Oculus (Oculus #1) (8 page)

His skin is warm and smooth and damp with exertion. I melt into him. My pulse speeds. A craving, a need like I’ve never known blooms within me. I want to… consume him, to take him into me. I want to possess him and altogether forget the hurt that my dreams of him always spawn within me.

I wake suddenly and focus on clearing the haze that rest has left behind. I must’ve been barely beneath the surface of sleep, dreaming of him because our scanner chimes throughout the house announcing the arrival of Dr. Wooldridge. Blearily, I catch my breath and remove my own hands from my face feeling a little embarrassed that it had been me touching my face not the running man.

Somewhat shakily I take a deep breath and swing my feet out of bed to rest against the cool wood floor. My fingers brush against the face of my watch.

Just past seven
.

I slept right through dinner but I didn’t feel very hungry to begin with. The only thing I have an appetite for is sleep because with it usually comes dreams of my imaginary friend.

In the living room I can hear my father talking to Dr. Wooldridge who works alongside him in the lab, about a message that had been written in blood, Hector Benson’s blood.

Rumors and speculation spread quickly throughout The Corporate compound so it was no shock that news of Mr. Benson’s death began making its rounds immediately. Word is that he was found in quite a state with gruesome injuries all about his body in an outbuilding equipped for torture.

The Corp immediately pinned the murder on Dark Land savages working on behalf of The Resistance whose reputation for barbarity often precedes them but I’ve never heard of anything quite like what happened to Hector Benson. The news of it certainly has the grounds within which we safely dwell humming with anxiety.

“So suffers all those who prey upon the innocent,” Doctor Wooldridge whispers across to my father over a stubby glass of whiskey that I silently supply from his liquor cabinet. Wooldridge requires ice with his whiskey and dad takes his neat. Always. He says good whiskey is forty hours a bottle. Why ruin it by adding ice that costs half an hour per bag? Drink the whiskey neat and save the ice for lemonade and hot days. That’s what he says, anyway.

“That’s what it said. Some vigilante from The Resistance, no doubt about that,” he huffs noisily then tips up his glass, ice cubes clinking as he gulps his now watered down liquor.

“And the rumors about Benson?” my father prompts.

“Pah! Nonsense. Hector Benson was a fine man of The Corporation. I refuse to believe a word of it. Just more muck thrown by the animals. When will they understand that if they insist on sneaking about in the Dark Lands, telling vicious rumors and biting the hand that feeds then they’ll only stand to be treated worse than they already are. Animals!”

My father sighs heavily, clearly refusing to instigate Doctor Wooldridge any further. The wedding band given by a woman whom I never knew taps against the side of his glass of neat whiskey. My only indication that he took a sip and that he’s growing tired of his guest. Though we don’t discuss it much, my father’s views on those unfortunate people living outside the safety of the compound are similar to mine. They seem misinformed, stubborn perhaps, but they are still human beings.

“And I’ll tell you what else, I heard that The Corporation is considering taking measures to find out who exactly is responsible for this--this
vile
display of viciousness and it’s thirty days of cut rations for outer sectors. If they don’t like the punishment maybe they can help flush out the degenerates who did this! I’d make it sixty days of rations if it were up to me!”

“Yes. Well—I,” my father begins only to be cut off by his colleague.

“Those in their rags and disease ridden camps! Do they really think they’ll fair so well without The Corporation? Without The Corporation we’d all be dead. How are we to make peace with such imbeciles?”

He has a point about The Corporation. I don’t understand The Resistance either. Surely they understand that The Corporation is our saving grace. Surely they understand that without The Corporation there would be no help for any of us. The Corporation isn’t perfect but I can’t fathom fighting back against them. What possible reason could there be to warrant such a thing? I’ve never been outside the compound. I was born and raised within guarded walls and while I feel pity for those without the luxuries that Fenra provides its employees, I also feel confused by their opposition. If only someone could get through to them and make them see that The Corporation can help them too. I doubt that they’d all be taken in as employees but a good portion of them probably could and then they’d have access to the things we have here. They would have to earn it but at least they would have that option.

Dr. Wooldridge was quick to call them animals but I think that maybe they are just confused, misinformed. They need help not poor treatment that will only lend credence to their opinions of The Corporation.

I can tell that Dr. Wooldridge, the loyalist that he is, isn’t truly asking the question he just tossed out but merely expounding on an opinion that he has already made very clear and I’ve heard enough. The more I think about his remarks the more I think about the dream I just had—a dream that is still very fresh in my mind.

Blurry as my dream-vision always is, I can tell that the running man’s shirt isn’t refined woven or knit fabric. It’s rough and serves only one purpose—protection from the elements. He’s never running within a gated compound. Limited as my dreams are, I’ve never once seen a gate or a wall or… anything. Always just him and trees and dirt and streams and grass…

He never has a sector cuff on his wrist either. If he lived within one of the multiple compounds, how does he buy things without a sector cuff? He doesn’t. He’s an outsider, a Dark Lander and for the first time since I began dreaming of him, I feel relieved that he isn’t real. I wouldn’t wish that sort of reality on anyone. Especially not him.

“Dad, Dr. Wooldridge, would you two like something to eat?”

“No thank you, darling. Iris, you remember Dr. Wooldridge, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. I can smell him,” I motion my head toward the chair sitting across from my father’s chair, give an insincere smile and excuse myself to the kitchen.

I know I shouldn’t allow myself to feel so aggravated with Dr. Wooldridge’s obvious distaste for those he considers to be beneath him. Maybe it’s the fact that often times people view me the same way.

Somehow, I’m not good enough because I’m blind. I make people uncomfortable because they don’t quite know how to approach the blind woman whose prospects for serving The Corporation seem… slim.

I want so badly to earn my keep with The Corp and to serve our compound in whatever way I can, but the visit to Fenra Second School only further solidifies my father’s beliefs that there is no place for me or my handicap. I’d have to live on what was available to me, my inheritance and what The Corp provides for me out of pity for my condition.

As far as I can tell, I have no place, no purpose, no prospects and it cuts deep. My dreams are the only place where I feel truly safe and comfortable. The fact that I ache when I’m visited by my running friend doesn’t matter. I still feel safe and like I belong there in my dreams. I feel like somewhere there in my dreams with him is where my purpose resides, undiscovered.

Hattie doesn’t say much on the way to FSS and neither do I, so we share the silence in comfortable companionship like we have so many times before. It’s one of the things I like best about her. We don’t have to talk or do anything, really, to enjoy each other. I can tell something is bothering her and she can probably sense the same in me but we choose to leave it alone. Probably a wise choice.

“Have fun,” I whisper to her as we wait in line for the scanner at the entrance to the school.

“Oh, yeah. Loads of fun in store today. Science aptitude exam. Wahoo,” she whispers back grimly. The line inches forward at a snails pace, scanners buzzing and announcing as students pass through the entrance.

I smile and nod, feeling frustrated because I’d give anything to be the one taking those stupid aptitude exams that are cornerstone to the Propensity Screening. They are designed to help prospects figure out whatever professional path they’d be most suited to.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. I just have a lot on my mind. You’ll sort this out. They’ll get you in. Maybe verbal tests or something.”

“Yeah. Or something.”

“Hattie. Brighton. Please step forward.”

“Iris. Tierney. Please step forward.” The scanners drone on behind us as we walk arm in arm through the doors of the school. Scents and sounds mingle at a dizzying rate, forcing me to focus on my footing and sense of direction.

“I’ll walk you to the office,” Hattie offers, making me feel relieved and inadequate all at once.

“Good luck,” I call after Hattie as she hurries away, the heels of her boots clicking against the floor as she goes.

“Ms. Tierney,” the same administrator from yesterday greets me. “How can I assist you?”

“Ah, yes. I was hoping that I could speak with the dean today. Or maybe I could just make an appointment. A note. Something.” The woman lets out an exasperated sigh which only serves to anger me versus deter me, which is what she is aiming for, I’m sure.

“I’m sorry but the dean is quite busy with the exams going on and—”

“Yes. I’m sure. I just wanted to speak with him about the screening. Surely, there is something that can be done. I could—”

“No. I thought I explained to you yesterday that FSS is not the designated school for the visually impaired. We cannot allow you to screen.”

“I could take a verbal test,” I offer, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment as the feeling of being a beggar grows inside.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Tierney but I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.”

“You can arrange a meeting with the dean,” a low voice from behind me announces authoritatively. I startle and wait for an introduction, feeling entirely more exposed than I’d like to.

“Chief Dillon Ingram.” His breath brushes against the shell of my ear making me flinch as wisps of my hair flutter at my neck.

“Oh. Um. Iris Tierney. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” The inappropriate undercurrents in his comments don’t escape me. I’ve heard of Dillon Ingram before and it would seem that the things I’ve heard aren’t too far off the mark.

It’s rumored that, being the Chief of Fenra Security, he often abuses his position to do as he pleases… and to do
who
he pleases.

“I’ll leave a message with the dean,” the woman at the desk amends, bringing my attention back to her.

“Thank you.” I turn with my stick in hand and think for a moment, doing my best to recall the route back to the main entrance.

“I’ll walk you out,” Chief Ingram says as he helps himself to my arm.

“I’m quite capable. Thank you.” His grip on my arm tightens as he pulls me forward.

“I don’t need your help.” I insist, again, tugging my arm from his.

“Oh, but I think you do. I oversee all the Security Prospects. I can find a nice… position for you in my department.”

“I—”

“No test needed,” he whispers. “… Just the pleasure of your company.”

I’d be lying if I said I don’t consider his crude offer for a moment or two. I could have a place. A purpose. It’s a way in but almost immediately I feel repulsed by his obvious exploitation of power and of
me
.

“No. Thank. You.” I grind out my answer with as much conviction as I can muster as we come to a stop outside the entrance of the school.

“Think about it,” he whispers again, this time with his lips just barely brushing against my earlobe. It elicits an unwelcome tingle that spreads across every inch of my skin. I hear him exhale and I’m tempted to touch his face to see if he’s wearing the smirk that I just know he is but he’s already gone.

Before I can say anything else, he leaves me standing here, contemplating how much I’m willing to sell my self-worth to the devil in return for the chance to feel… normal.