DROWN ° tobias eaton

𝒊𝒊. a path to freedom

"Our dependents are now sixteen," Marcus Eaton continued. "They stand on the precipice of adulthood, and it is now up to them to decide what kind of people they will be." He paced the stage. "Decades ago our ancestors realized that it is not political ideology, religious beliefs, race or nationalism that is to blame for a warring world." Chantara was unsure if she agreed with what he was saying. "Rather, they determined that it was the fault of human personality — of humankind's inclination toward evil, in whatever form that is," he said. "They divided into factions that sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for the world's disarray."

Chantara couldn't keep the disinterested expression off her face as she yawned and blocked out the rest of his speech. She looked down at her hands, picking at the dirt underneath her freshly cut nails as time passed. Marcus continued talking about the Factions and how they and their ideologies were founded, but it was a story she had heard countless times before.

"When we leave this room," the man dressed in gray said. "We will no longer be dependents, but full-fledges members of our society." He paused, the room thick with the silence of anticipation. "Faction before blood," he finished, and everyone in the auditorium recited the words.

Names were called to the stage, one after the other, each teenager walking towards their future as they sliced their hand and let their blood collide with the contents of the bowls they chose. Chantara tapped her leg anxiously as time seemed to stretch on to infinity — until her name was called.

"Chantara Lovelace."

Her eyes darted up from her hands and felt her breath hitch in her throat: her time had come. As she stood Mother leaned into her ear and whispered; "You know what to do."

Oh, "I do."

She made her way down the stairs and up towards the stage, feeling the eyes of five Factions staring at the back of her frame. The knife felt heavy in her hand as she lifted it, the weight wavering in her dominant hand. With a deep breath, she placed the blade against her left palm and sliced, a bit too deep seeing as blood started to pour from the cut immediately.

She didn't wince, but she saw Marcus shift his weight uneasily as he watched her.

The knife clinked against the stone table as she put it down, the crimson fluid starting to drip down her wrist as she kept her hand close to her chest. She nodded to herself and stretched out her hand, closing her eyes as she heard droplets of her blood sizzle against the coal.

The Faction dressed in black, seated by the entrance erupted in cheers of laughter, removing the weight off her shoulders. Chantara turned around and met the gaze of her mother, and for the first time, her expression had changed towards her daughter. It wasn't stone-cold like it always had been, but instead filled with anger and hatred. She cocked her head up and shot Mother a sneer as she made her way down the stage and into the safety of Dauntless who welcomed her with open arms.

Chantara sat down next to another Erudite boy who she recognized, and an Abnegation girl, holding the blue handkerchief she had brought against her hand in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Here," the girl dressed in gray whispered. In her hands was a small piece of medical tape stretched out towards Chantara, identical to the one she had taped over her own cut.

She accepted it with a small nod as thanks.

Once the ceremony came to an end, the Dauntless was the first to rise and stream out from the auditorium. Chantara followed the cloud of black running down the flight of stairs, feeling the strings which held her to her old Faction break for each step she took. Each floor passing of the twenty-story building serving as another distance between her and Mother. Between her and her past.