I have another sleepless night. Baya's small apartment is cluttered and filled to the brim; all necessary things, but not enough space for them all. For the first part of the night, claustrophobia gnaws at my racing mind as I try to grow used to the cramped room.
The smell of flowers makes it even harder. Every time I breathe, I see my mother's face and hear her laugh. I can even taste the smell on my tongue. I feel like it's taking me over from the inside out.
The only redeeming quality of the apartment is the surprisingly comfortable-though-battered couch. The cream-colored linen is ripped in a multitude of places and seems to be spewing an obscene amount of stuffing, but is almost as soft as my bed back home.
After hours, I give up on trying to sleep. I throw the covers off my body and sit up on the sofa. My hands rake through my clean, soft hair as I breathe deeply. At this rate, I'm not sure I'll ever get a full night's rest again. What I would give for my nightly Transmitters right now.
But I'll never get that again, will I?
Even though I hardly trust the Free Speaks, part of me doesn't trust the Movement any more. They killed my mother for their own, selfish reasons. They let me think she died because it was her time.
My whole life has been a lie.
"Can't sleep either, huh?"
I look up to find Baya leaning against the frame of the first of three doorways. She wears a different cotton shirt from earlier, paired with loose shorts that go to her knees. Her long hair has been pulled back into a ponytail. Her face now seems fuller and tired eyes seem larger. I look harder. No, not just tired; she'd been crying.
I shake my head and move so she can take the spot next to me. She turns on the dim light overhead as she moves toward me.
For a while we sit in silence. She stares forward and I stare at her, trying to read her and figure her out the way only my people can. I'm surprised she doesn't try to read me, too.
As I look her over, my eyes finally catch her full Data Tag. Her letters are bold and daunting, even though they're exactly like any other Tag in the Movement.
There's more to her name than letters, though.
There is power.
Baya Marie Smithe.
I have to read the name more times than I can count. Gently, I reach for her wrist and pull it closer. I trace the last name with my finger once, then find her eyes. They have a sad smile in them as she realizes my question.
Slowly, she nods. "Brailyn was my grandfather."
Her oceans stare into my eyes. I can smell the salt in the air above the flowers, like I'm on the West Coast with my father again. Did she ever visit the West Coast with her grandfather before he passed?
How amazing it must have been to know Brailyn Smithe.
But now she's here; the past Movement leader's granddaughter has abandoned her people for the Free Speaks.
She reads the betrayed wonder in my eyes and projects her own confidence back. "The Movement killed my mother at 572 words when she should have had about 1,000. I was thirteen then and old enough to realize something was wrong. My search for answers brought me here."
I pull my hand away from her and look into my lap. Almost immediately, she grabs my own wrist, my own Data Tag. I catch her eye again. She pleads for me to listen to her.
I have to with the smell of flowers so potent in the air.
"Taeo, we all know that happened to your mother, too. Even if you don't believe it, you're one of us. The Movement has affected everybody in the UIP, in some way. It's done horrible things to people for almost no reason; we want to change it. One Unspoken at a time."
I shake my head. I can't join them. It's not right. I was born to be in the Movement, not to be a part of this society.
"It's easy, Taeo. We have a procedure to reconnect the vocal cords without the word counter. Past surgeons from the Movement--like Jeremii--just use their knowledge from the installation of the word counter to take it out. It gives you the words to speak against the Movement and everything they're doing wrong."
I stand from where I'm at and tear myself away from her touch. She can't be implying that I join the Free Speaks, can she? It's wrong. It's all wrong. And she's wrong for joining them in the first place, for using her words.
Before Baya can move to speak, a sound rises from the hallway. I can vaguely make out staggered steps and a mournful, off-key tune, complete with words that I can't make out.
I face the door, my interest piqued.
"It's just Christopher. He sleepwalks a lot." Baya's worried face is evident. Even though this may be a normal occurrence, it seems that there's something off about tonight. What could that be?
Baya glances at me and reads my eyes. "He usually just roams aimlessly singing songs about cake... I mean, uh, sweet foods, if that helps any, and his favorite blanket. Tonight he's singing war hymns. I haven't heard a war hymn in years."
I reclaim my spot beside her. I put my hand on her knee and rub my thumb on it. She must be distressed because of how tired she is.
"There's been something off about Christopher lately. He's been strange since before I even got here, but it's different these last few months. Michael won't do anything about it. He knows that if he does, he might lose his older brother. Right now, that's his only living relative."
My gut drops. I can't imagine how it feels to only have one, slowly-deteriorating relative. At least I have my father.
But does Baya?
I can see it in her eyes. This frustrates her because she knows how Michael feels. I don't have to hear her entire story to know that she has no one anymore. She lost everybody when her mother died. It's why she's here.
I move my hand to her shoulder and motion for her to stand up. I guide her to the doorway of her room. She just needs sleep.
Once at the door, I give her one short nod, my goodnight bidding to her.
"Goodnight, Taeo." She puts one hand on the upper part of my arm and smiles at me before giving a long yawn. Fatigue is evident through her entire body, from the tired hunch of her shoulders to the faraway look in her eyes.
I move to step away from her, but her hand catches my arm. I stand before her. She's almost a foot shorter than me. I can't see her as small, though, because I know inside of her are great things, beautiful things. In that aspect, she's taller than me. "Thank you, Taeo," she murmurs groggily, "For listening. It means a lot."
As I look at her through the faint light of the night, I'm struck by the fact that even in her exhaustion she is beautiful. Her eyes, her hair, her lips; she has a beauty to her unlike anything I've seen. I feel a flush rise on my cheeks at the thought. Guilt replaces the thought just as quickly.
I can't think that about someone else, because I'm supposed to love Merda.
I turn away and head back to the couch. Without looking at her, I lay on the soft material and close my eyes. I can feel her presence looming by her door. Then, the door is closed and she is safely tucked into her room. The smell of flowers is as strong as ever.
Now that silence encases the room, I can make out Christopher's singing down the hall, hear every word coming out of his mouth. The song is slow, hard, and it makes me ache in my bones.
"Down the old streetsoldiers go/Taking thoughts where'er they roam/There goes the cry, the child'scall/'round the nation all will fall/Momma and dad, take you children, go/hideaway from all the gore/Make the long trek down the road/Get away, take off theload/Smears of blood and piles of dust/Accept your fate, death is a must/Justlie calmly and let out a breath/Let it one last time leave your chest/Momma anddad, take your children, go/hide away from all the gore/make the long trek downthe road/get away, take off the load."
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A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I love the way this gives you some insight into Christopher AND Baya all in one go! The back stories are hitting a pause here, and we start moving forward from this point on!
I think there's some surface-contact in the works for next week, so we'll see how that goes on Tuesday!
In the meantime, don't forget to vote or leave a comment. All your feedback is very much appreciated!