Flawed (Flawed, #1)(33)

Carrick’s jaw works overtime as he watches me take the gown, his black eyes deep pools of oil. He doesn’t ignore me anymore. There are no more smart faces and sarcastic looks. I have his full attention now, his full respect. I can barely escape his looks. When I return from the changing area, I see that his cell has been utterly trashed and that he is being held down on the ground by Bark. He has not reacted well to my ruling. Perhaps this makes him more unsettled about his own. We don’t get to say good-bye. I can’t even see his face. It is beneath Bark’s knee, cheek pushed to the ground, his face facing away from me. Our contact is to forever remain without words, not that we ever needed them anyway. I have no doubt that he will find himself wearing a similar smock and taking the same steps as I am doing now.

Before entering the Branding Chamber, I sit in a small holding room with Tina and June. They go through pamphlets of information with me about what is going to happen, what I will see, what I will feel, which is apparently nothing as they numb my skin, and how to treat my wounds afterward. They hand me so many leaflets for aftercare services, therapy sessions, emergency hotlines, all branded with the Flawed branding. I sign some paperwork—quick, short agreements accepting all responsibility for what is about to occur—agreeing the Guild will not be held accountable if any of the brandings go wrong or if ill effects result down the line. It is discussed clinically, calmly, as though I’m going for a nose job.

As I step out of the holding room and into the long, narrow corridor that leads to the Branding Chamber, I see Carrick sitting outside on the bench where we sat together, guarded by Funar. Funar has a sneer on his face, and I can tell he is happy about both my situation and the fact that Carrick will be forced to listen. Carrick will hear me scream. My family will hear me scream. I will scream.

No. I will not let that happen. I will not allow them to do that to me. I will not scream.

Feeling defiant, I believe this is the first time I have ever truly felt it. The first time on the bus was compassion, on the stand in court my admission was out of guilt and not bravery, but now I feel anger and I am defiant.

Our eyes meet. His are strong, and I feel the effect of his stare.

“I’ll come find you,” he says suddenly, his voice deep and strong, and I’m surprised to hear him speak.

I nod my thanks because I don’t trust myself to speak. He fills me with the strength I need to enter the room without freaking out, mostly because I don’t want to lose it in front of him. My parents and Granddad are already seated behind the glass, as though they’re at the cinema waiting for the reel to begin, but their faces display the terror I feel. They do not want to view what they are about to see, but they are here so I don’t go through it alone. On seeing them, I think I would rather be alone, an unfamiliar feeling for me, who only ever wants to be surrounded by family. The excommunication from society is taking effect already within me, feeling detached from my family already, a stranger who can only go it alone.

Mr. Berry is here, too, which makes me uncomfortable, though I’m sure he must be here for legal reasons, and past the open door, around the corner, I know is Carrick. That gives me strength.

Tina places me in the chair. It is like a dentist’s chair, nothing unusual apart from the fact that my body is bound to the chair—at my ankles, wrists, head, and waist—so I can’t kick and flail as I’m seared. They want to get a clear symbol on my flesh for all time, the irony of a perfect Flawed symbol not lost on me. Tina is tender as she buckles the straps. I even sense a halt in sarcasm from June. Now is not the time for that. I’m getting what I deserve, the punishment speaking for them all.

Bark is busy with the equipment, doing whatever he needs to do.

The motorized chair reclines. I wince against the brightness of the ceiling lights. My skin feels hot as they shine on me, in the spotlight and center stage for all to see. This is it.

“It’s better not to look,” Tina whispers into my ear as she fastens the strap across my forehead. I cannot look now anyway, I can’t move.

They inject my right hand first with the anesthetic. It immediately numbs. Bark picks up the hot poker, and I see it, with its cast-iron F surrounded by a circle at the tip. My hand is flattened out and my fingers are strapped down, too, my hand forced open so that my palm is ready. It is done simply and quickly. No modern equipment, just a cast-iron poker and a count to three by Bark.

“One, two…” Sear.

I jump, but I can’t feel the pain. A sensation at most. And the smell of burning flesh, which makes me nauseated. I don’t scream. I won’t scream.

“There’s a bucket here if you need to,” Tina says, by my side instantly like a midwife.

I shake my head. I can hear the internal whimpering inside, see the burn on my open hand. The raw wound in my smooth skin. Four more times. It is the tongue I fear the most. I know they will leave this until last, they have told me that already, because it must be the worst.

The skin on my right sole is injected with anesthetic, and I lose all feeling instantly.

Bark moves toward my foot. He looks at my ankle and frowns, seeing my anklet.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“Bark,” Tina snaps. “I let her keep it on. Keep moving.”

“No … I … I just … it’s just that I made it. For a young man. For his girlfriend. He said she was perfect.…” He looks at me, realizing.