Page 7 of Storm

She coughs. It turns into a chuckle. “Oh, my little Storm cloud, stop worrying about me. I’m not so far gone. Nix and I have been planning this since the last Market Day.”

If that isn’t a shock, suddenly, two broad arms wrap around my waist, lifting me from my sure footing. I’m taken over by the unmissable smell of my brother—a familiar scent of oil and metal.

“Eww, Nix, you’re all sweaty,” I complain.

“Happy Birthday, little sis.” He laughs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He puts me down and pats my unruly hair.

“It’s your birthday. It’s the one day you’re allowed to sleep in. Right, Mam?”

She agrees, nodding slowly, saying, “Mhmmm.”

“But we have so much to do. The damage from the last few strikes has been more than normal, and—” My hands fly towards the rods, trying to emphasise my point.

“And you need to stop worrying so much.”

I huff. “That’s what Mam said.” Last night. When I was complaining to her about the unusually harsh activity of the strikes this week. They were hitting with a force I haven’t witnessed before. One of next door’s rods split clean in half, and someone was electrocuted in a safe zone the day before that.

“Mam is always right.” Nix walks over to her, picking up the crudely wrapped package from her lap.

Pushing my disobedient fly-aways behind my ears, I try to school a smile onto my face. They were expecting me to be happy about this birthday, like the many before. Instead, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach and continues to yawn open. Maybe it is going to eat me from the inside out.

“So, what did you get me?” When I was old enough to understand guidelines, Mam, Nix, and I came up with the birthday rules. Since we lived inside a container of rules, it only seemed fitting that our own were the opposite of what we’d grown to know.

Rule number one: the birthday person gets to sleep in.

Rule number two: impractical presents only.

Rule number three: on the next Market Day, you can choose one treat.

Now, as a nineteen-year-old, they seem like pretty mild rules, if somewhat silly. We were only kids when we created them. The prospect of a present that wasn’t clothing, no one making us get up before sunrise, and eating treats was heaven in our small slice of hell. When it was one of our birthdays, we thought we had hit the jackpot.

I hold out my hands, and Nix places the brown-wrapped package in them. “You’ll never guess,” he teases. I can’t hide my splitting grin at his attempt to goad me. It’s not presents I want this year, but time with Mam and Nix.

The tree line beyond the barbed fences that surround our fields grows more and more appealing every day. Even if the fairies are a supposed cannibalistic race of multi-coloured demons. For the price of freedom, I might try to make it within their territory, if only for the feel of leaves crunching underfoot.

The freedom to choose my death.

The freedom to choose if I go left or right.

The freedom to feel nature within my fingertips that’s still living and breathing.

The package is no bigger than the palm of my hand, so I bring it to my ear and give it a slight shake, hearing the soft jingle of something moving around.

“What did you two do?” This birthday in particular, I wasn’t expecting much. However, they have surprised me before. One year, I received a cute little handmade teddy. Another year, a slingshot. Last year, a book—contraband.

All books in Halo are banned, anything that spreads disorder or has any worth buried before it can cause dissonance. We don’t talk much about it. The book they bought me is filled with poetry. I have no idea where they found it; most likely traded with another farmer. Some people in the fields hoard sentimental pieces until they need to let them go for food. That book is tucked away underneath our bedding. Mam and I read it when the heat is too heavy to continue climbing outside. Nix will bring his work inside and listen from the dining table.

It’s rare to still find people in the lightning fields who read beyond the words market, stop, go, credit, and farmer. Mam’s mother taught her to read in the dirt outside, engraving the words into the cracked earth. And Mam taught us the same way. Our only obstacle was timing our lessons so the drones weren’t nearby.

A few poems from my birthday book stick with me, stirring in my head, one that Nix recites to me every night in particular being the only thing that gets me to sleep now. In some way, over the last year, the words from each of those poems have helped as I watch Mam’s body wither, turning my rage into something more potent.

No one talks about before. Mam is a third-generation lightning farmer. She knows as much as her parents were willing to share with her right before they passed from the wasting. There’s no time in history anyone can recall that we haven’t been held captive by Halo. The thought sometimes pricks at me, a wound festering. How did we get here?

For dramatic effect, I sniff the parcel. “Mmm. Not sweets.” I give a mock frown, and Nix and Mam buy into the display, though I’m decaying from the inside. The cost of one treat means we have to thin our rations out leading up to the month before a birthday. When me and Nix came to realise the value of credit when we were teens, we told Mam we didn’t want them anymore, but she wouldn’t hear of it. We don’t get much to look forward to in this life, and she is determined to indulge us once a year.

Gingerly opening up the crumpled corners of the rough paper, I find a neat, folded piece of cotton. I pass the paper to Nix to use for next time and run my fingers along the outline of something curved in shape.