Page 22 of Savage Hope

Hurrying to catch up with the others, I exhale harshly, trying to rid the disbelief from my mind. Everyone is staring at me, T included, but I act like I didn’t just partake in such a spectacle.

Instead, I shake out my hands, roll my shoulders back, and fix my attention on the professor. I need to pretend that didn't happen. Without pause, Whitmore continues the tour, while I’m left lost in my own mind, floating through this thing that’s supposedly my life.

I might not have a single clue about what’s going on, but I can't deny that I'm more intrigued with every passing moment that I'm here.

9

P

Sitting on a long wooden bench, in another unfamiliar setting, I still can't grasp how I ended up here. I mean, I know they told us why, mostly, but it still doesn't feel like it should be happening. Just a few hours ago I was fully resigned to the fact that I was going to live the rest of my life in that cold gray box they called a school then die an unsung death.

S sits beside me, the usual procession of B followed by T on the other side of her, as I stare down at the full plate of food before me. Gone are the plastic trays and the food that can only be described as slop, with the rare occasion of pizza, if we were lucky, and in its place is bone china, steel cutlery, and steak. I don't recall ever having steak before, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn down new experiences, and the moment I bring it to my lips, I can’t stop shoveling it into my mouth like a Neanderthal.

Acutely aware of my actions, I take a deep breath and start timing myself between each bite. To occupy myself from demolishing it in one go, I take my time looking around the room as I count. The room is massive, rectangular in shape, with long dining tables occupying most of the floor and matchingbenches on either side. There are eight in total, each with a runner down the middle in one of four colors.

Bronze, silver, gold, and onyx.

Something tells me the colors mean something, but I’m not entirely sure.

Chandeliers hang in rows along the ceiling, every single one of them black like the entryway, which is through the double doors to our right. I assume the kitchen is located along the left wall since there’s a long, narrow opening revealing white chef hats on the other side. Other than that, everything is focused around the food on the table. Cute floral centerpieces dot the table top, and even the unoccupied spaces have cutlery and bone china ready and waiting.

It's just us right now. Whitmore left a while ago, promising to be back soon, but he's yet to return. As the murmurs and whispers among us grow louder, and fill with more excitement, I can’t help but feel the usual tendrils of impending doom lurking at the edges of my awareness.

I hope it's just my penchant for overreacting and not the truth of what's waiting for us. Because there is a part of me, a small, almost insignificant part, that is filled with the one word I've always disassociated myself from: hope.

I promised myself on the bus that I didn't feel it. I've promised myself throughout the entire tour that it wasn't an emotion I was familiar with. Yet, as I sit here, in my head, it's the one word I can't escape.

It’s impossible to wrap my mind around it. I can't begin to fully understand the opportunities that we may have inside these new walls, but the part of me that's always dipped in gloom is waiting for this charade to drop and the truth to reveal itself.

Sighing, I distract myself with another fork full of food, biting back a groan at the deliciousness.

S places her cutlery down on her empty plate beside me and I turn to her. The moment I do, her eyes find mine, and I brace for the barrage of questions I can see swirling in them.

“Who is that guy, P?”

Well, damn, that's not what I was anticipating. I was expecting her to ask me things about the academy, things I wouldn't have answers to. And I guess she did. The reality is, I don’t have any answers about him either.

Besides, it's not really a topic I'm open to discussing.

“What guy?” I ask, opting to look away from her before she sees the lie in my eyes. Stabbing another piece of steak, I hope to completely distract away from the conversation, but before I can bring my fork to my lips, she speaks again.

“Don't ‘what guy’ me. The naked one,” she insists, and when I turn to her, the pointed look I’m anticipating is firmly in place as her eyes narrow.

All I can do is gape at her for a moment, just as I gaped at the naked guy.

“I don't actually know,” I admit when I finally find the words, and a sense of disappointment swirls through me.

How have I had his naked body pressed against mine, yet I don't even know his name?

Why am I disappointed by that? I’ve never cared to know a guy’s name before. Hell, I’ve never even had a name of my own that I can remember.

I don’t think it’s possible for this day to get any stranger.

“He was hot,” S says, shaking her shoulders with a shiver of excitement as she wiggles her eyebrows while B grumbles from the other side of her.

“I’m sitting right here, babe,” he sings, his tone teasing, and S rolls her eyes dramatically, turning to him with a sigh.

“And I love you, B, but even you can't deny it.” She turns to face him fully, and even though I can’t see her face, I know thelook she’s giving him. Practically the same pointed one she just gave me.

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