The Rebellion Era

Chapter Fourteen.

Sarah strolls head and forth, her hands on her cheeks.

"You are only increasing your worries, my dear." Dalia says. She sits on the edge of the table lined with the left wall. Their training room is tremendous with black walls and tiles. The parallel walls are almost entirely covered with shelves full of a wide range of weapons. From rifles and caltrops to bows and grenades. By one of the walls, stand five poles at equal intervals. And on top of them, lie mice. I look away, disgusted. "It was nothing."

Sarah halts, exasperated. "It wasn't nothing, Dalia! There was this moment where all I could see was his blood flowing out of his chest. I had this urge to ... to kill him." Her eyes are too swollen like she spent the entire night crying. Two bandages vandalize her smooth face; one on her cheek, and the other across her head. She preternaturally healed yesterday and was eking to salvage the wounded. She sought my help into extracting the bullet from Dalia's arm. There was too much blood. But eventually Dalia was able to walk around the infirmary with a sling helping heal wounds.

Yesterday was a mess. Almost all the rooms slept empty, and the infirmary slept fully occupied. Assem and I volunteered to help Dalia and Sarah. I conspicuously helped despite my still wounded arm. It is not in a sling anymore. Sarah applied an advanced salve to it which sped the healing process. She explained medical details, but it was like gibberish to me.

"But you haven't. You are too goody-two-shoes, which is why you are boring." Raneem says, leaning idly next to the door frame.

Sarah narrows her eyes at her. Michael smiles at Sarah, but she is not even looking. No one is, but me. And I can't help but think he meant it.

"I've known you enough time to know you aren't capable of such thing." I say. Michael punches one of the punching bags. Five bags protrude from the ceiling and behind them, sits a boxing ring set on a raised platform.

"Killing is like a cancer gene in the Almasi's bloodline. Once it is turned on, nothing could turn it off." She laments, tears manifesting in her eyes. I wonder if she is thinking of her brother. Of the hunger to blood he has in his eyes. The desire to build a city he thinks will hold on a land of bones.

Assem yawns. None of us had much sleep last night. I dreamt of my parents. We were sitting together around the dining table having one of those peaceful meals we had before the Uprising began. Omar is not here yet. He is playing a football game with Assem.

My parents are smiling. They recite how their day went with mother emphasizing on the hurdles she encountered. Father reminds her we should be grateful and in one voice, we drawl thank you with our eyes closed. In the dream, Father is alive. Khalil hasn't committed suicide. I lived among a whole family. I had lots of things to be thankful for but I was never truly grateful. Having all of these stripped away, I realize I was in paradise. I tried to pause on the image of my parents' smiles. But I couldn't. It comes and goes as flashes.

"Among 265 Bolts, why does it have to be Tariq who trains us?" Assem asks. He is not wearing his jacket. The brown of his eyes so prominent under the garish light.

"You counted all Bolts?" Michael asks. "I really like that dude."

"Because he is the best fighter we've got." Dalia answers.

"Tariq?" Assem raises two eyebrows. "Ponytail and blondie Tariq?"

Sarah makes a noise. "Seriously, c'mon, who said all blondes are dumb?!"

The door is pushed – kicked – open. Tariq trudges inside, followed by the rest of the Bolts. The room fills in with exciting energy and movement in no time. All women without a jacket, making me the only one with covered arms. Their hair pulled up in a bun. They stare at me dubiously, but skirt away as soon as I notice.