Nonexistent

TWENTY-SEVEN- Rogue

THE willowy leaves of the trees near the lake brush our shoulders as we pass. 

The water is clear and still. Rocks and pebbles lay at the lakebed as fish cast their shadows onto them with the sunlight unevenly glistening into the water.

The bridge is a few hours away, and it's only around three in the afternoon. We all trek quickly without a word. 

Mason doesn't stop and check up on us, like he usually does. This time, his eyes are tinged with coldness and he's been moving with unbelievable stamina and speed. Like walking away can somehow help him forget Celeste.

Needless to say, our ground coverage has tremendously improved. And stunning beauty surrounds our every step. But none of us are in the spirits to rejoice. 

The lake beside us tempts me to drink, so I do. Calia joins me, and Mason stays back to watch us. He's never been anything but warm and kind and approachable. Seeing him like this is like seeing a stranger. Grief is pounding on his hard shell, telling him to give up. This is the only way he knows to go on. 

Once he shows emotion at all, he won't ever get over Celeste. Not for a long time at least.

I look at Calia. I consider how much she has suffered as well. 

She drinks up the clear water, quenching her much ignored thirst in desperation. Her rough hands pour water into her needy mouth, calloused so much they don't feel a thing. After she finishes she sits and looks at her reflection in the lake's rippling surface. Cuts and lashes mark her brow and her cheekbones. Her eyes are distant and cloudy, still mourning for loss she never deserved. 

This is what they do to us.

They take away our emotion. Our ability to feel. 

At such a young age, they strip us of sentiment and attachment. The Death Race is only the beginning. The Immortal War is what is really waiting for us, up ahead.

The mandatory path of those who aren't ready to die off here. 

But death comes to all of us. It's just a matter of when. 

And they want us to know that. They make us witness life vanish before our very eyes, only to desensitise us to the thin line between a beating heart and a silent one. 

Death is not to be mourned. Death is to be expected.

Whatever they wanted to do to us, they've succeeded. We're broken. 

The worst of the Death Race has already passed.

I try not to think too much as we move on. After a while, we find ourselves trekking up a small forrest. When we've zigzagged our way through half of the naked shrubs and dry trees, I see it up ahead. I can barely make out the outline of a distant bridge, clouded in fog and mist.