Killing Sarai

27

Victor

Niklas has never known when to remain silent. He lacks discipline and because of this our Order has always been fonder of me.

We were together when we were recruited at the ages of seven and nine, but so were two other neighborhood boys who had been good friends of ours. We had been playing ball in the field behind the schoolyard, like we did every Saturday afternoon, when the men came. Niklas and I did not know we were brothers at the time. But we were the best of friends. Inseparable like brothers should be. So perhaps deep down a part of us knew all along.

It wasn’t until four years later, after my mother was killed while on a mission that we found out the truth. Niklas’ mother told us in secret.

It has been kept a secret ever since.

“What have you done, Victor? What were you thinking? Where is your head?”

Niklas white-knuckles the steering wheel. He turns to look at me every few moments, waiting for me to give him an answer that I cannot give.

Quietly, I bite back the pain searing through my hip.

I look over at Niklas.

“You must tell Vonnegut that they shot first,” I say and I see the argument cloud his features instantly. “Tell him that I had no choice.”

“Victor.” He shakes his head and then hits the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “What has happened to you?” He grits his teeth, holding back the kind of words he wants to say but knows would be better left unsaid.

He hits the steering wheel again.

“I have always done everything you have ever asked me to do. Not once have I refused you. Rarely do I question you. But I don’t because I trust you as I should.” He inhales a sharp breath and I notice his eyes stray toward the rearview mirror. And then he looks back at me. “But this is different. You’re risking everything: your place in the Order, your relationship with Vonnegut, your life, my life.” He slashes the air between us with his hand. “All for that girl.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort.”

“Then what would you call it?” he snaps. “If not for her, then for what? Make me understand, Victor!”

He swerves into the opposite lane of the highway to make it around a slow-moving car.

“And why have you told her your name? You’ve become unstable. They eliminate the unstable ones, Victor, you know this.”

He forces his eyes back on the road having hit his own nerve. His mother was one of the ‘unstable ones’.

“I will not let anything happen to you because of me,” I say. “If you feel you must tell Vonnegut the truth, I will understand. I will not hold that against you.”

He shakes his head dejectedly. “No. As I have always done, I will tell him whatever you need me to tell him.”

He pauses and grips the steering wheel with both hands, moving the palm of one hand over the ridges of the leather as if to keep his hand from hitting something else.

“I hope that one day you will tell me the truth,” he adds, not looking at me. “About what’s happening to you. About what really happened in Budapest. And if that has anything to do with what you’re doing now.”

“There is nothing to tell,” I say.

“Dammit! I am not Vonnegut!”

“No, you are Niklas, the only person in this world whom I trust.” I point out ahead. “Drop us off there. I’ll need to get a new car.”

Despite wanting nothing more than to shout at me all day until I tell him something satisfying, Niklas drops it altogether. Discipline. Something he will never have.

We pull through the front gate of a car dealership.

“Around to the side,” I say. “Wait for me there.”

Without objection, Niklas does as I say and parks on the side of the building next to another customer vehicle.

Before I get out, I glance back once at the girl, Sarai. She’s motionless and lost. Her eyes are open, but whatever it is that she’s staring at somehow I know she doesn’t really see. I want her to look upon me, just for a moment. But she never does and I walk away.