Page 19 of Because I Killed Him
“Yeah, well, you were theonlyone.” She swings her shoes over her shoulders, stalks down the corridor, and disappears into her bedroom.
I stay in the lounge for a long time, staring out the window, barely noticing the view beyond the glass. Maybe I should be less angry afterCharlotte’s explanation, but two years of feeling betrayed aren’t easy to forget. Whether she meant to stab me in the back or not, the knife still struck.
And I’ll never forget the taste of those tears.
Around midnight, after a late dinner, I head to my bedroom and activate my Bond to check the news. A blue light blinks in the periphery of my left eye, expanding into an augmented reality screen that hovers a few inches in front of my face. From left to right, the screen displays rows of applications I’ve arranged by importance: web browser, email, text messaging, social media, photos, and videos.
I pull up Benjamin Bogart’s media outlet, The Civilized Voice, and am surprised to see almost no mention of the Bliss Prohibition Act vote. The front-page story is about Bogart himself, announcing that he’s dating Scarlet Du Pont, the famous jazz singer who performed at the Bloody Sunday afterparty. A collage of photos shows them tangled in each other’s arms at a glitzy nightclub in Charleston City, kissing so openly that I’m sure Bogart tipped off the paparazzi himself, probably to deter his most persistent stalkers.
I scroll past the story, digging through the feed until I spot a live countdown to the vote: just over five hours, meaning it’ll happen at 5 a.m. It’s a bullshit time for a legislative meeting, but that’s how Blues operate. Tired people are easier to intimidate.
Although I agree with Dad that Bliss is dangerous, I doubt the drug will be banned. Too many buyers are addicted, and too many dealers are making big profits. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the Civilized World has tried it. I haven’t—mainly because doing so would’ve damaged Dad’s political campaign against it—but I know the drug causes intense feelings of happiness, which is especially appealing to low-citizens living in constant fear of Blues. The downside is that taking it too often can lead to blackouts, memory loss, and violent outbursts.
In my bedroom, I change into a silk nightgown and slip into bed. Sleep comes slowly. I’m tired, but my thoughts are loud, drifting back to my younger years: warm summer days spent with Hillaire and Vivian, holedup in the cedar-wood tree fort that Dad helped us build from scratch. As far as I know, the tree fort is still there, hidden at the edge of a grassy clearing in the woods. I haven’t gone back since Vivian started dating Harrison. The three of us were much closer before he entered the picture. Sure, we argued, but our fights never turned physical like Hillaire and Vivian’s fight tonight. At this point, I wonder if either of them still cares about our secret song or the promise we made whenever we sang it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto each moment, make it last a little longer, even wishing I could stop time completely. Eventually, when the clock strikes midnight, consciousness slips away… and with it, so does my childhood.
Unhappiness is a disease, and I discovered the cure.
GREGORY SAVILE, INVENTOR OF BLISS
CHAPTER 4
The sun of my adulthood rises painfully. I toss in my sheets, only vaguely aware I’m dreaming as I relive the four hellish minutes when a Blue almost killed me.
I didn’t know Charles Blackwell personally, but locker-room gossip painted a clear picture. He was born into a high-ranking military family, took up fencing as a kid, and quickly rose to become a top-ranked junior Blue fencer. I also learned that his dad was a nasty bastard, an old, leathery bull who demanded perfection from his only son.
In hindsight, maybe that’s why Charles snapped, why his anger burned so fiercely when I beat him in the semifinal duel by a narrow one-point margin. I’ll never forget his eyes—steel blue and blazing, filled with something darker than defeat—as they fixed on the scoreboard in the Hall of Arms fencing arena.
But I never expected Charles would try to kill me.
I was alone in the women’s locker room, dressing for a family dinner to celebrate my victory, when he walked in. His brown curls stuck flatly to his scalp, still sweaty from our duel, and his square-jawed face was calm. But the way he balanced on the balls of his feet, hands twitching at his sides, made me realize why he’d come.
I bolted toward my sports bag, where the hilt of my saber stuck out of the side pocket like a fang. Just before grabbing it, I hesitated. Was I allowed to fight back? By law, low-citizens could only fight high-citizens in supervised settings with rules and witnesses. But this situation? I wasn’t sure it counted.
While I hesitated, Charles acted. He charged through the locker room like a battering ram, using the full force of his body, and slammed into me. I’d taken plenty of hits during boxing drills with my defense instructor, but never like this. My head banged against the lockers as we hit the floor, and for a moment, the ceiling lights spun hazily around me. Warm, sticky blood pooled from my scalp before I felt a red, slamming pain in my skull.
Charles forced me down, his knees pinning my arms. The more I struggled, the more the pain kept me in place. Burning. Numbing. My bones felt like they might snap under the weight of his body. I couldn’t break free, no matter how wildly I thrashed; each push was like hitting a wall of steel.
The worst realization of my life hit me then. I could win in an arena with rules and referees. I could win when I had time to plan and could focus my strength on the most strategic attack. I’d already beaten Charles in a fencing duel, less than twenty minutes earlier. But here, in hand-to-hand combat, when it was kill or be killed, I was no match for him.
His fingers wrapped around my neck and squeezed with such force I was sure he intended to strangle me. My vision blurred, my eyes straining as my lungs expelled a ragged hiss. Charles leaned in, his lips curling into a cruel smile, as if he’d known I was the weaker one and was relishing the proof.
My body started losing all sensation, and I noticed the strangest things: a toilet running in one of the stalls, a silk robe hanging on the locker above me, and Charles’s canines. One tooth was longer and sharper than the other. A small detail. Insignificant. But enough to hold my focus and keep me awake.
Fight back. Fight back or die.
Adrenaline surged, unleashing a brutal burst of strength I didn’t know I had. I drove my head forward like a hammer. It was pure coincidence that, just as I did, Charles relaxed his grip and lowered his head to speak, possibly to gloat over his win. I’d never know. The force of our heads colliding was enough to break his nose. I heard the satisfying crack before a bolt of pain shot through my forehead.
His weight shifted as he cupped his broken nose. It was all I needed to free one hand. I swung at his throat, a move my defense instructor hadcoached me on countless times. I felt Charles’s windpipe crunch under my knuckles before he collapsed off me. I wasn’t sure if he was down for good. A throat hit could be deadly, but I didn’t waste time checking his condition.
I shoved away from his writhing body, twisted onto my belly, and reached for my saber. My fingers closed around the hilt, and I activated it with a snap. The blade shot out in a gleaming flash of graphene, slicing through the flesh of his forearm.
Charles recoiled ferociously, like an animal. Then he was on his feet, his breath coming in hoarse, broken gasps.
I staggered to my feet, dizziness rushing in. As blood streamed into my eyes and black spots spun at the edges of my vision, I watched him rip the door off one of the lockers. Blood streaked his face like war paint, mixing with mine into a gruesome blue-and-green mask. The heavy soles of his fencing boots thudded against the floor, each step like a war drum, and I knew then I had no choice.
Kill or be killed.
