Savage

Chapter Two - Sahara

Chapter Two

Sahara

There is something exhilarating about this place, though Mother insists it is not the place but the business behind it. I sit beside her in the company car, staring at the newly dawned subdivision, and know she is wrong. The magic behind Weston has nothing to do with our order of business and everything to do with the way the towering pines overshadow the lazy neighborhood. I have never seen so many trees in my life, nor have I seen a mountain plastered right before my eyes. It's more than beautiful, it's alluring and mysterious, so much that an instantaneous bolt of curiosity rings through my bones

"If I were a Brute, this is where I would want to live," I say before I can think better of it.

Of course, Mother is quick to correct me, "Brutes don't want anything. They are controlled by blood thirst, Sahara. They do not think nor want—"

This goes on for a while, but luckily, I have other things on which to focus. The neighborhood of Weston is broken into four sectors, identical layouts with identical houses. It is far different than our previous territory in the Capitol, which is composed solely of beautiful estates and unique landmarks. Weston is attractively dull with its plain white houses and symmetrical lawns.

Our home is in the fourth sector, the final area located nearest the forest. It is more secluded than the others—which is why Mother assumes the Brute rumors have surfaced in the first place—and neighbors the dense forest. Nielle awakens from the back seat just as we pull into our new driveway. She remains silent and leans toward her window, wordlessly taking in the scene. I try to watch her face, to see if she notices the same magic that I have, but her expression doesn't chance in the least.

"Luckily," says Mother, and I can't help but wonder if she noticed my disinterest in her conversation, "There's only nine houses in the fourth sector. We should be able to make our rounds before noon."

With that, she promptly steps from the car. Nielle and I are quick to follow, knowing better than to test Mother's patience with our leisure. She is already unlocking the front door by the time Nielle and I collect the bags from the trunk. A delivery truck dropped off the majority of our boxes yesterday evening, but there are some things Mother would not allow 'dirty delivery women' to contaminate. And by things, I mean her endless supply of electronics and hairspray.

"Oh how repulsive," says Mother as she crosses the threshold.

I'd like to say she is exaggerating with her cry of disgust, but I am, for once, on the same page as she. This place is repulsive. Sure, the department informed us of the drastic downsize, but they somehow forgot to mention we'd be living in a trashy two-story home. The walls are streaked and opaque, the floors are covered in dark carpet, and the furniture is mismatched. Mismatched in a hideous array of blues and greens and yellows.

"They can't honestly expect us to live here," she says. Her manicured thumb presses against one of the walls, and when she pulls back, a distinct fingerprint resides in the grease.

"Did we bring cleaning supplies?" I ask. It isn't until I speak that I realize I am still outside, balanced precariously on the cobbled porch. The tips of my black-and-white heels just touch the carpet, and I can almost feel the grime latching onto the soles.

"Shut the door," says Mother. Her eyes flicker toward the empty street and then back to me. "Don't just stand there, Sahara. Move."

I drag Mother's bags into the room, cringing when a bout of dust puffs into the air. I cough, even though the dust doesn't reach my mouth.