|Of Bravery and Selflessness: Four's Story
Author: soulfulinspiration PM
Why is Four's fear of his father so hard to overcome? Why does he hate his father with such a passion? They have quite a history. Canon. Includes corporal punishment of a teenager in later chapters.Rated: Fiction T - English - Four/Tobias & Marcus - Chapters: 4 - Words: 4,508 - Reviews: 25 - Favs: 16 - Follows: 21 - Updated: 08-02-11 - Published: 07-27-11 - id: 7226521
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
*All characters belong to Veronica Roth
Please review, constructive criticism is always appreciated since this is my first story ever :)
Chapter 4: Trepidation
The first thing I notice is the pounding in my head, as if my heart had moved up to my brain. It felt like someone was repeatedly smashing my head against a wall over and over to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I am on some cushioned surface, but I don't know what. As I open my eyes, I realize that I'm sprawled on my bed and almost falling off the edge. How long have I been out? My body feels so sore, so worn out. I feel like my aching muscles belong to an old man. Still lying down, I carefully reach back and gingerly brush my fingertips across my bottom. A fresh pang of pain travels through me and I let out a small groan. These next few weeks will be hell sitting down and even just moving around.
Opening my eyes for the first time since I woke up, I try to push myself up into a sitting position, but a wave of nausea comes over me and I taste bile in my mouth. How long has it been since I've eaten? That night it happened, I barely ate. I was too frightened. How did it even end?
And then I remember. I was counting those last five strokes, and I said something. Something that made him stop, maybe out of disbelief, or even deeper rage. After that, I remember nothing.
Right, I openly admitted to him that I agreed with the Erudite. I am furious at myself. Even at the time, in my state of pain and in no position to be thinking, I should never have said that. What's wrong with me? I cannot even begin to imagine his reaction. Did he knock me out, or was it just perfect timing that I lost consciousness before anything happened? Or maybe something did happen, I just didn't know. I know one thing: I don't want to wait to see him and find out.
For the second time, I try to get up. Slower this time, propping my body up on my elbows before slowly but steadily coming to a half-upright position, trying to keep the weight of my backside. Even on the mattress, it hurts. I know there are not only welts on the surface of my skin, but deep bruises as well. Those stay the longest. Finally feeling stable and only slightly dizzy, I slowly make up into a standing position. Uncomfortably shuffling to the other side of the room, I grab my grey robes since I'm still unclothed. Putting them on, I think of where my father could possible be. Is he downstairs? Why is it so quiet?
People always tell me things about my mother. I remember her vaguely; her laugh, the way her brown wavy hair framed her face. I can't remember her voice no matter how hard I try though. That's what they always say: their sound of their voice fades over time. Family friends who knew her before she passed giving birth to my sister have told me that I have her eyes. The thought of it makes me happy since Father has the coldest, most lifeless I think I've ever seen. I find myself wondering what kind of person my mother was. All my memories of her feel warm and happy though, the complete opposite of the memories I have of my father. If she was the person I remember her to be, why would she ever marry someone like Father? Did he become this way after her death? You'd think that since he is the only family I have left and vice versa, we'd be closer. We are everything but close.
I pull my pants up to my waist, careful not to touch any tender areas. Should I go downstairs? What if he's there? Poking my head out of the room, I glance at the clock in the hallway. It's 6:24 in the evening. I have no idea what time it was last night when I passed out, but I'd guess it was somewhere around 11:30. That means I was out for... that's impossible. I normally never sleep that much. Well, last night was not at all normal, and I don't know how much of the time I was actually sleeping and not unconscious. Are the two synonymic?
My stomach is grumbling and it's too quiet for anyone to be home downstairs. If he's there, I don't know what I would do. Or what he has planned. The worst that could happen would be a repeat of last night–– happen tonight. Please, God, please, no.
In our small, Abnegation house, there is only simple, practical furniture and white walls. We do not need fancy decorations or colored walls. We must live the simple life, as our manifesto declares. Going down the stairs is much more difficult than I thought it would be, and it takes me about 3 minutes to edge down step by step. Each time my foot lands on the next step, the pain reactivates. I try not to think about the journey back upstairs. I cannot get it out of my head what will happen when I see Father again, what I said was inexcusable and a complete betrayal of not only Abnegation, but him.
Stepping off the last stair, I make it to the kitchen in a few steps. The fridge is almost empty, as usual. I don't know why we all have such big refrigerators when they never even reach half-full. I take out some oatmeal and warm it over the stove. We don't eat for taste, just to sustain ourselves. Good food is being self-indulgent. I have no problem with the ways of life here. The problem I have with Abnegation is that people allow others to step all over them, supposedly out of selflessness. That's when people like Father take advantage of others. Does he do cruel things to others, or just me?
I eat standing up, sitting is out of the question. With a mouthful of oatmeal, I look at the calendar. There is a note on today's date.
DINNER WITH THE PRIOR FAMILY, 5:00 PM
That would explain his absence. As a member of the government, Father often goes to have dinner with other families. He never allows me to come with him. As a matter of a fact, he doesn't allow me to attend community events or have friends over either. He limits any communication I have with the outside world. I've gotten used to it by now, I've never questioned why. I suppose it's so I don't have the chance to tell people what he does to me.
The Priors are a nice family. I know they have two children. I have spoken to Caleb once, he is the older brother, but only by less than a year. I have never seen his sister, although I think he's mentioned her name once or twice. I can't remember. Their parents are nice people, Mr. Prior is a council member, and his leadership has also been questioned by the Erudite. In his case, however, I think the Erudite are wrong.
Just as I finish my last bit of oatmeal, I hear a creak and a thud. He's home.