Burn (Pure #3)(2)

One caretaker told her that they’ve been bred into existence to use their delicate arms to shovel ash into their tiny mouths, to clean the slate—that’s how she put it.

They’re the reason why the sky outside the window is tinged blue instead of gray.

They’re why the sheets, the pillowcases, even the tiny goose feathers that escape the comforter are often bright white. Pressia can’t remember ever seeing something so pristine.

Everything in her room is kept clean. Her sheets are changed every day. In the adjoining bathroom, there is always a new bar of soap. Someone even pulls out the tangled strands of loose hair wound through her brush; each morning it’s clean.

She traces her finger on the window and then looks beyond it. She can see an ancient stone tower, tilted as if leaning into the wind, strange lumbering beasts—the size of cows but with thick, rubbery, hairless coats, occasional tusks—roaming the misty, downward slope. Beyond the herd, there’s the airship, locked to the earth by a mound of greenery; it has been swallowed by vines.

Will they ever get back again? Home. Did it ever exist? And now, after all that’s happened, after all she’s done, does she deserve a place called home? Bradwell, his massive wings—she did that to him. She wants to go back to the way it was before. But there is no going back.

To clean the slate.

But what do you do when the slate cannot be made clean?

Is anyone working on the airship? Have Bradwell, El Capitan, and Helmud regained enough strength to travel? Will Bradwell ever forgive her?

“This is a waste of time!” She’s lost her patience a few times and yelled at the caretakers. “We have to get back home! People need us!”

They smile, nod, point out the alarms on the walls.

At night, when her room grows dark, the alarms glow red and she hears the howling. It comes every night—dogs off in the distance. Wolves, foxes, coyotes? What howling dogs live in this land? Sometimes she wishes the dogs would circle in closer, threaten to devour her. Maybe she wants to be torn to bits, to disappear.

And she wakes up feeling the same way. It’s her guilt that she wants to be torn to bits, devoured, to disappear. Bradwell. She thinks of him now, her room filling with morning light. After she injected the serum into the birds in his back, after those wings grew quickly and wildly as his ribs and shoulders also expanded, he said, “What did you do to me?” She knows now that she betrayed him. He didn’t want to be saved by the contents of the vial—the medicine that might one day lead to Purifying the survivors of all their scars and fusings. He wanted to die Pure—by his own definition of the word. But she couldn’t let him go.

Alone, still feeling dreamy, she lies in her bed and remembers what it was like in the stone underpass on the hard ground with Bradwell, his hands rough and warm, cupping her face. It was like being fully alive for the first time in her life—alive in every cell of her body. And now, something inside of her feels dead. She feels vacant. Bradwell hates her. She hates herself. She isn’t sure which one is worse. She would do anything to win back his trust, but she knows the damage can’t be undone.

She understands why he hates the idea of being able to reverse his fusings, erase their scars, philosophically; he doesn’t want to reverse or erase the past, the sins of the Dome. But she doesn’t understand why there isn’t even one small part of him—deep down—that desires to be made whole again.

She touches the scar on her inner wrist—a thin, puckered line where the synthetic skin of the doll’s head is traced through with her own nerve endings. At thirteen, she tried to cut off the doll head. She remembers the feel of the knife on her skin. It stung sharply. It was something she was in control of—not something that was happening to her. She would like to be in control. Did she think a stump would be better? Did she think at all? Not really. She wanted only to be free of it.

She still wants that. The vial and the formula get her one step closer to that possibility, but Bartrand Kelly confiscated these things—what they all risked their lives to unearth. If she can get these things back into the Dome where there are scientists still working in labs, it wouldn’t just help her. No. There could be a future where all the survivors are whole again.

She rubs her hidden knuckles locked within the doll’s skull and rakes her fingers up her arm. She wants to be whole. After all these years, who wouldn’t?

A key rattles the lock. The knob turns. It’s a bright morning.

Pressia sits up and scoots to the edge of her bed, waiting.

Fedelma is the only caretaker whose name she knows. She’s in charge of the other caretakers and pins her hair like two horned knots on top of her head. She has more power and maybe for this reason she’s allowed to do more talking. Pressia is relieved to see her.

Fedelma is pregnant too. Her belly is a taut drum she has to negotiate around, and she’s not young. Her hair is graying at the temples. The skin around her eyes crinkles a bit when she smiles. She pushes the heavy door wide open with one hand, holds a tin tray aloft with the other. “Did you sleep?” she asks.

“Barely,” Pressia says, and she drives to the point. “I want to see Bartrand Kelly.” She hasn’t seen him since the first day—a blur of noise, thorns, blood, and wings—when they were all loaded into a cart and taken in. “He has things that belong to me.”

“He’s good to his word,” Fedelma says, setting the tray on the bedside table. “He’ll tell you everything when the time is right.”