. There were customs and religions and governments and justice systems. The people had a voice. The people shaped their world. The people decided who would rule them and who would make the rules.

Because without the people, you and me, Capra is nothing but an empty shell surrounded by high walls.

These are my words,

The Flame

(Georga West)

18

Writing the letter was a simple accomplishment. Getting it delivered to Axel proved more problematic. After an exhausting round of apoplectic arguments with Daniel, I reluctantly conceded that I couldn’t just waltz up to the rehab center and lie in wait for him to come off his shift. That was the kind of brazen attitude that would fry Roman’s brain and the last ounce of his tolerance for this plan.

I did agree with Daniel. The thing was, would it be any safer to send Jessie? Daniel insisted it would be, that no one would be suspecting her of bad behavior.

That’s not why I eventually gave in.

Have you finally decided I’m good enough to help your causes?Jessie’s throwaway comment had stuck.

I wasn’t stronger than Jessie, I wasn’t smarter, I certainly wasn’t a better person and I wasn’t pretentious enough to think I should or could be her protector. That was never the reason I kept her in the dark.

With both envelopes crammed into the pocket of my coat, I cycled along the bumpy dirt lanes that cut through the dense pine forest. The sun was out and the day had warmed up, and the furious pedaling finally burned the chill from my bones. Despite my initial worries, I didn’t end up lost in the woods. For everyleft fork Roman had taken last night, I went right, and twenty minutes later I was at the Parklands entry point.

I hid my bicycle behind a bush and proceeded by foot. My hair was knotted into a tight bun beneath the hood of my sweater. The collar of my coat was turned up to my chin. Unless someone actually stopped to scrutinize me up close, I was incognita, just a girl walking along the road to town.

Still, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would the streets be barricaded? Guards at every corner? I kept within the tree line wherever possible. Instead of walking through the Parklands barrier, I hopped the wall.

As I drew closer to the town, I was surprised to find no extra Guard presence at all. There was no obvious manhunt in progress. No chaos.

Walking with my chin tucked in, I skirted the square, sticking to the back alleys that wound around to Jessie’s street. It was lunchtime, so there wasn’t a lot of pedestrian traffic.

When I rounded the last corner, my mouth went dry with nerves. A guard was patrolling down the far end of Jessie’s street. Was he stalking her home? Capra was a small town, it wouldn’t take much asking around to discover she was my best friend.

I dipped back around the white-washed terrace house on the corner, thinking. What was I doing here? This had to be Jessie’s choice, but it wouldn’t be if I put her in danger before she had a chance to make that choice.

A woman pushing a baby stroller approached and I spun about, giving her my back, my heart pounding blood to my head. I bent down on one knee, fiddling with the ties of my sneaker.

“Afternoon,” she greeted as she maneuvered the stroller around me.

“Hi,” I mumbled, my head down. When I peered up, she’d passed without any undue scrutiny.

I breathed, waited, and then strode forward to cross the intersection, casting a casual glance down the street. The guard was out of sight. Where was he? But I couldn’t stand here, loitering on street corners. That was bound to draw attention.

I turned onto the street, fully exposed to the pretty double-story terraces that lined both sides. A silhouette moved behind a window, a curtain twitched, raised voices came from behind a closed door. My pulse quickened, a hundred warnings chasing at my heels, but I forced myself to walk slowly, my hands tucked into my pockets, my head dipped, my eyes scanning through lowered lashes, my ears pricked.

The guard entered my line of vision, two blocks down. My heart jumped into my throat, but he didn’t glance this way. He unclipped his iComm from his belt and leaned against a lamppost.

I reached a footpath that dissected the endless row of terraces and slipped into the shadows cast by mostly windowless walls, my kneecaps trembling in their sockets. What a laugh. I’d thought I wasn’t scared. I’d thought I was cut out for this. But I haven’t changed. I’ve always gone ahead anyway, forged headfirst into danger despite the fear, not because I have no fear. It wasn’t bravery. This was something else, a different kind of fear, a sickening in my stomach at the thought of doing nothing.

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