Page 81 of Wings of Destruction

There is always another hurdle to peace. There are those who lack the capacity to stand up for what is right, and there are those who will do whatever it takes to reach a nebulous end goal. How much wrong can one person do in the name of good before they become a monster?

Let them answer my question, and let their response be the judge. I’ll make my decision about them then. I stand and replace the book on the shelf, feeling the tightening of the executioner’s noose around my neck with every step.

Seventeen

Morgan

The desperate need for sleep presses into my bones and warps them. They twist into something breakable, delicate, and my skin goes tight around them.

My brain, already sluggish under a constant diet of frustration and grief, turns to sludge and oozes from my ears.

Clawing up from my bunk, I slap my cheeks soft at first, then louder once I’m away from the circle of snoring. The pain sharpens my senses enough for me to grit through the discomfort and tiptoe on.

I’ve gotten used to the halls and the darkness. I’ve gotten used to silence and making the world mine when everyone else shies away, shrinks, hides.

My lockpicking skills are a little better than they were days ago but not good enough for me to execute with any kind of speed. Eventually, the mechanism clicks.

I stash the pin back behind my ear, the metal disappearing into my hair, and slip inside.

The door swings shut with a soft whoosh.

I hide in my corner with the book open on my lap. My heart races, pushing against the confines of my ribs. It tells me I’m a fool in one beat and I shouldn’t be here in another, all while desperation thorns in the space between.

Survival versus freedom and escape. I keep coming back, and I keep looking for answers to my scribbled notes. It’s a torment and a distraction at the same time. For some reason, I have to know if the author answered.

I come up with responses while I mop, sweep, scrub, and salve. I craft my answers to these unasked questions when I steal a drop of warm water under the leaky showerhead. And every chance I can, I sneak into the classroom to check and to devour other books.

It’s silly to expect them to answer.

Especially when there’s no way of knowing if they’ll even pick up the book. There are plenty of other books to pick apart.

I settle against the wall, the moonlight soft on the tip of my slippers, and pause.

Get a grip, Morgan.

In this place? I’m lucky enough to be alive and kicking. Sanity isn’t really part of the equation. Is it?

Reverently, I pry open the cover and flip to one of the longest comments I’d written in the center of the tome. My breath catches at the back of my throat. My fingertips go numb. Underneath my scrawl is a response in green ink.

The person who owns the book left a message for me.

You’ve written some intriguing insights.

Pins and needles dance along my skin, and I slam the book shut.

This is what I wanted. A response, someone to talk to me like I’m a human being. The revelation rocks me to the soles of my feet.

Is that why I really wrote in the book? To find someone who wouldn’t see me in my maid gray dress, on my hands and knees, covered in dirt and dung and other unmentionables? Someone who might recognize my intellect and engage?

They did.

Incredulity colors my laugh. They did.

Gathering myself, I peel open the book and find my page again.

The interaction begins easily enough. I really thought they’d be furious with me for continuing the desecration of their margins. I hadn’t cared enough to let it stop me. I still don’t.

Building off of what you said about unicorn horns being able to pierce dragon armor⁠—