Loss is handled in a specific way in the
Community. Yes, while a funeral is offered,
further lamentation is discouraged.
It is the duty of the Citizens to be as
productive as is humanly possible.

-Basics of the Community, page 221

~~~~~

"All right, children, it's time to wake up from your precious dreams of fairies and the mythical realm where I reign. How unfortunate that it's not reality," Peter wails at the top of his lungs, slamming his foot against the wall.

"Peter, what are you doing?" I ask, groggy from sleep. I push the matted hair out of my face, struggling to cover my yawn with my hand.

"It's 7:37 in the morning. You'd be on your way to school by now, and that was only a couple days ago."

"Why are you so precise?" I scowl. I don't want to think about school anymore. My time at Incipiens Province High School is not something I wish to remember so vividly, primarily because Pan attended the same place, and that's both a good thing and a bad thing.

Every time I'm around Peter, he always spectates on the time every so often, making a note as he goes along. I've gotten used to it, but I can't say I enjoy it. Every step (or so it seems), Peter calls out another number, gradually increasing as seconds tick away.

"Why do you care?" he snaps back at me.

"I'm trying to find your weakness." I smirk. This is partly true, considering the fact that Peter Sparrow is a massive jerk. If I have opportunity to take him down, I'll accept it graciously. I just hope he thanks me for punching him in the face; it'll do him a lot of good.

"My weakness is Giuseppe. If you lay a hand on him, I'll—"

"There is a bug on me!" Snow shrieks.

What did Peter do this time? He could do some dangerous things, but why put a bug on Snow? Where did he even get it?

"Pretty, pretty buggy child." Peter slowly makes his way over to Snow, where, true enough, a cockroach has found itself on her black, knee-length shorts.

"Peter, get it off me!" Snow demands, hands set on her hips as she cautiously studies the bug on her leg to make sure it doesn't relocate to somewhere on her face.

"Let's flick it on Calum," Peter instead suggests, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

I peer over at Calum, who's still sleeping soundly, and I blurt, "I doubt you should do that. He'll kill you. I happen to know that he has an extreme fear of surviving creatures."

"Surviving creatures? What in the world does that mean?" Peter replies, carefully lifting the cockroach off of Snow and placing it on Calum's rising and falling chest.

"I believe Calum would describe it as 'creatures that can survive in extreme forces of nature, such as heat, cold, and natural disasters'."

"And you?"

"I would say they're creatures that can lose their heads and still be A-OK."

Out of nowhere, Calum lurches upward, smacking Peter in the face, which causes him to fly back into Snow, who pushes him off her with disdain; a chain of events. "Peter Sparrow, I will find the nearest salmon and slap you with it!"

"Told you," I restate.

"We need to bury him!" Peter shrieks, taking the bug's limp body with his fingers and transferring it into his hand.

"What happened to that plan that required us waking up?" I groan. My eyes are sagging from tiredness, most likely ringed with deep purple, though, as I always say, sleep is for the weak, even when that phrase is inconvenient for me.

"Do you not understand the importance of this situation?"

Calum looks around at Snow and me in confusion, hoping for an answer from us as we wait for Peter to continue.

"Calum's a murderer."

From where I am standing, I can see Calum wince; he obviously detests that word — he might have acrimonious ties with it, things I couldn't ever dream of.

"Please don't use that word lightly," Snow says softly. "It's not a kind thing to call people."

"It's not a kind thing to murder cockroaches, yet here we are, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not kind, now am I?" Peter moves his eyes across the room, sweeping over our silent faces, still in shock from his latest accusation, but we all know that he has never been generous — though each time he lets out another ounce of acerbity, we're repulsed just the same. None of us are accustomed to such bitter nature from anyone, especially someone this young.

Why did the Community want this kid?

"I just realized there's a perfect burial site next to this building thing." Peter brushes past me and proceeds to dig his hands through the sand outside until he makes a pit a few inches deep by a few inches wide. "We didn't even name him, guys! Do you think this bug would want to die without a name? No, I didn't think so. I, personally, vote for Mr. Roachling."

"That's the most abnormal name I've ever heard," I answer, sliding out of the building and leaning on the doorframe with my arms crossed on my chest.

"Then you obviously haven't heard your own — okay, let's go. Calum, bringeth forth ye gallant bug!"

"I vote for Ye Gallant Bug," I amend, just trying to annoy Peter, but his face seems to light up with my suggestion.

"You have never been more right, my love."

I shudder. For someone who could not care less about other people, Peter decided to use "my love" so casually.

Calum soon appears next to Peter with Ye Gallant Bug cupped in his hands, attempting to not make much contact with him. He swiftly drops the bug into the hole and kicks a mound of sand over top.

"Oh my God, Calum, that's so rude. You didn't even let me say a few words in honor of him." Peter gives him an evil glare, flaring his nostrils drastically, and turns on his heel to begin his eulogy. "Ye Gallant Bug, I haven't known you for very long, but I do, however, know that you are a brave man. Man-child. Man bug. You survived being transported from the third worst person in the world to the second. I commend you for your valor and your unwillingness to give up."

Glad to know his priorities are straight. And...I assume I'm the first worst person in the world, correct? Or is it himself? I frown.

"What the—"

"I love you," Peter whispers, cutting Snow off.

"I know you do," I retort, flipping my hair. "I'm your queen."

Peter moves closer to me, until his lips are only inches away from mine, and my eyes widen in surprise — and slight amounts of fear. "I was addressing my small child, Ye Gallant Bug," Peter whispers. "But if you really wanted that — my love, I mean — you wouldn't flinch."

"You vile—"

"Pig?" Peter finishes. "I know. I hear it constantly from you." He rolls his eyes in a sarcastic way, twirling around and kicking more dust on Ye Gallant Bug's Grave, beginning to do a strange jig dance.

"Yep."

~~~~~

Peter decided we should explore, as usual. I get the notion that he cannot sustain boredom very well. I would say he's a tactile learner by the looks of it, except for the fact that he thinks they're inferior, for whatever reason.

Why am I trying to figure him out?

Sand fills Snow's shoes and she hops around, shaking her foot, while Calum swarms around her to assist and Peter cackles a few feet away from the commotion.

"Get it out!" Snow shrieks. "Sandy feet are not desirable!"

"And whom would it be that you're trying to desire?" Peter asks, sneaking up from behind.

Not this again.

"A chicken nugget."

For a surprisingly kind girl, Snow really knows how to put up with his rude behavior. Though... I wouldn't insult someone by calling them a chicken nugget. That would doubtlessly be the highest title of honor if given by myself — I rather enjoy them — but I decide to play along with Snow's unfolding plan.

"Florence, dearest, Snow wants to impress you!" Peter calls, waving me over.

And Peter knows how to counter. However, he usually directs it at me, seemingly hating my guts or whatever's up with him.

"Need help, chicken nugget?" I reply, kicking his shins.

Calum chuckles softly as to not attract Peter, while the newly found victim dances around, clutching his leg, causing him to laugh harder.

"Guys, I still need help," Snow pipes up.

"Balance on one foot," Calum instructs, striding over to her authoritatively.

She does so. He takes off her shoe and dumps out the sand, slipping it back on her foot and does the same for the next, until Snow is content. I see her toes wiggle around in her footwear and she grins.

That was pretty pointless.

But how is he so good at solving problems? I would probably leave tons of sand inside and Snow would definitely ask me to do it again, even though she's massively polite.

And Snow, how did she stand on one foot like that? The clumsy fool I am, I would've fallen onto Calum in an instant and he would never trust me around shoes, or around anything as long as he's still living, though I suppose he knows I will be the one to cause his death.

"Thank you, Calum," Snow says, making Calum blush.

"Shall we get on then?" Peter groans. "As the French would say, Allons-y! Florence, France is—"

"I figured," I snap.

~~~~~

We walk almost three kilometers (Peter counted, obviously still using the abandoned metric system) under the blazing sun before Peter smacks his head on an invisible object and falls in a heap on the ground.

"I've been waiting forever for that to happen," Calum remarks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Did you bloody do this?" Peter scrambles to his feet, reading to strike, but Snow holds him back.

"I did not."

I step forward to examine the force that knocked Peter down. It shimmers at my touch, like purple electricity coursing through the texture that becomes more visible with each contact point

"Climate control," Calum notes, squinting. "Average temperature in the Epistylium Province — I assume that's our location — is 72 degrees Fahrenheit at the beginning of March. The temperature in here, however, is around 90 degrees Fahrenheit."

"How—" I stutter.

"Estimation."

Calum is quite the genius — he's learned much more than I have, though I hate to admit it so willingly. He could solve any problem in half the time that I could. We must battle to see who becomes the alpha.

"We're in a dome, by the looks of it. Curved walls, angled, faint shadows from the edges," Snow deduces.

I also don't know how she could've concluded that, but I'm the one who couldn't figure anything out about someone if my life depended on it.

"Well you're not a complete div, though you are a minger." Peter gives a slow clap. "Marvelous."

You're slipping, Peter Sparrow.

Peter's elusive English terms are starting to get on my nerves, because no one — except Calum — knows anything alluding to their meaning.

Calum's hand clenches by his side, apparently the only one who understands what div and minger mean — or maybe he's been faking it this whole time, but the only experience he has is that he assumes Peter's always insulting him, which is mostly true.

In an instant, he falls to the scorching sand suddenly, writhing around uncontrollably as the grains fill his clothes and his hair.

"Calum!" I yell, rushing to his outstretched body.

Snow follows suit, almost as quickly as I do. "Accelerated heartbeat," she comments, with a hand on his chest.

I push Calum's shoulders down to help Snow with her treatment, though each second, it becomes more and more difficult to do so.

Peter paces behind us, pulling at his hair and squeezing his eyes shut, muttering strange words, and he begins twitching as I struggle to contain Calum's astounding strength. Honestly, I hadn't expected him to be so muscled until now, though perhaps it was a fluke, a power surge.

"Are you okay?" Snow shouts, dashing to him, seizing his arm to keep him controlled, wholly depending on me to keep Calum under lockdown.

With a pressing force on Calum, I feel his forehead to find it scalding with heat. Beads of sweat form under my hand as he persists to thrash wildly. I spot Snow blocking Peter from Calum with her frail body, even as he claws at her skin. She's a lot braver than we perceive her to me.

"Peter, I'm going to help Calum now. Please don't do anything." Snow releases him and he stands deathly still, breathing slowly — almost too slowly to be natural, although, to be quite honest, I take long breaths as well.

Immediately when Snow returns to Calum and gazes at her scratched face, he calms down almost completely, reaching out for her hand.

Snow takes his in hers and presses tightly in reassurance.

"Snow," Calum whispers hoarsely, struggling to make out her form, though, somehow, he is able to distinguish between her and a tree, though it's probably because of the gentle nature Snow possesses (or because there aren't any trees here, and there haven't been for a long, long time).

"It's okay. I'm here — you're fine." Tears well up in her eyes and she pulls him into a warm embrace.

They must end up together. I will chase them to the ends of the earth to make sure that they purchase a small cottage in the middle of the woods and bake pies all day, with nothing to be the matter in their lives, except they will get overly suspicious of the animated, fervid woman standing outside their window and taking pictures of them with a camera covered in peeling, flashy dog stickers bought from the supermarket.

I hear the sand being sifted between Peter's feet as he strides over, having regained his sanity. "I am well, thank you for asking," he spits, kicking a pile of sand into the blowing wind, scattering it across the ground like seeds on a windy June day.

"I was just going to ask," Snow utters, holding her hands on her hips as she looks up from Calum.

"I find it quite peculiar that you still care for me when I act the way I do. I'm trying to get rid of you." Peter frowns wholeheartedly.

"That's why I stay — to annoy you."

"Snow Leclerc, you little—"

"Let's set up camp here!" I announce, deliberately cutting Peter off.

I will not let you mess with Snow, even though she takes chicken nugget as an offensive phrase.

"Are your weak knees not steady enough again?" Peter fires.

I glare at him as I lay my jacket out on the sand.

I see Calum's distaste for the idea written in his bright blue eyes (his favorite color, apparently), but he's too submissive to speak out. Even though I shouldn't take advantage of it, I do, and ignore his silent plea for someone to recognize his struggle.

He never talks out of place, or rather never talks much at all. Calum reminds me of a slightly younger version of myself, before I met Peter Sparrow and suddenly my life was on the line from the constant torture of his presence. Even school wasn't this daunting.

Peter slides off his jacket disdainfully. He must be the kind of person who wears their coat all day, along with a scarf in the extreme heat of late May and gets teased about it at school. But that's not the kind of thing I need to be thinking about.

I need to focus on how I'm going to survive.

~~~~~

To my surprise, I doze off rather quickly, though I attribute this success to Peter, making us walk all day. My legs feel the sorest as they've ever been, pushing my "mundane capacity", as Peter prefers to call it.

I have no dreams, which I find upsetting when I wake in the morning, pushing the evil, yellow crust balls out of my eyes and stretching simultaneously.

No one seems to be awake, which is the way I like it — silent, peaceful. There's too much noise filling this already polluted world. In addition, my ears tend to be hypersensitive to any kind of high-pitched or loud tones.

Next to me, Calum stirs and immediately sits right up, casting a worried glance my way. "That clown was so mean," he whispers.

"Clowns are terrible," I reply, nodding my head slowly as I recall my fifth birthday party, probably one of my worst instances with celebrations — or anywhere, for that matter.

I was leaning excitedly over my vanilla cake with chocolate icing, getting ready to blow out the candles and wish for a pony, which seems to be the only thing a young girl's heart desires at that age (mine, at least, wasn't asking for a unicorn or a Pegasus, so I win, if we're acting like twelve year-olds), but I was greeted by the clown my parents hired (for whatever deranged reason), his hands wrapped around my shoulders.

I was especially squeamish in my younger years, though I still remain to be, so I was acutely infuriated by the unsolicited contact with my skin — and his outrageous gloves, I might add.

"Happy birthday," he whispered into my ear, much to my surprise.

I whirled around, a hideous expression crushing my previous simpering visage, shoving his face into the dessert, candles still ablaze. It felt kind of good, and I, especially, felt like the most skilled ninja in the history of the world.

He shrieked, dashing madly around the room, with a wax structure still stuck to his cheek until my mom threw the remnants of her water bottle in his face.

My friends had all ogled him, eyes sparkling with astonishment, their gaze fixated on how the liquid smeared his face paint, making him look more terrifying than anything I had ever seen.

His eyes were dripping with red, like he had contracted Ebola in the short time between the cake and the water. The dessert still clung to him messily, occasionally falling off in gelatinous bits smothered in brown icing. His white powder makeup base receded, revealing exceptionally pale skin, riddled with pimples. I had told everyone jokingly that he wouldn't have needed the face paint much on his milky complexion.

Pan was cracking up to the point where his mom had to walk over amongst the commotion to tell him to be quiet, or else the other children might get annoyed and eventually hit him, which I was never really fond of.

My other best friend's mother, Mrs. Frode, caught multiple pictures of the scene, so she invited me over to her house afterwards to select my favorite one to slide into a slot in my dark blue scrapbook that my mom awarded to me when I finished my first chapter book, The Egg of the Confused Rabbit.

It was quite the page turner, following a rabbit that came across an egg one day on its bloodcurdling search for carrots. It raised the egg and its contents as its own, turning out to be a soft, yellow, rambunctious chick that never followed the rabbit's instructions.

After spending an hour or so flipping through the stack of pictures, desperately trying to figure out which one I wanted for my scrapbook, while having River — my best friend — anxiously wait beside me, tugging my sleeve to come and play with her and attempting to "assist" with finding the right picture, I finally chose one of the clown's running makeup to remind me of the horrid adventure.

I was a strange child.

"Clowns are terrible," I repeat. "The trick is to smash their face into a flaming cake."

"What?" is the reply I hear, like the speaker is almost unconscious, which is partly true (sleep is tricky.)

"Nothing, you're dreaming," I lie, extending my legs upward and rushing away as quickly as my feet can take me.

"Yeah...okay...yeah..." Calum settles back down remarkably quickly. How do people manage to do that?

I turn around, smirking. "You thought," I laugh, abruptly tripping over my shoes once I finish declaring my victory, a tragic betrayal on my own part.

"You thought," I'm sure I can hear someone whisper faintly.

~~~~~

Once again, Peter made the decision to move about, but this time, we're headed back to camp, probably to retrieve Giuseppe from his prison cell of a building.

Along with walking, Peter has a pounding urge to be with Giuseppe at all times. I'm notably stupefied that he didn't crush the thing down in his messenger bag to at least have his aura clogging up our senses; he likes torturing us.

"How much longer?" Snow whines, dragging her feet in the sand.

I watch her cautiously, crossing my fingers that there won't be another episode like yesterday. I notice how her shoes are skimming the ground affectionately, and I wince; if not already, there will be more sand in her socks.

"How should I know?" Peter retorts, without switching his gaze from ahead.

"You always know."

Impatience hangs in the air. We're all fed up with Peter's hyperactive ambitions, but Snow, so far, has been the only one to call him out on it.

"Why do you—" Peter starts, but is paused by the sight of Snow's body crumpled on the ground, her light hazel eyes remaining wide open.

Calum shrieks and sprints to her side. "What happened?" he croaks, searching for a clue as to why she suddenly lost consciousness.

"It must've been her turn," I muse, pausing as I digest the heartless things I say without a filter. It's like I'm turning into Mr. Sparrow.

"You're next," Peter responds sharply, glaring at me with a sort of fire in him, something I've somehow never seen.

"That isn't helping." My gaze falls on Calum, whose eyes are already blotchy from tears; they seem to flood out gallons at a time, which leads me to believe that he does a lot more crying than he lets on. I suddenly feel a stab of regret for not giving him my whole attention before.

"Dead," Calum murmurs, checking Snow's pulse. "She just fell down and died."

And all so soon, so abrupt. Snow had so much to do — the Community needed her especially. There's no one to fill her gap, whether it's in the form of a Candidate, or in her lively cheer being brought back into our presence. But now there's nothing left. Only our memories remain to carry Snow back home. She should've gotten something else.

Like a camera. There should've been a camera somewhere to record this harrowing event, to prove that she died this way, not some alternate occurrence that the Community wants their Citizens to believe.

Even more than earlier, the great desire to tell someone about Snow rushes in like a tsunami of gigantic proportions. I need to share her story with the rest of the world, however limited it seems, however separated the Community has made it.

No one's going to believe you, a portion of my brain nags me — the part filled with denial and hesitation, taking apart every idea I've ever had and searching for flaws in the plan. But I need someone to concur, even if it's just one person, even if it's just a random Citizen. I need to remember her.

"And I didn't even get to finish my sentence," adds Peter insensitively.

Calum lurches forward, in an attempt to strangle his presumptuous comrade — if the mutual pleasure even extends that far — but I hold his shoulders in place, a job that I would normally leave to Snow.

"Brush him off," I say. "Peter's always like this." However, in no way am I excusing him. I walk up to Peter and swing my leg into his stomach.

He doubles over, but makes no sounds, possibly using a breathing exercise to suppress the pain. "God, Florence," he gasps, his face turning a dark hue of purple.

"Jerk," Calum cries between sobs. "I didn't even want to do this. I don't want to go on. Now that Snow's gone, I just..."

We both stare at Calum, confused, as his breathing continues to hitch tremendously.

"Depression," he begins. "It's been gnawing at me since I was fourteen. I hid it. I tried so hard. I wanted to leave, but she didn't let me. No, she told me to stay, but I didn't want to, I didn't." He breaks down completely, the scrunched up face and all, with his eyes swollen and red.

"Calum?" A wary tone fills my voice, fear banging in my stomach.

"I'm mostly just called the bipolar kid. God, why couldn't I have just left it alone?" Calum's speech is as hastened as ever, flying as quickly as a bird, though coming dangerously close to the rocks on the shore.

"That was properly treatable ages ago!"

"With my mother, things were different," Calum chokes out, allowing a salivated string ooze out of him. "She was the one who inflicted the trauma on me, which caused it at an earlier age than expected. She wanted someone to blame her problems on. That rested on me, her psycho failure of a kid."

I cringe at his use of the derogatory remark. The only thing worse than a neurotypical person using ableist language is neurodivergent people using them against themselves, as if all has been lost for them, as if their mere existence is a mistake.

"Depressive stage," Peter chimes in. "Usually follows a manic episode."

"Don't try to classify him!" I snap. Tears well up in my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks tediously.

If Peter had done adequate research, he would know that a depressive episode doesn't usually come from seeing your best friend die — it comes from much more common activities, striking randomly. Death is a superior incentive to merely fall down and cry, not develop the next part of a mental illness.

I told myself I wouldn't show weakness the moment I stepped into this the Dome, but I didn't imagine the tragedy that would befall in the confines of this space. I've already witnessed too much and I hate it — I just want it gone. I want to get out of here.

"Well," Peter amends, or at least tries to, "he's probably done the research already."

My eyes widen, as if I had been struck by a club directly in the stomach.

Peter's mouth is thick with callous words, each flick of the tongue carrying a sharp poison, a poison of which he is unaware, which makes it all the more deadly.

"I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!" Calum screams into the Dome's atmosphere.

In that moment, I realize that Calum is at his most vulnerable place, where he has let all of his rage out in front of Peter and me, and though water leaks on the outside, there is a massive storm on the inside that he has yet to share with us, but I assume he never will.

Calum is in the rawest of states, and I notice how terrifyingly beautiful he is. He is the mere concept of depth, as he reveals himself to us. I can see his interior how it truly is and I am rendered speechless by the slight thought that Calum has the energy to destroy himself and everyone around him. Because he is magnificent. He is the imagery of beautiful, terrible and incredibly vain in its own self.

"It takes away my comprehension of simple things. It prohibits me from making friends. It even makes me feel like I'm destined for something greater, but it's all a delusion. And I didn't deserve it."

The ideas all come tumbling in; why he stays away from people, why he grasps so tightly to the relationships he's formed and why, now, he is a weeping mess.

He is stronger than all of us combined. The Community knows it, too, but they warped him. They turned him into a self-hating individual who has so much potential inside, potential that the government keeps hidden.

"Of course you didn't deserve it, I—"

"No." Calum's voice is thick with warning. "You don't understand. My life was so much easier, but now I can't even think straight anymore. It's a blur and it's sickening, because there's nothing I can do to prevent my imminent doom.

"So if that seizure I had yesterday will end my life when it forces its repercussions on me, I will accept it with open arms."

I stare blankly at Calum, at a loss for words. I'm not equipped to handle shocking news very well, I never have been. "Calum, it's going to be okay," I tell him, rubbing his back, but he flicks my hand away and penetrates my rationality with those crystal blue eyes of his.

"The Community is trying to kill us — except you, of course. You're just so perfect and you can do anything—"

"Calum!" I force him to look at me, a pleading signal jumping around, trying to escape and warn everyone. We stay in this position for a few moments of humid silence — even Peter obliges to the lack of noise.

"Just trying to dull the pain," Calum mutters.

I'm losing him. I'm trying so hard, struggling against the current, but he's falling apart and my hands simply aren't big enough to catch him.

"We're your friends! We can help you!"

"I don't have friends, Florence! Bipolar disorder took that from me, too. There's nothing for me. I want to die.

"Do you know what it's like to stare death in the face every day? I do. And it's pandemonium. He visits me in my dreams, so I avoid him at a great sacrifice — my wellbeing. Every time you think I'm passed out on the ground, I'm just trying to suck it up and rest, because I'm human, and, as much as I hate it, sleep is essential to life."

I peer down at the ground as Calum grabs Snow's hand. Even Peter looks solemn.

"It's been over seven minutes," Calum breathes, changing the subject after a moment of silence. "Her brain has finally shut down completely."

I let out a deep sight as Calum stands and brushes off his shirt.

"I guess there's no point in trying to save her."

My chest aches at his comment and I try to reach out to him, but I say nothing. There's no fixing what is broken.

"Should we move on then?" Peter suggests quietly.

Calum nods slowly and proceeds to pull his feet along the sand.

I linger for a moment, taking one last prolonged look at Snow before joining the boys on their journey back to the building.

Goodbye, Snow.

~~~~~

"How are you, Florence?" Calum asks, strolling over to the rock I'm perched atop, swinging my legs absently.

"I'm okay."

He hoists himself up beside me, simpering pleasantly.

I'm quite surprised at his joyous nature, given that his best friend just dropped down dead in front of him and he confessed his darkest secrets to us.

"Euphoria," Calum murmurs, clarifying for me. "Symptom of...you know."

"Oh, well that's good. At least you're happy."

"No, it's not good. It's alarming," Calum corrects me, shifting in his place and glancing down at his lap. "I could do some unintended things in this state of nirvana, things that I will be ashamed of. It brings me confidence, tons of it, but it makes me terribly reckless."

"Oh," I sigh, halting my legs' motion. "You want to talk about it?"
"No, but thank you. I want to talk about your hand."

"My hand?" All that's on my hands are some freckles, miniscule hairs, and one circular, pink scar on my left.

"I noticed your scar the first time I saw you. I've been speculating on how you obtained it, but I've come to no adequate conclusion."

"Oh, that thing? That's nothing," I lie, covering my hand by sliding it under my thigh slowly, so that he won't see.

"Would you like to tell me? I need closure."

With Calum, it's all about figuring things out. He will stop at nothing until he can directly pinpoint the source of whatever it is he's laboring to find.

"It's not that extraordinary of a story, though. You'll be disappointed."

"No, I won't. I love hearing about new things, eminently when the storyteller burbles excitedly about the concepts they're so ebullient about."

This comment brings new hope for me, as Calum enjoys the ardor of others, listening as their adventures unfold like a map leading him into their lives.

"Before I start, I'd like you to know that I am hopelessly bad at sports. I prefer academics, but I suppose I'm pretty great at aiming."

Calum nods, imploring me to continue.

"I was at the playground after school when I was twelve, waiting for Mrs. Curtis, my guardian, to pick me up.

"My friend challenged some other girls and me, along with my best friend, Pan, to a game of basketball for a piece of watermelon-flavored chewing gum. I was bored and I love the stuff, so I consented eagerly, even though I would never actively participate in sports out of my own accord.

"Halfway through the game, I was attempting to block Pan's shot with my hand, but his fingers slid through my skin, revealing the pink and red material underneath. The skin was still attached, folded back across my hand."

Calum flinches, but I continue, not sure what to make of his action.

"I, of course, was apprehensive, recognizing that to be the scar tissue. Pan barely noticed, so, of course, he didn't apologize."

"Well that sucks," Calum mutters, amused. "Did she give you the chewing gum, though?"

"No!" I exclaim, throwing my arms in the air in frustration. "Her mother came before I got out of my makeshift rehab."

"Well that's a good thing I have some gum inside my messenger bag. It's watermelon-flavored, too." Calum winks, causing butterflies to hammer relentlessly in my stomach.

"Give me the gum," I demand, drawing out the syllables fiercely.

"Eh... I'll think about it," Calum teases.

I hope he understands how much danger he's in if he refuses to procure the watermelon-flavored chewing gum I so desperately crave.

"Pan ruined my hand-model career. You better give me your gum!"

I had no intentions of being a hand-model, though if I ever had an extreme need for a job, I could've taken it up, or at least tried before the agency shoved me out their door by immediately spotting my scar.

Sifting through the items in his satchel, Calum draws out a small rectangle, wrapped in shining, silver paper. He hands it to me and I snatch it mercilessly. Calum retracts his hand, flinching at my ferocity.

Peeling back the wrapping, I haltingly slide the chewing gum into my mouth, biting it into bits before it becomes moist just to merge them back together.

"Savoring it, are you?" Calum raises a questioning eyebrow, regaled by my seriousness on this matter — I've finally been avenged after four years; of course I'm going to be clinging to the object with my life.

Calum takes my hand in his, studying my scar intently. "I quite like your scar," he says, to my surprise.

"But why?" I stammer. "It's a perfect circle, placed perfectly in the middle. It doesn't look natural."

"I prefer the unnatural things, the things that still have the courage to exist in this world, to take the caustic remarks of others."

The way Calum phrases things, how he views things, it makes the horrid objects even more beautiful than the seemingly normal ones. He makes the self-conscious people feel worthy of love for the first time in their lives.

"You speak so elegantly," I blurt out, but that's all I blurt out. I don't tell him how he has a new perspective that no one has ever had before. I don't tell him how he has the power to change a gruesome world into a world teeming with never-ending splendor. I say too little for me to convey what I actually mean.

Should I have told him that? I don't know. I hope he doesn't take it the wrong way, because that's something I always do.

"It's just the way I talk," Calum laughs hesitantly, scratching behind his ear where his dark hair curls in a curved shape.

"Yeah, I realize that, but it's so...magnificent."

"Thanks, I think," he replies nervously.

"Sorry, I just really like it. I think it's exceptionally useful for people who aren't so comfortable with their imperfections. You should try public speaking."

Fear fills his eyes to the brim. "We both know that's not going to happen."

"It was worth a shot."

~~~~~

"We need to find a way to get out of here," Peter announces, wobbling slightly as he stands on top of the ugly colored couch, Giuseppe tucked under his arm.

The stuffed doll stares at me callously with its unnaturally formed eyes, as if scouring my soul for a weakness it can use against me in the future. I don't trust it.

"It's only a dome, how hard could it be?"

My mind runs through all the dangerous scenarios that could take place (electrocution, brain damage from smacking into the dome like Peter did yesterday, or even being killed if we ever make it out alive), but I simply leave Peter to bathe in his confidence like I usually do — he wouldn't think anything of my stance anyway ("You have very strong opinions, but I have a very strong urge to ignore you.")

"With recent events" — Peter glances at Calum briefly — "I've decided it's only healthy that we leave this place behind us completely." I nod in agreement, for once concurring with his wild plans, his audacious statements. "I want you both to pledge your allegiance to my cause."

I stare at him, baffled, but nonetheless unsurprised at his behavior.

"Oh come on, it's fun!" Peter squeals with excitement, bringing his arms close to his chest and wiggling them around like I used to do when I came home after school to find a generous helping of ice cream resting on the counter — mint chocolate-chip (my favorite).

"I pledge allegiance," I begin, sighing as joy flashes across Peter's face, "to the almighty potato knish of a leader we have here." I cross my arms, satisfied, leaving the prideful figure on the couch to wither angrily.

"Yeah, what she said," Calum quietly adds.

"We'll continue this later," Peter promises coolly, narrowing his eyes at both of us as he exits the room.

I doubt he'll be able to remember his endeavor by tomorrow, so I merely shrug and throw myself onto the couch.

A book with terribly torn pages lays on the floor, with paper poking out from all sides and angles, hidden behind the rubble and the distasteful green couch.

~~~~~

Ooh, a diary.

I glance around and find Calum's face buried in the ground, so I continue to rummage through things to find the book. Shoving my hand into the torn fabric, I lift my legs and swing them over the structure to obtain an adequate view of the journal.

I clear the remaining pieces of wood away and it stands in front of me, radiating an ignored vibe. Kneeling down, I take it in my hand and leaf through the pages, stuffed with sloppy writing and endless words. My finger wedges itself in a page and I open to find a poem entitled Sand.

The sand is always there,

Burning into my feet,

As if a bit of intimidation,

Could tell me to retreat

It thinks it owns me,

It thinks it's won,

But I've faced too much tragedy,

To misjudge when I am done

Sand seeps into my mind,

Warping my vision of mankind,

For a traveler, I have much to fear

For the sand is the one who revels in tears.

Walking along, I bare my teeth,

Through the fiery pits of what's underneath,

But I'm not finished, not quite yet,

For the heat will flee when the sun turns to set

A symbol borders the paper, a product of an off-kilter mind perhaps. It resembles a bird, though formed with only straight lines. It occurs to me that maybe the artist doesn't desire to have his drawing deciphered.

I run my fingers over the words, engraved into the page through fury and a few minutes of extra time. The marks are like craters on the moon, or even those made on the earth by fallen rocks from space — they weren't meant to be there; their course was averted.

Is this Calum's?

With all the arduous things he's been telling Peter and me, it's relatively understandable that he should keep a set of his poems, but it isn't in his nature to leave it out in the open — he is particularly secretive and organized.

I turn the page to find another poem called Wind Walker, with its main interest placed on a mysterious girl without a specified name.

I call her the Wind Walker,

Not because she is fictitious,

Or above this world,

But because she is centered in reality.

She thinks nothing of herself,

Though I wish she would,

But my discouraging words never help,

For they hate her as much as she does.

I wish I could tell her I'm sorry,

That I don't mean the things I say,

But the trigger is so final,

That she ought to stay away.

I hate the way she looks at me,

Her precious soul so damaged,

Because I am the monster that turned her,

The one that made her fall from the clouds.

Taking a moment to interpret the meaning of the poem, I flip to the next page, with the title penned in hastened writing. It's called Fate.

It's terrifying, the way it seems,

Nightmares masquerading as dreams,

Terror bursting at the seams,

But you sew it up and try to forget the screams.

I thought it so unkind of you to do such a thing,

When their future relies on a simple rope ring,

You cannot deny that the memories cling,

That you can never escape the sharpness of their sting.

You hate the very existence of cheer,

Your faith in life so drastically shear,

But you shan't worry, nor have any fear

For my name is fate and your fate is near.

I become so entranced in the land of the words dotting the page that I lose track of time and all forms of reality. I have no idea how long I spent skimming through these, but I decide I have to read just one more — for closure, I suppose.

It doesn't seem to last long, though, like most things I discover, tangible or not.

"What are you doing?" Peter's voice interrupts my unsolicited browsing with a start.

I quickly slam the book closed and look up to Peter with his arms crossed in a tight formation, annoyance flashing on his dirt-stained face. "Been playing in the mud, have you?" I reply, endeavoring to mask the previous event with a bit of acerbic humor.

"It's not nice to snoop, you know." Peter kicks his way through the trash littering the building and stops in front of me, his tall figure looming over me. He crosses his legs once he's lowered himself to the ground, giving me a frank stare.

"Calum writes amazing poems. Here, check 'em out."

"Those," Peter snaps, snatching the poems from me, "are not Calum's."

"They must've been left behind from the previous residents." I frown at the raggedy cover, laboring to decode its secrets and backstory. The book is made from leather, worn and tethered from age and use. Its binding string dully rests on the ground from being pulled from the spine. It could've been left by a lobby concierge who doodled and wrote in it in their free time, or whenever a hotel resident wasn't throwing questions in their face.

"What makes you think they're not mine?"

"You?" I snort. "A poet?" Peter continues to remain serious and my face falls in realization.

Peter can't be a poet. The most artistic thing he's said is that Giuseppe fell from the tree of beauty by accident, which is a pretty unrealistic accusation; there aren't any trees in the Dome.

"It's a perfectly logical form of passing the time. It works better than you and your 'quotes'."

Until now, I had thought quotes were an advantageous tactic to keep motivation intact throughout the horrible obstacles we're forced to endure.

"What's with the constant use of the word, paramnesia?" I interject, pointing to the only pristine page that includes a poem entitled Whispers; spots have been filled in with the same word all throughout the stanzas.

"It's when I'm lacking a word, when I can't remember the meaning of a word I was intending on using," Peter informs me coolly. "Marks the spot for future revision." Peter shifts in his spot. He brushes the stray hairs out of his face and lets out a deep sigh.

"Why do you really write poems?" I ask. It can't be because he's genuinely a masterful wordsmith.

I know he's hiding most of his information. It's obvious he doesn't trust me, but who could blame him? I would assume he has no spare time from spewing insults every which way.

Peter doesn't strike me as the kind of person to write poems just for a leisure activity. There has to be something else going down inside; I just know it.

"Florence..."

"I want to know."

He fiercely looks me in the eyes with his flaming irises, filled with passion, hate, and mistrust. I notice the small flecks of gold lacing the circle, miniscule and remote in numbers, but visible when I peer closely. The texture reminds me of the faraway galaxies we were forced to learn about in grade school, that I always found an interest in. The black hole of a pupil centers the scene perfectly — not too small, not too large — and expands a bit. Who knew green could be so beautiful?

"I try to get out all the rage, all the feelings that are so welled up inside me that sometimes I can't breathe."

"I thought you were happy. It sure seemed like it."

I recall all the memories in which I had figured he was enjoying himself, prancing around with limitless energy, creating witty remarks as he went. The sinking feeling that most of the time he cries himself to sleep slithers into my thoughts, but I struggle to keep it at bay.

"I lie constantly. It's not so much compulsive as it is essential. I lie to you about most things, as I did since I moved here from Cambridge.

"My parents died when I was fourteen, Florence. Almost two years ago. I hid under my bed while soldiers slammed through my house and ripped them from me. I had to lie about that thing, too — I told people they died when I was six, so that people would be more understanding of my situation; Director Damon was elected only this year. The last Director would've been too close to her. And do you hear that?"

I shake my head.

"Of course you don't. It's the gunfire that plays through my mind as I march along and pretend it's okay. It's my requiem. And I know someday, you'll be able to hear it, too. I'll fall to the ground, blood seeping out of me and you won't care. I know you won't. And look," he starts, running a hand through his brown locks, "I'm sorry I've been such a jerk to you. It's my way of coping, and it's horribly inhumane and inconsiderate."

"Peter—"

"Don't." He shies away, squeezing his eyes shut as if to block out the pain, as if to block out me, especially block me out from caring about him.

"You're not going to die." I take his hands and press down in reassurance. I rub my thumb over his fingers, feeling every groove, familiarizing myself with the foreign texture.

"Don't you see? I'm already going insane. Calum is sick and Snow's already died and God knows you're going to lose me, too. I'm just a casualty."

"Peter, maybe Snow was just an accident."

"Then why have these things been happening?"

No matter how hard I try, I can't deny the fact that he's right about this — all of it. Peter and Calum are on their way to death and I'm next.

Tears cascade down his face, from madness and bitterness, and he wipes them constantly with the dirt-encrusted back of his hand.

He doesn't like to cry in front of people, does he? He's so shut up inside himself, so locked up, that he resents the thought of showing emotions. I pity Peter Sparrow.

"It wasn't intentional," I whisper, wiping my eyes to prevent an onslaught of the waterworks.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

"I will. Believe it or not, I've gotten kind of attached to you. I've decided I need a pet, though" — I pause, searching him up and down with a judgmental countenance — "you don't seem very domesticated."

"Don't joke around, Florence."

I frown slightly at being shut down. It's important for him to be happy. "It's what you do, and if you're upset with me for using it, then it's definitely not healthy for you to be utilizing the same tactic every moment of every day. And it's true; you're an asset to our survival."

Peter does this all day, every day as a way to keep people from suspecting that there's an internal battle. That's why it's so difficult to comprehend that he's telling the truth when revealing occasions like these occur.

"And that's all you think of me?"

"That's all I wish to share."

With my self-conscious nature, it's extremely formidable to hint at anything secretive, especially with those certain people I fear without an explanation.

"No, please flatter me some more."

There's the Peter I know!

He smiles slightly and bites his lip, casting his eyes on the ground. This angle creates a shadow covering his eye sockets, making him appear relatively dark, much like the ideas he wishes to express to me.

"I hate flattery. How many ways can I find to say 'thank you'?"

I feel myself start to come out to Peter, emerging from the mask that suggested I am a polite kind of person — lady-like, as Mrs. Curtis would call it. Since when does a girl have to conform to society's stereotype that they're only meant to be seen and well-behaved? This caused quite the argument between Mrs. Curtis and me before the school's choir show.

Peter breaks out in a coughing fit, as tears continue to slope down and break the dams he had tried so carefully to keep strong.

"You are a battle wound, Peter. But there are doctors that can help. They fix everyone, regardless of status, injury, anything. Some people shy away, try to escape treatment and eventually, they probably die, with their last thread of hope clutched to their open and bloody chest. You are not a casualty."

"I've had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. I'm going insane right before my eyes. I will tear my hair out, dig my nails into my skin, and maybe I'll even hurt people. Maybe I'll even hurt you. I don't know how much longer I have and I'm going to die soon. Don't try to doubt the inevitable. Sometimes death is the best cure to pain."

"You can't mean that."

"But I do. It's all I've ever known. There aren't always happy endings, Florence. I thought you knew that." Peter's expression wavers in ambivalence. "I'm not like you. You're so brave."

"I'm only brave because I have to be. I don't think that amounts to anything. And I wouldn't even consider myself courageous in any way. I do what has to be done, though fearfully."

"It amounts to more than you know. You still have ambition, passion. I can only dream of those things. You still have a future. I don't."

"Don't say that, Peter. Please don't." My eyes are molded by a pleading countenance, and all I want is for him to just be confident in himself, even if it's only a little bit.

"I just want to make sure you realize that you can let go. Minimize the pain. Just forget about me, and you won't feel anything when I die." His voice sounds hollow, hopeless.

"I'm not letting you just drift away from me, Peter Sparrow."

Peter suddenly lunges towards me and wraps his dirty arms around my waist, squeezing tightly. The river flowing down his crumpled visage lands on my shirt with soft splashes in imperfect circular formations.

"You're so weird." My voice breaks as I bury my face into his shoulder and slide my hands around the back of his neck dramatically.

Suddenly pulling away, Peter apologizes profusely, shaking his head and looking at the dusty floor, his demeanor fluctuating drastically.

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Because you hate me, and I'm a mess, and I just—"

"I sure do hate you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you slip out of my fingers like you planned." Abruptly, I stand up, sashaying out the entrance to the building, leaving a confused — and bedraggled — Peter to wallow in his awestruck ambience.

Gosh,that was strange, Ithink, wiping as many germs as I can off my skin with the back of my hand onceI know Peter's not looking, mostly to uphold the veneer of absolutely hating the fellow Candidate. But I think it showed him that someone cares— in a very...sensual way.

~~~~~

A/N: u thought

I thought, too, until my mum made me edit it out so there you go you have her to blame

if you enjoyed, pleased comment, vote, share, etc. thanks, swine flu

~Dakota