Page 7 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
He’slooking atmenow.
“The good, the bad—the ugly—it’s in everything,” he continues, “all tangled together. You can’t have one without the other, so everyone is both.” Azaire adjusts his beanie, pulling at the edges like he’s coaxing his thoughts from it. “You spoke of a couple losing their son, but you made sure I knew they loved him.”
I watch him thoughtfully, looking for any underlying emotion. Anything that may deem him insincere. There’s nothing. Nothing but a boy in front of me, being good. Nothing to show me where his dark edges lie—the ones he has to have. He told me as much, in not so many words.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “That is what I said.”
At least, it’s one interpretation. But I prefer the way he sees it. That there is good in evil, not just evil in good. I think I’d prefer him believing that’s what I meant.
“I appreciate it.”
I pucker my lips, watching him while I contemplate.
“Why?” I finally ask.
“You helped me put something into perspective.” He smiles, his venomous canines poking out—the reason the worlds hate the Nepenthes, his kind. I’ve only ever found kinship in them. A part of my body is deadly to the touch, too.
“Do you want to come back to the party with me?” He asks.
It’s endearing how nervous he is. I imagine his heart hammering in his chest, hoping it’s racing as fast as mine, even if it’s for a different reason.
A sigh escapes me, but the longing inside of me doesn’t. The desire to join him.
But people are safer at a distance.
“No.”
Azaire nods softly. I can feel his disappointment in my blood, but there is no animosity. Only a small pinch of sorrow.
“I’ll see you in philosophy,” he responds.
I’m only subtly relieved when he gets up and walks away.
Chapter 2
Things I Thought
But Never Said
I
wish the Eunoia had more control over their emotions, and not just the ability to feel them. Even in a room filled only with my kind, the air is heavy. I glance at my fellow classmates, Eunoia I’ve known since I was ten, who have all grown to learn about my state of being.
That I feel them all the time.
They feel violated by my presence. The masters of emotion do not wish to be read, and here I stand, doing it against even my own will.
Shame forces my head down, an attempt at invisibility I can never acquire.
Today we have volunteers coming in—people who suffered severe injuries and need healing. I think they’re coming from Combat Training. This is the year my class is supposed to learn to mend fatal injuries. It’s part of our training as future healers and our first time healing more than a cut or a broken bone.
But I don’t want to feel all of their pain.
My heart sinks deeper when Azaire is among the crowd of injured students entering the classroom. He’s scared, and I feel guilty because I want to run just so I don’t have to feel his fear. I prefer his steadfastness.
Instead, I force myself to stand still, watching the wounded shuffle into the room.
All the volunteers are injured beyond the point of natural repair.
