Free The Supremacy by Megan White Page A

neck. That inconsequential laughter seemed to thaw something deep within my core. Faith was so innocent, still too young to recognize the sinister forces that lived within our world. All she seemed to know was love. She had yet to be tainted by the hate and disparity our kind was forced to endure.
“She has taken to you.” Brian’s groggy voice sounded in my ear, “Don’t get too attached to her.”
I sucked in a deep breath as those few words hit me. They were not spoken with malicious intent. His voice was calm, almost endearing. I was already attached to Faith, almost maternally so. The same as I was with Trent, “It’s a little too late for that,” I admitted, brushing a lone strand of fallen hair away from her face, “She reminds me of my baby brother. So innocent.” I sighed, “She doesn’t deserve any of this.”
“None of us deserve this.” He added sardonically.
“No, we don’t.” I agreed, feeling him shrug closer, “But at least we have had more time to live.”
“Live the life of a prisoner. Not much of a life at all if you ask me.”
And how right he was. None of us had the privilege to follow our own path, to make our own decisions. Our lives were mapped out for us. Our only purpose being to serve The Supremacy, our only way out being death.
“Tell me about your brother,” He asked, he head resting lazily against the cement wall of our cell.
“He is still just a baby, only three.” I smiled up at the ceiling, I could almost see his crooked smile, almost hear his infectious giggles as he chased fluttering butterflies that danced from flower to flower in the meadow that surrounded our house, “At least he is still too young to understand what has happened to all of our lives.”
“And what about your mom?”
“I don’t remember much about my mom.” Faith stirred when I let out a shuttering breath. I never spoke of my mom. An empty pit deep inside of my chest was the place where all memory of her lived, ripping open just as I allowed the thought of her to invade my mind, “She died during the Dark Times,” The time before The Supremacy took over power, “I was five when she got ill. There wasn’t much anyone could do.” I knew my father never stopped loving her; he would never let the memory of her die along with her body. I always attributed that for one of the reasons my stepmother hated me so much. My Dad refused to take down her pictures or do away with any of her belongings. And most of all, he never stopped singing her lullaby, the same one I sang to Trent, and the same one I sang for Faith. Erasing all memory of my mother was the first thing Corina did when my father died.
I cleared my throat and turned to face Brian, “What about you? What’s your story?”
“Oh, no.” He chuckled, “I’m not done with you yet. Tell me what you do remember about your mom.”
“Her smile,” I admitted, allowing the memory of her flood into my mind, knowing that I would regret it later but willing to bask in the beauty of her for just a short time, “And her eyes. No matter her mood, her eyes were always smiling.” A chill rushed over me as the memory of haunting cold eyes invaded my dreams. Declan’s eyes. “Her skin,” I went on, trying to distract myself, “Soft, but still so strong. I remember how it felt when she held me close, But most of all I remember how she used to smell, like daisies. Always.”
“Sounds like you remember more than you thought you did.”
I knew where he was going, but he could not have been more wrong with his desire to know what I kept locked away in my mind.
I sighed and turned to face him, so I could see his reaction to my words, “Sometimes our best defense in survival is our ability to forget what we cannot handle to remember.”
Shrugging off my admittance, he continued with his inquiry into my life, “Who is taking care of your brother? Your Dad or Stepmom?”
“No,” I let out another shaky breath as I thought of Trent