He was a shadow. Then, slowly, his face pulled into focus, a face I knew from a long time ago. His eyes tightened, wrinkles spread like Vs from the corners. His smile was cruel and painted on. “Waell, at least we knaow it woarks.”
Questioning eyes tried to find mine, but I couldn’t meet them. I was a void. A shell. I watched as their faces fell to the forest floor. I hadn’t even opened my mouth, but they knew. Here was Deshi by my side, but there should have been three. It sucked any victory right out of the picture. Deshi had a hold of my arm, as he had most of the journey to the meeting point. It was a comfort to me, but mostly it was to stop me from turning around and heading back into the Superiors’ compound.
How could I leave her there?
Matthew eyes asked the question, and I shook my head. I wanted to say, ‘Wait. Don’t start grieving yet. We don’t know,’ but was that worse? Maybe.
He walked away from the group, far into the trees, until he was just a shadow amongst the other shadows. I saw him kneel down and put his hands to his face.
The lump that was lodged in my chest worked its way up to my throat.
Everyone else was bewildered. Because, somehow, Rosa, with her temper, her passion, and her unstoppable nature, had become the heart of this broken, wounded community. She pushed them, pushed back at them, but she was a Survivor now.
Deshi leaned me against a tree, where I slumped slack, my fists shaking. He explained to the others that there was a chance. She might have survived.
“But we left her there, to fend for herself,” I whispered. “Even if she was revived, they might kill her anyway.”
Deshi’s eyes softened. “This is Rosa we’re talking about. If anyone can come through this, she can.” He’d already said that, and I hated hearing it again. He tried to catch my eyes. “She will, Joe.”
My eyes fell on my bloodstained shirt and felt a sharp jolt back to that room. To the death that was all my doing. All those bodies contorted in the position they died, fear frozen on their faces. They were just like me. They were probably ripped from their parents and forced to leave for the Classes. They would have trained, been punished. Maybe they had wives, children.
I nodded. I wanted to believe him. I brought my fingers through my hair, leaving more blood in the strands.
My hands ran over my shirtsleeves mindlessly. Blood flaked off, like bits of dried paint. But most of it was a deep stain that would never come off. Rosa’s blood mixed with the guards’ and Este’s. I pulled it over my head and held it in my hands in a scrunched-up ball. Deshi tried to take it from me, but I clung to it like it was part of me. The grief, the guilt, was crushing me.
Rash streamed into my vision. He shoved me hard against the trunk of the tree, his palms making a hollow thud on my chest. “You jerk!” he yelled. “You fucking jerk! How could you leave her there? You left her alone in that place.” His voice was cracked with grief as he shoved me again and again. I let him. I wanted it. I needed someone to hate me for what I’d done.
In the background, squashed between two trees like they were holding her up, I could see Olga’s round form, her soft, pale hands clenched into fists at her sides as her mouth broke into a heartbreaking sob.
I did this.
Pelo strode towards us, his expression stern and broken. He pulled Rash back by his shoulders forcefully. “Calm down, Rash! Let me…” I braced for his fist connecting with my face. But he stopped abruptly and threw his arms around me, pulling me into a hug.
I started shaking. Sobbing. I couldn’t stand his comfort. His daughter died because of me.
“I know you loved her as much as I did,” he said.
I couldn’t stand his acceptance either. “Love,” Not loved. “I love her,” I shouted stubbornly.
Everything began to hurt all at once, and I couldn't control it. I slid to the ground. My elbows rested on my knees and my head lay heavy in my hands, the vision of her lifeless body from every nightmarish angle played over in my head.
But I knew it like everything that was certain in my life—my love for Rosa, for my son, our need to change this life.
She would live.
She was alive.
I would see her again.
I stared down at my hands, which seemed so foreign to me after what they had just done, and the fear rose up and almost choked me.
Who would she be coming back to?
Firstly, I wish to thank my husband Michael, for his constant support and belief in my writing.
Secondly, I want to thank my children Lennox, Rosalie and Emaline, for their constant interruptions and general mischief, you’ve kept me grounded and made sure I didn’t take myself too seriously.
Thirdly, there’s Chloe Lim, my high school friend and housemate. She was the very first person I handed my completed manuscript of The Woodlands to. I remember driving to childcare, where both our children attended, with the stapled-up chapters sliding across my front seat. I’d only given her the first sixteen chapters with the intent that if she liked it, I would give her the rest. But my nerves were getting the better of me, and I almost didn’t give it her.
I’m so glad I did.
When she told me she loved it and said, “Give me more!” I was ecstatic. It made me brave enough to hand it out to other people.
I remember her pretty much telling me, ‘You have to get this published.’
I remember thinking it wouldn’t happen, and Chloe repeatedly saying, with a big smile on her face, “It will be a best seller, Lauren.”
She has always had an unwavering belief in this story. She is the one I go to for advice about the book. She has read and edited all three of my stories so far, and they are definitely better for her comments and suggestions.
You need people like this in your life. She is a wonderful friend without whom I really don’t think The Woodlands Series would have survived.
It’s definitely not enough but thank you, Chloe.
Daughter of a Malaysian nuclear physicist father and an Australian doctor mother, Lauren Nicolle Taylor was expected to follow the science career path. And she did, for a while, completing a Health Science degree with Honors in obstetrics and gynecology. But there was always a niggling need to create which led to many artistic adventures.
When Lauren hit her thirties, she started throwing herself into artistic endeavors, but was not entirely satisfied. The solution: Complete a massive renovation and sell their house so they could buy their dream block of land and build. After selling the house, buying the block and getting the plans ready, the couple discovered they had been misled and the block was undevelopable. This left her family of five homeless.
Taken in by Lauren’s parents, with no home to renovate and faced with a stressful problem with no solution, Lauren found herself drawn to the computer. She sat down and poured all of her emotions and pent up creative energy into writing The Woodlands.
Family, a multicultural background and a dab of medical intrigue are all strong themes in her writing. Lauren took the advice of ‘write what you know’ and twisted it into a romantic, dystopian adventure! Visit Lauren at her website: http://www.LaurenNicolleTaylor.com.