Static by Tessa Kaput (digital book reader .txt) 📕

/> Her breathing became faint so, I let her down onto the ground with her back against a nearby tree. She was crying and the bleeding was getting worst. She holds my hand; I realize I am crying too. It is so unfair for her to die so young. I know she would die, she is just losing too much blood, and I can’t stop it. I want to tell her everything is going to be alright and she would understand. But I couldn’t speak, as if I never learned how to. She isn’t going to make it. I hold her hand for minutes .She slipped a small object in my hand. I didn’t even look at it as she whispers softly into my ear, “Please keep it safe,” I nod. I want to tell her I promise I would, but I had since lost the ability to speak out loud. I can’t tell her, even though every fiber of my being wants to, and only seconds later, her heart stopped. I couldn’t even tell her I’d keep her object safe, that I am sorry for killing her father, for not saving her. I open my fist to see a flat, glass butterfly the size of my fingernail and then close it again. She looks so peaceful as she finally could rest safely.
I walk for days and nights. Why couldn’t I speak, did I lose my voice to The Academy? Or did I lose it to the chip that connected my to everyone’s heads? Did I lose it to connection we all shared? I don’t know the answer, but I am helpless trying to find an answer. I feel like I am going crazy. Static fills my head during my waking hours and buzzes at night as I try to sleep. I scratch at the chip on my neck, trying stop the noise. I am like a rabid animal, clawing away at my skin to remove this monster that has attached itself to me. I am bleeding from the gashes I have made. I rip apart my skin., trying to hold back my screams. My hands are covered in blood. I didn’t even know her name. My nails chip and brake as I continue to tear my flesh apart. Maybe I am going crazy, or maybe I am crazy. I didn’t eat or drink water. I cry to myself. The static gets louder and louder, and louder. It won’t stop. I had defied an order and broke the rules, they probably deactivated my chip. Now the silence I have so longed for will never return, and instead my head is filled with static
I lay in the fetal position, crying and screaming and not being able to hear myself. Maybe there isn’t really static, just my own insanity. The pain in my back and neck is unbearable. I am so used to hearing others in my head; I am so used being connected. I relied on technology to speak with everyone, so much so, that I lost my ability to talk. I want to so badly, but the words refuse to form, and again, the static takes over. I am so tired. But my fear keeps me awake. But I have to sleep, I tell myself. I curl up under a tree and close my eyes. I have no source of warmth and my clothes were ripped into bandages for the little girl. I clutched her little butterfly and looked at it. It was very small, but the detail was so beautiful. The body is black, and wings are a purple-red color. Small spots cover both wings. It looks like it would if it stood on a leaf or a rock. I hold to it tight, to me, this is the little girl I couldn’t save. But knowing she is far from this messed up world makes me tired. Knowing she is safe meant I can finally rest.
I don’t know how long I was out. But I am not under the tree anymore. I am lying on cot on a dirt floor with a cracked roof over my head. Little droplets of water go split splat into a rusted pail. I can tell it had rained because of the cold air and gray skies I see through the crack in the roof that threatened to spill. I slowly sit up, and in a daze at the fact that I didn’t know where I am. So dazed that I almost don’t realize the static has lowered to mild humming in my head. Still irritating, but not enough so that I would scratch at it. It is like a bug bite that itched but could be ignored.
I hear footsteps outside of the makeshift door. It sounded like there were two of them. They spoke in low voices that I can barely hear. I got up from the bed and held myself up against the wall. It was exhausting to do just that, but I don’t have a choice. I start towards a window. But right as I am about to reach it, my lazy feet knock the pail of water, sending it streaming down. The talking stopped outside, and the footsteps get closer and louder. I look frantically everywhere for something to fight with. I could still fight given enough of an adrenaline kick that the past minutes gave me. I find a shard of glass, wrap my hand with a piece of strip cloth that is by the bed and grip it tight. If I’m going die, I’m going to go down fighting. When they get into the room, I notice how they can almost be brothers, but one of them has gray and black hair intermingled with each other and his face had deep wrinkles around and under his eyes. They are probably father and son. The younger one stepped forward, hands reaching to me slowly. He speaks quietly, almost in a whisper. I have one hand ready to strike, and the other holding me up. Neither of them make any movement to attack or come too near me. But the younger spoke, “shh, shh it’s okay. I’m not going hurt you. Just put down the glass. My name is Erik, this is my father. We’re not going to hurt you. We found you in the wood two days ago,” he said. “You were hurt badly, so we brought you here. We’re here with a few other people who are with our group. We’re travelling south. We wanted to make sure you were okay.” I want to run but there is a sincerity in his voice that made me lower the glass shard. He kicks it away from both of us. Then I collapse and the world goes dark.
When I wake again, Erik sits on the ground next to the bed, soaking some strip cloth. He sees me open my eyes and smiles at me. He dabs the edge of my neck with cloth. It stings badly. But he keeps rubbing it gently. I try to smile at him, but I can’t. He changes my bandages on my neck, and I wonder, why is he helping me? Why does he care? I want to ask, so I open my mouth to speak, but nothing happens I don’t know how to speak, remember? I told myself. I want to thank him for taking care of me and not leaving me in the forest to die.
Days of resting passed, and Erik tells me he wants to get me back on my feet. At first I stumble and trip like a newborn. I don’t really know any newborns, so I wonder how I know what they look like. The buzzing returned when I thought about the newborn boy I have flashes of but no real memory to put a name to a face. Erik sees me cringing and holds me up until it passes. Within a few days I am walking around the room on my own. And a few days later, I am introduced to the members of their group. There are about twenty others, ranging anywhere from an infant to someone so near death that they ramble on about the “other side.” I am accepted quickly. I have my own tent and Erik got me a bag to carry my cloths and the little butterfly that I carry around in my pocket. I carry my own weight around camp. When the weather permits Erik and a few other teenagers our age and myself go hunting to feed the rest of camp. They all joke, saying that Erik finally had someone to compete against in the long shot. I laughed, but it hurts to try anything more than that. People talk to me, they know I can’t reply, so I nod or shake my head, and when hunting, we use a series of hand signals that everyone picked up quickly. I feel at home here, I found a family. But in the recesses of my mind, I know I am endangering them with my presence.
It’s been two years since I went to The Academy, and it is the first time since the death of the little girl that I feel somewhat normal and with some kind of purpose. At first I wanted to leave the group in case I was wanted by The Academy, but Erik convinced me to stay. I like being part of a family. People care for me and I care for them. In six months we have made a complete turnaround from travelling south and back north. Everything is perfect.
I still don’t know who I am, I don’t know my name or age or where I came from, but everything here in the northern region seems eerily familiar. The spring has come, and that means deer hunting. That morning, I slipped my butterfly into my pocket, thinking of the little girl, gather my jacket, bow, and arrows. I head out early with the others, but Erik doesn’t feel well and wanted the rest of us to hunt without him. I should stay with him, but the fresh air is too much to resist, especially since the static stays at a constant buzzing rather than the grinding noise that makes me rip my skin to pieces. I hate the buzzing, but it beats static any day. And the buzzing is low and quiet, I think it’s because I am still connected to people. When I’m alone, it comes back in full force along with the few memories I have of the world I came from.
The morning is crisp and new after a cold winter. We leave at first light and return hours later with plenty of food. We all laugh as we walk back into camp. I’ve seen pain and death, and I have been an agent of Death before, but nothing could have prepared me for this. When we got back to camp, everyone huddled around in a circle. I drop my game and run to the circle. My mind races to Erik. I don’t know what is going on. Then I am grabbed from behind, a man covers my mouth before I screamed, I start fighting back and I am pulled into a tent. I am released and turn around. Erik’s father looks cold, his eyes hollow and red. I know something had happened to Erik. I look at him questioningly and desperate for answers. Then he spoke, “Erik was shot this morning. They were looking for runaways,” he said, I