If I Fall (15 page)

17
BREATHING

My arms quiver with the task of holding the cumbersome object above my head. I believe it is a part of a door that had broken from its hinges during the chaos, but I cannot be sure. Standing behind the Marked man, I hold the back end of the wooden fragment as he supports the front.

“On the count of three, then,” he yells back to me.

I begin to tell him that counting is a waste of time, but he has already begun spouting out the numbers.

“One.”

I readjust my hold.

“Two.”

I plant my feet.

“Three!”

I yell with the effort as I drive the splintered door forward into the window. The glass shatters, showering down upon the floor, creating a carpet of deadly beauty. Without wasting any time, the Marked man reaches a hand through the now open square, careful to avoid the few shards still clinging to the frame. Smoke drifts out into the ballroom, making us cough and wheeze. His hand fumbles along the inside of the door, until at last, I hear a click and the door swings outward.

“The Marked woman’s Hold over the lock has broken. She must already be dead,” he remarks, but I do not listen.

I scrabble forward into the room, holding my breath partly because of the smoke and partly because I am terrified it may already be too late. Lying directly in the middle of the doorway is my sister. A solitary whimper escapes my lips. Slender white fingers clutch the sleeve of pale pink to Dela’s mouth. It is as though the world has frozen once again for I cannot move. I can only stare at the horror that is my fallen sister.

The Marked man steps in front of me, pushing me out of the way as he reaches under Dela’s arms and drags her out of the increasing smoke. I redirect my gaze at him in jealous wonder. She is my sister and yet, what did I do? I stared. I did not move. I did not help. I simply watched as this man, who I have only known for a few short moments, pulled her out of harm’s way. Shame and guilt tear into my heart.

“She’s not breathing,” the man mumbles under his breath. As if to match his statement, I stop breathing as well.

Not breathing? Not breathing!
My mind fumbles over those two simple words. Not breathing means death. Not breathing means I have lost my sister. Not breathing means I have failed. I cannot—no,
will
not—accept those words.
She is alive. She will breathe. She is alive!
I think again and again, willing it to be true.

The man tilts her head back and opens her mouth. I begin to ask what he is doing when his actions stun me into silence. Bending forward, he presses his mouth over Dela’s. Anger boils inside of me and I run forward to knock him away from her when I see something I never thought I’d see again. Her chest rises. I pause, entranced by this Marked man. In a daze of hope and fascination, I watch in silence as he breathes air into my sister.

He breathes. Her chest rises. He breathes. Her chest rises. The pattern repeats until he suddenly wrenches back.

“No!” I scream. “You cannot stop now! She was breathing! You were helping her breathe! Keep going! You mustn’t stop! You mustn’t give up!”

“Be calm, child. Be calm and look.” He nods his head towards my sister, still lying on the ground. I do as he says and look until I cannot look anymore. Her body, so still and motionless, wrangles out a cry from deep within me and I collapse to my knees. I move closer. My hands tremble over her smooth face. They fumble over her closed lids, over her silken blonde lashes and hair.

I rest my head against her chest as the torrent of tears slides over the bridge of my nose and down my cheek, creating a salty splotch on her sweet dress. Choked sobs scratch through my throat. Snot creates a glossy sheen on the shelf of my upper lip and bubbles of spit form around my mouth. I look terrible. I look as though my entire world has fallen apart. As though my reason for existence has died. And perhaps it is true.

Burying my face into her chest, I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. My cheek moves in rhythm with her chest as she breathes.

As she breathes?

Jerking back, I stare intently at my sister, waiting for hope to shine through, knowing that hope will find its way to me again in the form of a rising chest. The short moment it takes for her chest to lift again feels as if it is an eternity, but at last, it happens. Again and again, she breathes. My sister breathes! A contagious joy pulses in my blood. It makes me want to touch her, to wrap her in my arms, to hold her closer than humanly possible, and to never let go.

I emit an odd noise somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, pressing my face into her hair and planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Dela,” I whisper. “Everything will be all right, my sister. You are safe now. I am here.”

I turn to the Marked man. He sits back on his haunches, watching my sister and me. His lip quirks up, almost becoming a smile.

“You saved her,” I say. “You helped her breathe!” Overcome with emotion, I throw my arms around this man I hardly even know and hold him tight. “Thank you,” I murmur into his shoulder. Though I expect him to shrink away, he surprises me by patting my back in an attempt to comfort.

“She is awakening,” he says into my ear and I release him, whirling on my sister. Dela’s light pools of blue blink open, falling upon me. Veins of red trace around the white of her eyes. Her once-blue lips begin to slowly gain back their color. She smiles and I smile back.

“El?” she chokes out.

“Dela!” I shriek with elation. With one step forward, I am embracing my sister and she is holding me with weak arms.

“The Marked family?” she whispers.

I cannot help looking back at the door, still slightly ajar. Through the black haze, I can just see a tiny unmoving hand. I shake my head. Dela’s bottom lip trembles as she tries to fight back the tears.

“It is all right, Dela. You are safe and that is all that matters.”

“But th-those children …”

I shush her, rubbing her back and stroking her hair. “They are in a happier place now, Dela.”

“No!” she screams, her voice raw. She pushes away from me and stands in a sudden surge of rage. Startled by her abrupt strength, I pull back. “You sound just like
her
—like that Marked woman! It is horrible! She was wrong and so are you!”

Dela’s outburst is too much for her and a fit of coughing consumes her body.

“I’m sorry, Dela. Please forgive me. You are right and I should not have said it.”

The Marked man clears his throat and we both whirl on him. “If I may, I do believe there is still a ship in chaos. Pardon my suggestion, but perhaps this conversation is better saved for a later time.”

“Who is he?” Dela asks, staring at the man suspiciously.

“This is …” With a surge of bewilderment, I realize I do not know. I held this man by the hand as I begged for his help and yet, I did not know his name. He breathed life back into my sister and yet, I did not know is name. It feels odd, looking back on it now, that I could ask so much of a man and still not ask something as simple as a name.

“Mack Eversby,” he answers for me.

“Yes. Mr. Eversby—”

“—saved your dear life,” he finishes with a smirk.

Dela starts. “I am much obliged to you, then, Mr. Eversby.”

He laughs. “No one owes me, and likewise, I owe no one. That is how I prefer it. Now, both of you, follow me.”

Dela immediately starts after him, but I cannot move. I stare around at the now-empty ballroom and at the double doors that wave back and forth in the night as though in farewell to those fallen. Beyond the doors, the screams and yells become one with the howl of the wind. I know that I should run. I should flee with Mr. Eversby and Dela while I still can, but something pulls me back, something makes me gravitate closer to the doors and further away from my Marked companions. No, not something.
Someone.

Adam.

18
SAVING

I used to think I knew everything about the Marked’s war. After all, I had seen it first hand—the pain, the loss, the blood. I watched men fall beneath the blows of fellow men. I watched a woman take her own life to escape the agony and suffering; her children collateral damage. I knew the look in the prey’s eyes—that moment when he realizes his life is over. I knew it all.

Or so I thought.

As I gaze out across the deck, I find the one thing I did not know before, the one thing I was too childish and self-centered to see. This war does not only affect the Marked and the Radicals—it affects everyone. Another group exists, caught between these two warring parts. Tears line pathways down to their hearts, gliding over their parted lips that cry out into the night. Regular people. Normal people.
Innocent
people.

People who feel the prodding of the war’s gun just as much as we. Large groups, small groups—all huddled together as though if they squeeze in tight enough, nothing bad can pervade their circle. But in truth, the war will touch them, just as it will touch us all. And the tighter they squeeze together, the harder the enemy will try to break them apart. But who is the enemy of these bystanders?

Not us. Not them. Only the work of fate. For it is fate that has brought this tragedy upon them.

I look into the faces—the eyes hiding behind films of tears. This is a whole new world to them. They send their husbands and their sons out into this world. They hear the stories and cluck their tongues in sympathy, but they do not understand this world. They think they do, but no one truly understands until they live it, until they see this world firsthand. This world of war.

Pushing my way through the crowd, skimming over the faces in search of Adam, I see the understanding in their eyes. There is no denying that they understand now. Fear radiates from their every fiber. Terror twines into their bones. Yes, they understand now and I almost pity them. I almost wish the war had not popped their bubble of safety and comfort, that the war had not ruined this peaceful night, but at least they understand now.
At least, they understand.

“Everyone! Everyone, please, lend me your attention!”

A deep commanding voice cuts through the crowd. My head snaps up along with about a hundred others. A man stands on a bench, looking down over the passengers of the ship as he shouts for silence. Every mouth shuts. The sudden quiet has a haunting quality and I fidget with nervousness.

“I, Benjamin Gleadell, as Captain of the RMS
Celtic,
would like to offer my most severe apology. This was not supposed to happen. The Contingents were given strict orders about their search for the Marked. I can assure you, the rest of your trip will be one of peace and comfort. Please excuse their actions and return to your cabins for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening!”

I glance at the men and women standing around me, attempting to gauge their reactions as my own anger threatens to spill over. Lives were lost! The Contingency is a lavish name for the Radicals, for the murderers that just attacked innocent passengers! And the Captain wishes us all a good night? He sends us off to bed as though the past twenty minutes was simply a nightmare?

I watched a woman and three children die.

I nearly lost my sister.

But I am supposed to pretend it never happened. I am supposed to return to my cabin, curl into bed, and forget this terrible night ever occurred. I am supposed to enjoy the rest of my evening as images of smoke and little white hands haunt my dreams.

My blood churns with rage. Angry tears well in my eyes and my fingernails dig into the palms of my hands, forming miniature crescent moons. The back of my throat aches with the irate words I yearn to scream.

All around me feet shuffle and arms bump against arms as people disappear back into their bubbles of comfort and safety. They head back to their cabins, the world of war shut away inside a smoke-filled kitchen, only able to be glimpsed through a small window. The passengers had their peek and now they walk away, the four slumped bodies still lying on the floor nothing but the imaginings of a nightmare.

They can erase the nightmare from their minds, but it will weigh down their hearts for all of eternity. It was real. For if it wasn’t real, am I? Do I exist in a world where the Marked and the Radicals and war are just figments of imagination? Does blood not run through my veins just as it runs through theirs? Do I not matter? Can I be erased, forgotten … Was I ever even known?

Not in their world.

Not in a world where the veracity of war is tucked away into closed hearts and the lips that murmur against teacups are too afraid to speak up.

Unable to submit to denial, I hold my place among the flowing crowd. Somewhere, a child is crying. The mother shushes the young boy and lifts him up into her arms.

“It is all right, dear,” she murmurs against his thick blond hair. “It is all over.”

I watch from where I stand as the woman strokes his cheek and pats his head. She hands him a small toy. A smile lights his grim face. With the child calmed at last, the mother pushes by me towards the cabins. I move out of her way and watch her passage through the crowd.