Page 49 of Deviant

“Of course you don’t. You were just a toddler back then. But look at you now. I’m sure wherever she is, your mother must be so proud of you.” Ms. Stevens smiles warmly at me.

I doubt it.

If my father isn’t, then she definitely wouldn’t be either.

I don’t remember much of my mother. Aside from a few photographs my father kept around the house, my memories of her feel like foggy dreams. But every once in a while, someone brings her name up and tells me stories of what an amazing woman she was—funny, adventurous, and an amazing teacher who loved her students. But most of all, that she was a loving wife and a devoted mother, and that the day I was born was the happiest she had ever been.

Sometimes, I think the reason I don’t remember her is to shield myself from the pain of not having grown up with her in my life.

One thing I do know, though.

The reason behind her absence traumatized me in such a way that I became this fearful pathetic thing. And because of it, I made the gravest mistake of all. One that if she were alive, she’d never forgive.

Sensing that Ms. Stevens is still staring at me, I offer her another fabricated smile and thank her for her help.

“Well, if you need me, you know where I’ll be.” She grins, pointing to the reception desk.

“Thank you,” I repeat, waiting for her to return to her post before I crack the book open.

But now that my mind is muddled with thoughts about my mother, I can’t focus on any of it.

Not that it really matters.

This ledger only contains the names of people who were selected, paired with their date of birth and gender. There’s not much useful information to derive from it.

I keep flipping page after page in frustration while thinking my best shot of getting some actual answers would be talking to Father O’Sullivan again.

Maybe if I try enough times, I’ll eventually get him on a good day and get him to talk to me.

I have to try.

As I’m about to give up on my reading, something grabs my attention—a little handwritten note on the margin of the ledger.

This doesn’t track.

Double-check.

It’s not the wording that grabs my attention but the handwriting itself.

I would know it anywhere.

It’s Nora’s.

She read this same ledger.

I quickly go to the name she’s pointed out to check for further information.

Year:2004

Name:Patrick O’Sullivan

Gender:Male

Date of Birth:December 5th 1973.

I immediately connect the dots—the entry that Nora highlighted is about Father O’Sullivan. But most importantly, she was quick to notice that he had already aged out by the time he was selected for the games.

Father O’Sullivan was thirty years old when he got chosen.

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