Flawed (6 page)

The old man starts coughing. And then he won't stop.

His breath is wheezy, barely still for a moment before he coughs again. He takes out a handkerchief and coughs into that, trying to block the germs and noise. His face goes from white to pink to purple, and I see Juniper move closer to the edge of her seat. She looks at the two women chatting, then back to the old man. Finally, he stops coughing.

Moments later he starts again, and all heads turn away from him and look out the window. The fat lady stops talking to look at him, and I'm relieved, knowing she will finally let him sit in the seat he is entitled to. Instead, she tuts as if he's bothering her and continues her conversation.

Now I straighten up in my seat.

The coughing
is
bothering her. It is bothering everyone on the bus. His loud gasps for breath can't be ignored, and yet they are. Rules state that if anyone aids a Flawed, they will be imprisoned, but not in this case, surely? Are we to watch him struggling right before us?

The coughing stops.

My heart is pounding.

I let go of Art's hand. It feels clammy.

“What's up?”

“Can't you hear that?”

“What?”

“The coughing.”

He looks around. “There's no one coughing.”

The coughing starts again, and Art doesn't bat an eyelash when he looks at me intimately and says, “You know I can't wait to be somewhere alone. Why don't we miss the first class?”

I can barely hear him over the coughing, over my pounding heart. Does nobody hear the old man? Does nobody see him? I look around, flustered. All eyes are staring out the window or on him in disgust, as if he's about to infect us all with his flaws.

Juniper's eyes are filled with tears. My own flesh and blood agreeing with me is validation enough. I make a move to stand up, and Art's hand suddenly clamps around my arm.

“Don't,” he says firmly.

“Ow!” I try to move, but instead his grip feels like a red-hot iron. “You're hurting me.”

“And do you think when they sear your skin it won't hurt more than this?” He squeezes tighter.

“Art, stop! Ouch!” I feel my skin burning.

He stops.

“How is this fair?” I hiss.

“He has done something wrong, Celestine.”

“Like what? Something that's completely legal in another country but that people are prosecuted for here anyway?”

He looks as if I stung him.

“Don't do anything stupid, Celestine,” he says, sensing he has lost the argument. “And don't help him,” he adds quickly.

“I have no intention of helping him.”

How I walk by this coughing, wheezing, struggling-to-breathe old man is beyond me, but I do, seeing the faint
F
scar on his temple as though it has been there a very long time, like it's as much a part of him as the freckles and hair alongside it. I walk straight to the two women in the Flawed seats. They are chatting about making jam, as if nothing is wrong.

“Excuse me,” I say sweetly, offering them the most polite smile I can muster. They respond immediately with their own bright smiles. Two polite, friendly women from the suburbs willing to help me with anything. Almost anything.

“Yes, dear.”

“I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Could one of you sit in any of the available seats here? Or I could offer you two seats together where my boyfriend and I are sitting so that you can continue your conversation?”

As I look up at Art, all I can see is terror on his face. Funny, I no longer feel it. I like solutions. The problem was disturbing me, and fixing it just made sense. I'm not doing anything wrong; I'm not breaking any laws or rules. I've always been complimented on my timing, my perfection. I come from a good home. I have a pleasant manner. The anklet of geometric harmony proves it.

“May I ask why?” the woman with the broken leg asks.

“Well, this man here”—I point to the old man—“is clearly Flawed, and you are in the Flawed seats. He can't sit down anywhere else. And he is struggling.”

I notice a few faces turn to stare at me when I say that. I expect them to understand. I expect there to be no further conversation. I even expect the few who have overheard to step in and agree, make sense of the situation. But they don't. They look confused, some even scared. One man looks amused. This is illogical. This is Juniper's territory, not mine. I look at her. She has the same face of terror as Art does. She is not moving. If I ever thought she was going to back me up, I know now that she won't.

“But we're talking,” the other woman says.

“And he's choking,” I say with the same smile on my face, which I know looks a little psychotic, because we are no longer being polite.

“Are you trying to help him?” the woman with the crutches asks.

“N-n-no,” I stutter. “I'm not. I'm trying to help the situation.…” I flash her a brilliant smile, but she recoils from me.

“I want nothing to do with this,” the other woman says loudly, attracting more attention.

“With what?” I laugh nervously. “Your leg is fine. Perhaps if
you
just move to another chair and your friend stays here…”

“I'm staying right where I am,” she hollers.

Now we have the attention of the entire bus.

The old man, who is beside me, can barely stand. He is bent over coughing. He turns to me, face purple, and tries to talk, but he can't catch his breath.

I don't know what he's trying to say. I don't know what to do. I don't know what medical help to give him. Even if I knew what medical help to provide, I wouldn't be able to give it to him.
Think, think, Celestine. I can't help, but a doctor can.

“Is there a doctor here?” I call down the bus, and I see Art put his face in his hands.

There's an audible gasp in the bus.

I look around at everyone, the judgmental faces of surprise. I feel dizzy and confused. This man is going to collapse, maybe die. My eyes start to fill.

“Are we going to just watch this?” I scream.

“Stop it, dear,” a woman says to me in a hushed voice. She is clearly upset about it, too. It's not just me, but she's warning me. I'm going too far.

This is completely illogical. Have we no compassion for this human being, Flawed or not, that we won't help?

Heads look away. Eyes are averted.

“Okay, okay,” I say to the old man, who by now is panicking severely. He continues to cough, and I can see the
F
on his tongue, which makes me recoil slightly. I can't imagine the pain of receiving it. “It's okay.”

He punches his chest, starts to fall to his knees.

I pull him up under the arms, and I bring him to the nearest open seat.

“Stop the bus!” I yell.

The bus stops, and I assure the old man everything will be fine.

I look over at Juniper and see that she is crying.

“It's okay,” I tell her and Art. “It's going to be fine.” My heart is still pounding. “This has all been so very ridiculous.” My voice is high-pitched and shrill; it doesn't sound like mine. And then I hear the siren, loud, close, intense, and threatening.

 

TWELVE

EVERYBODY STAYS STILL
in their seats, waiting, my heart beating loudly over the silence. Two Whistleblowers climb aboard blowing silver whistles so loudly most people block their ears. They make their way toward me and the old man.

“See? I told you it will be fine,” I tell the man over the noise. “They're here. Help is here.”

He nods faintly, his eyes closed. I expect them to go to the old man, who has passed out on the seat, exhausted and taking short breaths, a fine layer of sweat covering his skin. But they don't go to him. They come for me.

And then they take me away.

Juniper screams at them to leave me alone, held back by Art, who doesn't look much better. As they hold me under the arms and drag me away by the elbow, Juniper screams, “My sister! My sister!” They lead me down the steps of the bus and into their van, the sound of the whistles ringing in my ears.

 

THIRTEEN

BEFORE I WAS
born, there was a great recession in this country; banks folded, the government collapsed, the economy was ravaged, unemployment and emigration soared. People were blindsided by what happened, and the leaders were blamed. The leaders should have known; they should have seen it coming. It was their bad judgment, their bad decisions that led to the country's collapse. They were evil people; they had destroyed families and homes, and they were to suffer. They were the morally flawed people who had brought about our downfall.

As a result, anyone who made the smallest error in judgment was immediately punished. These people were publicly ridiculed, held up as examples of failure, and forced to resign. They were named and shamed. They weren't criminals, but they had made bad decisions. Society demanded leaders who would not learn from hindsight—leaders who would not make the mistakes in the first place. No second chances, no sympathy, no explanations allowed nor required. Anybody who had made mistakes in the past couldn't take leadership roles in the future. And as hundreds of thousands of people marched on the government, it was decided that any person who made any error in judgment was to be rooted out of society entirely. Hindsight would be a thing of the past. Everybody would always—always—look ahead before it was too late, no mistakes made.

Could perfection be bred? Many ways to achieve this were tried and tested, and what the government eventually settled on was Crevan's Guild and its Flawed brandings. No matter what you do in your life, your Flawed title can never be removed. You hold it till death. You suffer the consequences of your one mistake for the rest of your life. Your punishment serves as a reminder to others to think before they act.

I'm taken to a holding cell in the basement of Highland Castle and guided to a table upon which sits an information pack containing all the information about the Guild that I need to know. It has a chapter dedicated to the rules you must adhere to living as a Flawed. It even has a comprehensive section on the searing of the skin: the process and how to treat your brand afterward. I slam the pack closed and look around.

The holding cells are pleasant; they are newly renovated. There are four total, two on each side of the room, separated by a walkway in the center, each one enclosed by bulletproof and soundproof glass. According to the information pack, the glass represents the transparency of the system, but I feel it is to prepare us for the lack of dignity coming our way and invasion into our lives. Each cell contains a table with four chairs, a single bed, a bathroom with real walls, and some randomly placed chairs should the desire for a holding-cell party take me. Everything is earthy tones, to make us feel like this is the most natural place in the world.

Of the four cells, I am the only occupant. The two opposite me are empty; the one beside me had been occupied—I can tell from the clothes, the items of belongings scattered. I assume this person is in the courtroom now, awaiting his or her fate. The bathroom, thankfully, has solid walls, but it has been made so small that you can barely spend a minute in there before feeling suffocated. It is where I have run to cry, though I may as well have stayed here and done it in full view because my tearstained face and red eyes are a giveaway, and there's nobody here to see me anyway.

I have not had the opportunity to speak with anyone yet, to analyze, dissect, and discuss what has happened. I was registered at reception by a nice lady in a Whistleblower uniform, who introduced herself as Tina, and then I was brought to this room beneath the Clock Tower, where the Guild has its offices. I know from watching trials on television, seeing Pia on every live report following the accused from the Clock Tower, all the way across the cobblestoned courtyard, to the Guild court, heads down and being hurled abuse by the public, who come to boo and hiss and show their support for the Guild.

I am definitely in shock. I must be. I cannot fathom how
I
can be
here
, me who doesn't do anything wrong, who is a people-pleaser, whose every report card is filled with perfect As, whose boyfriend's dad is the head judge of the Guild.

I go through my actions on the bus again, over and over in my head. I go through them so much they start to blur, like an overplayed song. I think about what I did, what I should have done, what I could have done better. I become confused as to what actually happened. I watch it happen over and over in my head; it's like staring at somebody's face until that person eventually starts to look different. I sit on the bed, my back against the only solid wall of my cell, and push my head to my knees, hugging my legs. I don't know how long I sit like this; it could be minutes, it could be hours, but my heart flits from calm to panic as I reason with myself.

I can't be Flawed. I can't be Flawed.

I am perfect.

My parents say so, my teachers say so, my boyfriend and even my sister—who hates me—say so. My sister. I think of Juniper's screams of defense as I was taken away, and my eyes fill. My big sister, who was flailing against the unmoving Art to get to me. I hope she's okay. I hope they didn't take her, too. She will be forced to say she didn't agree with my actions, and I worry instantly. I don't want to drag her into this. Who knows what Juniper will say? And what about Art? How is he feeling right now? Is he in trouble? Will his dad help me or never speak to me again? Will Art ever speak to me again? The thought of ever being without him makes me feel sick.

Around and around it all goes.

A door slams and I look up.

Tina and a male guard escort a boy who looks about my age, maybe a little older. They pass my cell and take him to the one beside mine. I can tell by his familiarity with the place that he isn't new here, unlike me—as I was being led in, I frantically looked around to examine my new surroundings. His T-shirt is covered in white powder, and so is his hair. There are splashes of it on Tina and the male guard, too, which confuses me. The boy is tall, broad. He has a bold, stubborn face, a guilty look. He's young like me, but his face looks older.