Page 2 of Breakaway

Taking a seat on the fallen tree Tobias fashioned into a makeshift bench, I press my fingers to my temples to ease the ache that’s beginning to build. It succumbed to rot several months ago, like most things confined by the impenetrable concrete walls surrounding us. Picking at a piece of the crumbling bark, I blank my mind, trying my best to let the events from earlier fade from memory. It works, at least for a little while, and I’m lost in the numbness I’ve allowed to permeate my thoughts when my finger grazes the singed flesh along my wrist. The flare of pain makes me flinch, dragging me back to the present far sooner than I’d have liked.

My insides recoil in remembrance of what transpired today, refusing to acknowledge the gleam of possession in Tobias’ eyes as I was deemed his property. As far as I’m concerned, I belong to no one. Even before Veritas, my life and well-being were never entrusted to anyone but me. I’m the one who ensured I was fed and bathed. I taught myself to read and write. I did the required research to enroll in a homeschool program and completed it three years ahead of schedule. It was me who scoped out every backwoods town my parents ventured to, making note of where the hospital was located just in case something happened that I wasn’t equipped to handle.

Bile creeps up my throat as I take in the angry, puckered brand that will forever mark me as property. The jagged S proclaims me not only as Tobias’, but House Stillwater’s. Which means, should Kennedy ever find fault with his son’s ability to lead me down my path to redemption, he has the right to step in and take control of my Cleansing, in every sense. As bleak as my future looks, I know it’s a walk in the park compared to some of the others. Today’s Claiming only consisted of females–three in total, including myself. Twice a year, if the numbers allow it, these ceremonies take place, giving men and women alike the opportunity to appoint themselves as our husbands and wives.

There’s no agreement between the two parties. No consent. And why should there be? We’re barely people in the eyes of Veritas. Males, however, are treated especially horrendously, particularly if their build is significantly larger than that of their designated spouse. The female Elders take sick satisfaction in bringing someone who’s perceived as stronger than them to their literal knees. Any chance they’re given to assert dominance is eagerly taken. I’ve witnessed an Elder collar a boy, parading him around on a leash in hopes he’d do something brash so her punishment would be justified. After all, public lashings are only warranted if there’s due cause.

Despite my best attempts at distraction, my mind wanders to what the other girls are being forced to endure at this very moment. Has the consummation of their unions begun? I know from whispers around the compound that most of them will have anything but an enjoyable experience. Tobias and I might have chosen each other, and we certainly shared our bodies well before today’s so-called nuptials, but that doesn’t mean I chose this. If given the option, I wouldn’t commit my life to anyone at the age of eighteen. But this is just another cog in the twisted, acidic machine they’ve crafted to ensure our obedience and submission.

From the day we each arrived, their mission to break us began. First we were wined and dined, led to believe this place is the holy grail of cults–because at its core, that’s exactly what it is. They’ve taken bits and pieces from various religions and cultures, contorting them to fit the narrative they’ve devised, while somehow believing their perversion should be upheld with the highest regard. Then we’re isolated, separated from our families and placed in communal housing. Our servitude to Veritas starts then and there, and the stakes only grow higher the older we get. Unless we submit completely, showing unwavering devotion to the cause, we’ll never be granted absolution. They’ll forever see us as tainted and unredeemable, and if that happens, your fate is sealed. By twenty-five, your chances of proving your innocence have all but run out.

You’ll be brought before the Elders, forced to listen as they vote on your continued existence as if they’re chatting about the weather, and then you’ll be read one of two possible verdicts: Death or Deferment. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse. On one hand, death would bring this sordid merry-go-round to a sudden halt. But on the other, you might be relinquished to your House, giving the Elder male or female a chance to do what your Chosen couldn’t. It’s all for naught, really, considering the whole of their ideology is an absolute farce.

Because in their eyes, those with heterochromia are Harbingers. Tainted vessels that carry two souls–one pure, one demonic. And if you can’t expel the evil inside you after enduring countless years of Cleansing rituals, then you weren’t worth saving to begin with. A simple congenital disability that has absolutely no bearing on the sanctity of my soul has wrought me more pain and heartache than I ever could’ve fathomed. It’s absolutely ludicrous, and yet they’ve successfully built this empire of hate over the past hundred-plus years. Four generations of Stillwater descendants, as well as their flock of followers, have all fallen victim to blind gullibility and seen to their continued existence. That might not sound like much, but to those of us caught in their clutches, it’s everything. An inescapable web that only tightens its hold the harder we try to extricate ourselves.

That thread connecting my thoughts to a place of dissociation is severed, and my gaze drops to the glimmer of remaining sunlight that’s seeping through a tiny crack in the compound’s facade. Tobias made me a promise long ago that I’d see the outside world again. I’ve allowed his surety to guide me through my darkest nights, convinced he’ll figure out a way to get us free of the vise-grip Veritas has us in. But as night draws closer without him joining me, a deep-seated fear takes root.

I wish this version of me wouldn’t have been so careless with her heart. I’d like to shake some sense into her, to rip away those rose-colored glasses clouding my ability to see what was right in front of me all along. Because treachery is a far harder pill to swallow when the person doing the damage is meant to be your fiercest protector.

* An-duh-lin

1

Andilyn

Six years.

Six long, arduous years I’ve been chipping away at the shackles Veritas has ensconced my entire being in. Of making myself small and amenable to the psychosis this place feeds off of, like it’s sustaining their debauchery one punishment at a time. There are no words to adequately describe the evil that lives within these walls. Contorting myself into something meek and malleable has been the only way to ensure my continued survival. And even then, every day is a battle, and I never know where the cards are going to fall. If I’ll lose the fight to keep my emotions in check, if every hate-fueled thought will come roaring to the forefront and reveal everything I’ve worked so hard to mask.

I’ve grown accustomed to walking on eggshells. I’ve been tiptoeing through life for as long as I can remember. Before Veritas, I was reluctant to ever show interest in anything, afraid my parents would make it the basis for their next personality trait. Appealing to their sensible side was a full-time job, leaving no room for childish fantasies or make-believe. As for my current situation, I think my reasoning for being keenly aware of everything I say and do goes without explanation. I’ve become an expert at manipulating conversations to avoid interaction as much as possible–the fewer opportunities I’m given to be disobedient, the better.

After years of trying to make sense of Tobias’ devastating betrayal, I’ve finally concluded that any time spent pondering that particular line of thought is a waste of mental effort. I’ll never know why he changed in the blink of an eye or seemingly suppressed his true emotions so easily, because it would never occur to me to be so disgustingly deceitful, especially with someone I claim to be in love with. One day he was everything, and the next he was nothing. Worse than nothing, he was the enemy, and he damn sure doesn’t deserve the countless hours I’ve spent agonizing over the hurt he’s caused me. It takes concentrated effort not to allow my mind to wander down that path on a daily basis.

When someone violates a boundary your mind has erected between right and wrong, it feels confusing and deeply personal. It’s a moral injury, where your core beliefs are disrupted by someone you’ve trusted behaving in a manner in which you couldn’t fathom doing so yourself. I frequently have to remind myself of this. Still, at the end of the day, it’s pointless to expend the energy needed to try and decipher the whys of it all, because I’ll never understand or relate to the actions of someone whose heart is so vastly different from mine.

Although the particulars of what triggered Tobias’ complete about-face remain a mystery, it was abundantly clear to both of us that his duplicity left me in the worst position possible. He knew every secret I’d foolishly confided in him. How strongly I detested Veritas and the lengths I was willing to go to in order to gain my freedom. That insider knowledge has kept me under a microscope for the entirety of our so-called marriage. It took me four years to gain enough trust to accompany the others during their monthly trip to the Farmer’s Market. Integrating themselves into the local community is one of the many tactics that Veritas has deployed to remain under the radar. They blend in just enough to not raise concerns while remaining politely elusive, so as not to encourage engagement from outsiders.

I’ve had plenty of time to formulate a plan, one that didn’t include any aspect of Tobias’, not that I’m actually under the illusion he ever intended to see it through. He’d expect that of me, not believing I could orchestrate something so meticulous on my own. But every step has been akin to pulling teeth. This is real life, though, not a movie, where conflicts are resolved within the span of ninety minutes, and the villain gets his just desserts in a timely manner. Roadblock after roadblock, I’ve had to remind myself that reality doesn’t actually mimic the ease or rapidity with which those stories always seem to work themselves out.

Or maybe some people are just born with a horseshoe up their ass, and I’m the antithesis of anything remotely resembling good fortune. But for once in my irrefutably miserable life, it’d be great if things would go to plan. I fear that might be asking too much of the universe, though. Regrettably, it took six visits to the market before I could initiate the first phase. I knew the probability of succeeding on my own was slim to none, so recruiting outside help was paramount to my getting the hell out of here. But I knew, without a doubt, there’d be no room for error.

I was diligent and thorough in doing my homework, surreptitiously studying every nuanced routine and protocol Veritas had implemented for leaving the compound. I analyzed the role of each individual until I felt certain I’d memorized all the moving parts, and when the time finally came, I acted. With trembling fingers, I hastily scribbled a note on one of the handwritten receipts a customer had left behind. As we began to stow away the fruits and vegetables that hadn’t sold, I deliberately made eye contact with the officer tasked with patrolling that day and slid the piece of paper into a crevice on the wood-planked tabletop.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I truly believed he saw the desperation in my eyes, so when nothing happened, it put a chink in the armor I’d built to protect myself from disappointment. The following month, Tobias insisted I stay behind and tend to other matters around the compound. I was certain he’d caught wind of what I’d been up to, knowing he had spies lurking around every corner, and they were all frothing at the mouth to remind me of my place in the pecking order. I feigned sickness the next month, hoping to throw Tobias off just in case he was growing suspicious. It took another three outings before I worked up the courage to try again.

At that point, I’d have been happy to catch the attention of anyone with the faintest bit of influence. A smartly dressed businessman would’ve sufficed, so long as they passed along my message to the proper authorities. Shockingly, the idea actually held some merit. As I homed in on my target, I briefly noted his bronzed hand wrapped around a fancy cup of coffee. I offered a silent apology for the inevitable demise of the overpriced concoction, then turned at the last possible second to ensure we made contact with one another. Our collision was unavoidable, and the crate of apples I’d been carrying scattered in every direction. As we both knelt to try and contain the mess, I feverishly whispered the words I’d been too scared to utter before that very moment.

They aren’t what you think. I need your help. Please. Don’t make a scene.

Whatever he saw, whatever inflection my voice held, it’d been enough to pique his interest. I’ll never forget the way his rich brown eyes held mine. The nanosecond it took for him to understand the severity of what I was implying, even though he’d been given next to nothing in the way of context. He smiled, playing the part of a clumsy stranger as he apologized profusely for the accident I’d been the cause of. And as he handed me the last of the apples I’d been corralling, he used the brief moment our hands touched to slip me his business card. I thanked him for his help, smiled politely, and left without a backward glance.

I pleaded with every deity in existence that my outward appearance portrayed nothing but the calm shell of obedience I’d been trained to emulate. I was certain the Elder in charge of the outing was scrutinizing my every move and picking apart our interaction with a fine-toothed comb, but questioning something so perceivably innocent in a public setting would’ve brought about more scrutiny than Veritas could afford. I proceeded with business as usual, ringing up customers and patiently answering their mundane questions.

I never let my smile slip, nor did I flee to the restroom when I was given the chance. I’d come too far to ruin the sliver of hope that small piece of cardstock was bestowing me with. I didn’t dare draw attention to myself, but the second I was certain their focus was elsewhere, I lifted the crate it sat beneath and began to roll the paper as tightly as I could. When I decided it was small enough, I twisted my hair into a braided knot at the nape of my neck and tucked it between some of the thicker strands.

Paranoia bred the extreme lengths I felt were a necessity. I’d witnessed too many people succumb to their arrogance when it came to Veritas. I knew at any point I could be interrogated, and likely would be, because everything these monsters do and say is scripted, especially when it comes to the public. My engaging in polite conversation away from prying eyes would undoubtedly raise concerns. Despite the anxiety flooding my system, I kept focused on the task at hand, refusing to let years’ worth of planning be swept away because I couldn’t adopt the air of apathy the situation required.

It took sixteen days before I was able to read the business card I’d been given. I managed to hide it amongst the pebbles that bordered the well-house, but sneaking away undetected was no easy feat. Imagine my shock when the words that greeted me finally registered.