Page 124 of Because I Killed Him
“Not exactly breaking news,” Charlotte says dryly. “We’ve all seen it before.” Her tone carries the same tired dismay I feel at the thought of seeing more decapitated heads.
I sink low in my chair, dread prickling along my skin. I don’t want to watch Bloody Sunday. Not again.
Executions on campus are brutal, but at least the deaths are stripped of spectacle; there’s no commentary or slow-motion close-ups. Sometimesthe condemned are too far away to see clearly unless you switch your Bond to a binocular lens, so you catch a flash of movement and then a distant fall, and that’s all.
Heretic executions are different; they’re theater, a blood-soaked stage with a host and a live orchestra tuning for slaughter. Cameras track every twitch of fear, every tear, and every spatter of vomit that stains the guillotine bench. The condemned are hauled out in handcuffs, trembling and half-broken, and the crowd roars at the sight. The cheering builds before the blade falls and swells again as the head rolls into the grass below the platform. Bloody Sunday is less punishment than pageantry.
I glance at Edmund, who’s still lost in his Bond, with blue flickering across his iris like light blinking through fog. I hesitate, weighing the risk, before I finally give in and send him a message through my Bond:
“I thought you didn’t like watching the executions.”
Edmund’s eyes shift as he reads my text, and a crease forms between his brows.
“I don’t,”he writes.“But with Heretics, it’s different.”
“How?”
“Because traitors deserve the death penalty.”
I pause, unsure what he means.“Only the Heretics? What about all the other executions? Don’t you agree with those?”
“I used to. Not anymore.”
I turn in my chair, surprised. I’d always assumed Edmund avoided the daily executions for some other reason, like the gore turning his stomach or simply being bored with wasting his mornings on the same routine.
When I look up, I find him watching me from across the room; the glow from his Bond cuts across his cheek, sharp as a saber scar.
“Why do you look so surprised?”he writes.
“I guess I assumed you agreed with all the executions because you’re a Blue.”
“And?”
“Most Blues agree with them. Or at least they claim to publicly.”
“Publicly, yes. If they disagree, they wouldn’t admit it. No one likes to be seen waving the wrong flag.”
Of course, that would be reckless. I already know high-citizens aretribalistic, loyal enough to help each other cover up a crime scene. And if I ever forgot, Hillaire would remind me.
“When did you change your opinion?”I ask.
“After I met Jack and Dickie.”
“When was that?”
Edmund squints, as if searching his memory.“Around eight years ago.”
Eight years? That would have made him only fourteen. I hadn’t realized that the three of them had practically grown up together.
I glance around the room to see if anyone has noticed us. Charlotte and Dickie are locked in a debate over whether they’d take the neurotoxin pill or be brave enough to face the guillotine blade. Jack is cleaning the visor of his hoverbike helmet with his shirt sleeve while talking to a student on his Bond, asking for information about Eve Weathers. Two Pinkies sweep past with a trolley, collecting untouched trays of food. The world keeps moving, loud and indifferent, yet between Edmund and me it feels like a quiet, hidden room.
“I’m sorry for making assumptions,”I text him.
He shrugs.“Sometimes assumptions have their merits. For example, I assume you don’t want to watch the Heretic’s execution with us, right?”
I suddenly realize how obvious my dread is.“Right.”
“And why is that?”
