Текст книги "The Moon Dwellers"
Автор книги: David Estes
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
There’s a guy sitting across from her. He’s naturally dark-skinned, which is the only way to not have pale skin when you live underground; unless, of course, you reside in the Sun Realm, where tanning beds are a staple in every household. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, highlighting his muscular arms. He’s tall, but not as tall as Tristan. Funny how I’m already comparing other guys to Tristan, like I even know him.
Tawni spots me and motions for me to join them. I manage to squeeze through the throng of eaters and slide onto the bench next to her.
“Hi!” she says brightly, like we are just a bunch of friends going out to eat at our favorite haunt.
“Uh, yeah, hi.” I still can’t seem to remember how to speak like a normal human being. I glance at the black guy. He smiles.
“I’m Cole,” he says, extending a hand.
When he grasps my hand it disappears, as if it’s been swallowed up by his enormous paw. I shake his hand firmly, trying to act tough, but to my surprise he doesn’t return my iron grip. Nor does his hand crumple under the raw power of my squeeze. It’s just sort of there. It’s like his hand absorbs my strength, simply by the sheer solidity of his bones. His hand is also somewhat tender and gentle, smooth and well cared for. Somewhat feminine, if I’m being honest. It’s a contradiction, which I’m always intrigued by. Like bittersweet chocolate, which, by the way, I’ve only tried once in my life when my dad gave me a square for my eighth birthday.
By just shaking Cole’s hand I’ve started to like him. Can it be: another friend? Two in one day? It’s like a Christmas miracle.
“I’m Adele,” I say, feeling quite gabby all of a sudden.
“I know,” he says. “Tawni told me. She said you’re a badass.”
I feel my face flush slightly. “Oh. Not really. It was just some punk who’s all talk.”
“She told me who it was. He’s not all talk. I’ve seen him bust some heads before. You were lucky; you don’t want to mess with that dude.”
“I can take care of myself,” I say. I hear a coldness creep into my tone. I grit my teeth and try to relax.
Cole shrugs. “If you say so. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Whatcha in for anyway?” he asks.
Geez, this guy cuts right to the chase. But I tell him anyway.
“Mass murder. Got burned by the shallow graves—I knew I should have dug deeper.”
Cole’s face doesn’t flinch. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Me, too. Weird coincidence, huh?”
My jaw drops open.
Cole grins. “Gotcha!” he says proudly.
I realize that, like me, he’s joking. The way he delivers the line, combined with his soft handshake, combined with the fact that I’m actually speaking to real humans for the first time in a long time, makes me completely miss his sarcasm. Me, the queen of sarcastic comments—self-declared—has been outsarcastified.
“Cole can be quite sarcastic,” Tawni explains, one of her white eyebrows rising apologetically.
“You don’t say,” I reply, grinning at Cole. That’s when I notice the strength of his eyes. When I say strength, I mean strength. Most people talk about eye color when they talk about people’s eyes—I certainly do. And yes, Cole’s eyes are a beautifully warm shade of milky chocolate brown. But what I notice is what’s behind his eyes. It’s like he’s wearing steel-plated contacts or something. There’s no trace of nervousness, or fear, or worry, or any of those other feelings that I constantly have; the feelings that lead my eyes to look away, to flutter, to close. Right away I know Cole is someone you can count on in the most dangerous situations.
“Nah, I’m not sarcastic at all,” Cole says. Again, I can’t detect even the slightest trace of sarcasm in his voice. He’s good, that’s for sure. I’ll have to listen closely whenever he speaks.
Despite having only just met these two people, barely spoken three sentences to either of them, I find myself opening up.
“I’m the daughter of a traitor,” I blurt out.
“Well, you’ve got us beat,” Tawni says. “I got caught trying to travel interdistrict without a travel card, and Cole here stole a couple of loaves of bread to feed his starving family.”
Cole says, “It was six loaves of bread, which, let me tell ya, are hard to carry when you don’t have a bag and you’re in a hurry. When we didn’t have anything to eat for three nights in a row, I came up with a plan. I was so stressed that sweat was dripping off my forehead and into my eyes. I could barely see when I smashed the bakery window. My hands were cold and clammy, but somehow I managed to grab the six loaves. Someone shouted at me, an Enforcer, I think, and I started running. Right away one of the loaves slipped out of my fingers. I grabbed for it, but that made another one slip, then another. Soon I was juggling the bread, batting it up in the air over my head. I did pretty well, too, keeping all six up in the air for like five seconds before one fell. My luck didn’t get much better at that point. I slipped on the loaf, which, for your information, was about as slippery as a banana peel, and went down hard. They brought me here.”
I almost want to laugh. Cole has a twinkle in his eyes, so I don’t think he’ll mind. But laughter is still coming hard for me, so I just smile lightly. “Truth,” I say, starting a game that has the potential to last for a long time.
Cole grins. “Correct,” he says. “As stupid a way as that was to end up in the Pen, it’s all true.” I’m starting to get a better read on him, noticing subtle things like the way his bottom lip pouts slightly when he’s being honest. His eyes are always the same, though, strong and confident, so I won’t be able to use them to read him, like you can with most people.
“How long you in for?” Tawni asks me.
I raise my eyebrows. “How long?” I parrot.
“Yeah, you know,” Tawni says, “a year, two years, what?”
“Try forever,” I say.
Cole stares at me. “Truth,” he says.
“No, that can’t be right,” Tawni says. “Lie. She’s messing with us.”
With tight lips I shake my head. “Not a lie. They told me rebelliousness is passed through blood, genetically, like eye color or being able to snap your fingers. They won’t ever let me out. I mean, when I turn eighteen I’ll move out of this place and into an adult facility—probably the Max—but I’ll never have my freedom again.”
Leave it to me to put a damper on my first meal with my two new friends. But they did ask, and I wasn’t about to lie. I expect them to shun me, to get up and leave, like just being in my presence will add years to their own sentences. They don’t.
Cole says, “That’s horse manure. I’ll never go for that.”
He says it in such a way that I know he’s dead serious, as if he’s already made up his mind to do something about it. Not that he can. If he tries anything, he will just end up with his own life sentence.
“There’s nothing you can do,” I say.
“There has to be something,” Tawni says. The way she emphasizes the word something, I know she isn’t talking about legal methods.
“No, there’s not,” I say adamantly. “You guys barely know me and you’ll just screw up your own chances. When do you get out anyway?”
Cole looks at Tawni and motions with his head. She answers for them both. “I’m out in six months and Cole’s out in a year.”
I nod. Even their sentences seem exceptionally harsh considering their crimes, but they sound a whole lot better than mine. In a year they’ll both be out of the Pen, able to make their own decisions again, even if under the increasingly intolerant oppression of the government.
I’m glad when Tawni changes the subject. It’s like she knows my heart will die again if I think too much about the rest of my wasted life.
She says, “Wasn’t it weird today how Tristan looked at you?” My breath catches in my lungs. So she did notice. Maybe it wasn’t all in my head.
I look at Cole. “Tawni told me about that, too,” he says, “but I want to hear it from you.”
“I thought it was all in my head,” I say, feeling my face go slightly warm again. One negative of having highly pale skin is that a blush stands out like a hairy wart on a nose.
“No—it wasn’t,” Tawni says. “It was like all the crowds and everything else just disappeared, and Adele and Tristan were the only people left. I could almost see his laser eyes touching you, caressing you…”
“Tawni!” I shout, ignoring a couple of strange glances from the other eaters. “It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t feel any…touching.” I say the last word like it’s something disgusting, like moldy bread, crinkling my nose and curling my lip. “But I did feel something for him.”
“You see? I told you, Cole. I almost felt like I was intruding on some private conversation they were having with their eyes. It was kind of weird, but in a cool way.”
“You felt something for him, huh? Still sounds pretty sci-fi to me,” Cole says.
“To you and me both,” I say. I look down, embarrassed again. This time it’s because I sense what feels like jealousy in Cole’s tone.
Chapter Two
Tristan
My heart is alive again. Because I see her. Right away I feel like an idiot—because of my thoughts.
I’m thinking she sees me, too, that she notices me, that she looks at me with the same interest. I feel something for her; I don’t know what. But it’s all in my head—clearly. So I feel like an idiot.
Then what is it? Something is different about the way she looks at me. I’m used to people staring at me, but they usually only do so in one of three ways. First are the obsessive girls, the stalker types, who want to marry me and have my babies and wait on me hand and foot for the rest of my life. I think I saw one of their undergarments fly past my head during the parade—that would’ve been from one of the obsessives. I tolerate them, but unlike my brother, do not enjoy their affections. Next are the admirers. They think I can do no wrong, and are generally old, gray men who look at me with a respect usually reserved for the dead. Not that I’ve earned it. I haven’t done anything; except be born. Last are the haters. Simply put: they hate me. Want me dead. Stare at me with steely eyes, like they think if they stare at me long enough I’ll spontaneously combust. They’re the ones who sit at home with voodoo dolls of me and my dad and my brother, poking and prodding and twisting with needles. Hoping we can feel what the dolls are feeling.
But I don’t feel it. Nor do my dad or brother. We’re too busy dining on the finest veal butchered by the 22nd subchapter in the Moon Realm, the freshest vegetables harvested from subchapter 9 in the Sun Realm, and the strongest ale produced by the Star Realm.
Sometimes the food only tastes bitter to me. If I were to ever say that to my father, he would punish me dearly. If I were to ever say that to the people I am expected to rule, they would spit on me, laugh at me. How can the finest food in all of the underworld taste bitter? You should taste what we’re eating, they would say.
If only they understood. It isn’t about the food—was never about the food. In any other place, in any other time, the food would be perfect, delectable. But somehow eating it in our empty palace, with the empty soul who is my father, causes even the tenderest of meats to feel tough and chewy, the sweetest of fruits to taste bitter and sour, the greenest of vegetables to turn to gray dust in my mouth.
It wasn’t all bad growing up. My mother was a special person. She loved me—truly loved me—not like the false, dutiful love that my father bestows upon me. She used to take me on adventures throughout the palace, running and singing and laughing with me. She’d tell me tales in the dark corners of our home, where my father would never think to look for us. With her I felt safe, happy. She had feared my father, like I used to.
That’s why my heart died. Because she left me.
But today I feel a slight murmur in my heart, a mere palpitation, a throb of heat, an arrhythmic beat that lasts for only a moment, and then is gone, like the flash of a lightning bug in the dark.
Her jet-black hair cascades around her face like a funeral shroud, but I find myself mesmerized. She looks at me differently than all the others. With interest, but not awe. She looks so sad, but somehow I know it’s only a fraction of the sadness she holds inside her. Her skin is a natural pale, the result of living underground her entire life, not like the fake-tanned bodies that parade around the Sun Realm. Although from a distance her eyes look dark, I know they are a deep, enchanting green, almost feline. I half expect them to glow in the dark. Nonsense! All nonsense. I can’t possibly know what color her eyes are, as if I know her. I’ve never met her, have never so much as uttered a single word to her.
And yet…yet I still feel something for her. I feel tied to her by something made up of a far stronger material than what ties me to my family, my friends—if I really have any friends, that is. It isn’t love, of course; I don’t believe in love at first sight.
I feel the parade car start its slow arc around a bend; soon the Pen, and the girl, will be out of sight.
I see a big guy approach the girl. His footsteps are not innocent. His demeanor screams violence. Something bad is about to happen. I can sense it. I think her eyes are still on me, but it’s hard to tell. I have to warn her! Although I know I should make a warning motion of some sort, I don’t. Only my facial expression—a deep frown—alerts her to the impending danger.
Her eyes pull away from mine and she sees the guy. My view is partially blocked by the edge of a building as the float turns the corner. Craning my neck, I see her turn away from the guy, say something to her friend. The guy says something to her. My view is nearly blocked.
She stands up and pushes him. She’s going to fight him.
No, you can’t! I scream in my head as subchapter 14 surrounds me. Then she’s gone. There’s nothing I can do now.
I think about her all day. I wonder what happened to her. Did the big guy hurt her? Or worse, kill her? Why was she so bold to stand up to someone with such a clear size advantage over her? I know that moon dwellers are a hardened people, but I’ve never known them to be suicidal.
I fear for her.
* * *
My meetings with the leaders of the Moon Realm pass torturously slowly. Although I’m barely listening, by the end of the day I’m so annoyed with the leaders kissing my hind parts that I want to scream. Vice President Ogi of the Moon Realm is the worst. I think if I ask him to go on all fours, lick my feet, and then scratch himself, he will gladly oblige. His first priority: to look good in front of the Sun Realm.
Although I’m joking about making Ogi impersonate a dog, the reality of it is far scarier. My father could ask him to enslave every last moon dweller, whip them four times a day, and force them to do God knows what, and he would give the order to his men with a smile on his face and without the least bit of regret. In all the ways that my mother is the most selfless person I’ve ever met, Ogi is the most selfish.
I know he has grand plans to rise from the Moon Realm to the Sun Realm one day, even if only as a servant in my father’s palace. The only satisfaction I get from watching him bow before me is knowing it will never get him anywhere. My father, President Nailin, ruler of the Tri-Realms, will never so much as allow Ogi to clean up the crap of our palace dog, Blue. For that I am happy.
As the rough gray cavern walls flash past on either side during the train ride back to the Sun Realm, I think about when my next scheduled visit to the Moon Realm is. Not for months, I realize. All the key contracts are signed. The moon dwellers will slave away for another year, providing sustenance to the lazy sun dwellers, for a measly wage of five Nailins a day; all because of the lopsided contract signed by the weasel Ogi. You would think that as son of the President there’d be something I could do to help. There is nothing. I am merely a puppet, sent across the Tri-Realms to collect signatures and smile for the cameras. All the real negotiations are performed by my father, behind closed doors—and he always gets what he wants.
I have to find an excuse to go back to the Moon Realm. To find out what happened to the dark-haired girl with the emerald-green eyes. I have no choice in the matter; an unseen force drives me. I wonder if I would feel this strongly if she hadn’t been in danger when I saw her. If we had just looked at each other, would I have simply shrugged her off as just another beautiful girl? I don’t know the answer to my own question.
But it’s more than that. It’s not only that she was in danger that interests me. It’s the way she handled herself. With confidence, with strength. Different from the girls in the Sun Realm, who can’t seem to do anything for themselves. Certainly not stand up to a big, strong guy in a prison.
I wonder what her name is, who she is, why she is rotting away in the Pen. Is her sentence nearly over or has she been given a one-way ticket? Has she stolen something; or worse, killed someone? If she has, I know she had a good reason for doing it. Although for all I know she might’ve plotted a failed assassination attempt on my father—or even me.
Not that I would blame her. We call ourselves a democracy, but rule like a dictatorship. The title of President for my father should’ve been replaced with something else long ago. King, Master, Czar…something. If I lived in the Moon or Star Realms, I would probably rebel against my father, against the sun dwellers. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a major rebellion, at least not in my lifetime. The last time it happened was the inter-Realm Resistance in 475 P.M., but it was quashed by my father’s troops in less than a year. Another rebellion is my father’s greatest fear, and yet he takes liberties away from the moon and star dwellers as easily as he shakes out stones from his shoes. I hate him for it.
“Sir?” I hear someone say. It’s my servant, Roc. He’s staring at me strangely.
I look around and realize the train has stopped. “Oh, we’re here,” I say, jumping up.
Roc escorts me out of the first-class car and onto the palace grounds. Everything is brighter here, nothing like the gloominess of the Moon Realm. We are still underground, yes, but the entire roof glows brightly, illuminating the massive cave network. It’s all part of the distinction between the Realms. Electricity is strictly rationed, such that the Sun Realm receives eighty percent of it, of course, with a paltry fifteen percent going to the Moon Realm, and a measly five percent to the star dwellers.
At least those are the published figures. In reality, I know that closer to ninety-five percent of all energy goes to the sun dwellers, allowing us to live like kings. Not that we are—there are no kings in a democracy.
“Your father requests your presence immediately,” Roc says as we walk.
“Of course he does,” I say. To any other servant, I would probably sound smug, self-righteous, like I am pleased my father has requested my audience. But not to Roc. He knows I’m being sarcastic. Roc is more than just a servant. He’s my friend—maybe my only one. In public I am forced to treat him as I would any servant, because to my father anything else would be a sign of weakness.
But in private we are the best of friends. We’ve grown up together, after all. Before he reached the age of accountability—which is only eight years old—we played every day together. He loved my mother, too. Sadly, Roc’s mother died giving birth to him. But my mom adopted him, treated him just as well as my brother and I. Kissing him goodnight, taking him on our adventures, giving him presents on the day of the Sun Festival: Roc was like a third son to my mom…and is like a second brother to me.
Roc grins. “We’ll try to get out of there fast, sir. If we have time afterwards, can I have another lesson?”
I grin back. A few months prior, Roc requested that I teach him to fight. Swords, guns, battleaxes, knives—that sort of thing. I gladly agreed. It was just another chance to disobey my father. He doesn’t want Roc and me to be friends, buddies. The servant/master code is far too important to him. Even Roc’s father, who is my father’s chief servant and has known my father for years, isn’t a friend to him.
“Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll keep focusing on swords—because they’re useful and awesome.”
We reach the palace gardens. Creating and maintaining the underground gardens costs more in a month than the entire population of star dwellers earns in a year. It isn’t possible without the sun-like technology that was invented decades earlier. Not that my father cares. Ignoring the insane cost, the gardens are extraordinary. Pillars of perfectly pruned green hedges frame the entrance. Hundreds of varieties of flora and fauna are meticulously maintained by the garden staff, providing splashes of color throughout the garden’s boundaries. The gardens look weird inside the massive cavern.
I always loved the palace gardens growing up. Running around in bare feet on the soft, lush lawns, playing hide-and-go-seek around the bushes and trees, Roc and I pretending we were palace guards as we charged through the gardens, fighting off marauders with our invisible swords. Now, like most things in the Sun Realm, I hate the gardens. For me the gardens are just another reminder of how unfair the world that my father governs is. The world that I am meant to inherit, being the eldest son.
We walk quickly through the gardens, like we always do.
Along the way we pass many people. Most of them are servants, who acknowledge me with a slight bow, which I ignore—another one of my father’s requirements. But some of them are palace guests—sun dwellers. Those are the ones I most like to look at. Because they look ridiculous. The current fashion is to wear bright colors, and the sun dwellers take it to the extreme, wearing gaudy red and pink tunics with blue and green polka dots. But compared to the hats, the tunics are tame. There are hats of all shapes and sizes, some glittering, some sparkling, some shimmering with diamonds and pearls, or stuck with feathers like a bird. All worth laughing at. Time and time again I’m forced to hide my amusement as I’m greeted by men, women, boys, girls, all seeking “just a moment of your time.” It’s a wonder we ever make it to the palace.
By the time we do, the sun is waning in the west. Or at least that’s how some of the books my mom used to read to me described the sunset. In the Sun Realm, the artificial sun is just slowly dimmed, to simulate nightfall.
In reality, it’s always night in the underworld.
My father is waiting, keeping court in his throne room—I mean meeting room. He’d have to be a king to get a throne.
“You’re late,” he says.
He’s wearing a spotless white tunic with shimmering gold embroidery along the seams. His gray goatee is groomed to perfection, no doubt trimmed twice already that day by a servant. Probably by one of the two pretty little things that stand by his side now, ready for his next command. They’re both blonde and deeply tanned, wearing tight, black tunics cut off well above the knees. The V-necks reveal just how mature they are. It’s all part of my father’s dress code for the female servants. Roc’s father excepted, all of my father’s personal servants are women—as beautiful as they are sleazy. I suspect they do a lot more for the President than just iron his tunics and trim his beard. Suspicions like that make me unable to think of him as my father sometimes.
“I was delayed by some journalists who wanted some quotes for tomorrow’s paper,” I say flatly.
“Sir,” my father says simply.
I sigh. “Sir,” I repeat. Another one of my father’s pet peeves.
“And everything else went according to schedule?” he says.
“Yes. Next year’s contracts with the Moon Realm have been finalized under the terms you stipulated…” I pause, one beat, two. My father drums his fingers on his wooden armrest impatiently. “Sir,” I say finally, enjoying my little game. I don’t dare to openly rebel against my father, but I can still have a bit of fun.
“Good,” my father says. “Is that everything?”
I nod.
Without waiting for his permission, I turn on my heel and march off, with Roc in tow. I hear my father say, “You may go,” as I walk away. It’s his lame attempt to show off his power in front of his Barbie Doll servants.
When we are out of eyesight and earshot, Roc says, “You really shouldn’t push him like that.”
I sigh. “I know, I know.” Roc is usually right. Flashing a grin, I say, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”
“It’s the little things in life,” Roc says, smiling. His dark features look even darker as shadows fall upon the palace.
“Like swords?” I say.
“Yes!” Roc says, a bit too loudly. A passing servant woman glares at him. Mrs. Templeton—the palace housekeeper. She’s a nasty one.
We make our way through the business end of the palace and into the residential quarters. The change in décor is like night and day. The government side is stark and official-looking, everything clean-cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with wavy heat lines wafting to the sides. The living quarters still feel a bit too posh and sterile, but at least there are a few personal touches, all of which my mother added before she disappeared.
There is the family portrait on the entry room table. Normally, I wouldn’t have any interest in a family photo. But this one I love, because it presents our family in such an honest light. My brother and I look bored, restless, with tousled hair and cheeky grins. My mother has her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side. About a foot away, on her other side, is my father, not looking happy at all. The cameraman snapped the photo a split-second before he was able to turn on his friendly-President face, as I like to call it. You know, the one that’s so obviously fake it’s painful to watch. The kind of face you just want to slap.
After that photo was taken, my father’s face went all red and he looked like he was ready to slug the photographer. But my mom managed to soothe him, rubbing her hand on his back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it. That was back when she still had some power over him.
Somehow she convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home. After she disappeared, I expected him to take it down. But either he’d grown to like it (which I doubt) or he’d forgotten it was even there (more likely). And so it remains, making me smile every time I pass by.
A part of me clings to the hope that my father kept the photo there because he misses her, wants to remember her, but the more grown-up part of me knows better. Before my mother vanished, there was no love between them. It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.
At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted very long. As far back as I can remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls. As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office. Almost like elves. That is one fantasy I wish I hadn’t outgrown. The truth is far too sickening.
Roc is saying something. “Huh?” I say.
He repeats himself. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”
Roc’s words sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. My mother’s disappearance. Two years ago, but still as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” Well, not really. But it is on the fringe of my thoughts; it is always there. No matter if I am thinking about what to eat for lunch, or the next sword maneuver I will teach Roc, or even if I am thinking about a girl, like the one from today, thoughts of my mom are there, buzzing about on the edge of my consciousness, suffocating my heart.
“It doesn’t matter what you were thinking,” Roc says. “I know you still blame yourself.”
I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to dredge up the memories again—they are too painful. I am fine to just let her memory cling to the edges of my mind where maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to face them. Sometimes talking to Roc is like talking to a shrink, only without the comfy couch to lie on.
“Not now, Roc,” I say.
“Then when?” he asks.
“Maybe never,” I say honestly.
Roc stops, grabs my shoulders with both hands, forces me to look at him. His dark eyes are serious. “Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous. It will drive you mad if you let it. You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this. And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”
I expected Roc to say something cliché like Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan, but instead, his words are like darts embedding themselves in my chest. I don’t want to let him down. Nor my mother. But I can’t help it. The pain is more than I can bear. The what-ifs are a cancer, like Roc said. What if I was a better son? What if I’d stood up to my father? What if I’d been with her on the day she disappeared, refusing to let her out of my sight? Would everything be different then? Would we be a happy little family?
I want to believe the answer is yes, but in my heart I know it isn’t so. Accepting that fact will set me free. But I can’t…or won’t.
Not that it matters. I will hang on to the what-ifs and continue to blame myself regardless of whether I truly believe I had any influence on the events that transpired.
There isn’t much to believe in these days. I once believed in the love of a mother, but then she left me. I used to believe in honor, in chivalry, in the power that one person has to enact real, positive change in the world. My mother taught me all that. It vanished when she did.
Now all I believe in is pain.
Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I am the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.
