Belong

Emily knows where she belongs, but she made a mistake, a big mistake.

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1. Pure

I am pure.  I was born Erudite, and I will choose Erudite. I think back to my aptitude tests, the shock, and slight hatred, of the Amity woman testing me.  No part of me was Amity, Dauntless, Candor, or,  Abnegation,  there was a ferocious dog, and a little girl.  What I would imagine the kind thing to do,  the Amity thing to do, would be to go between them.  But I didn’t,  I pushed the girl in front of me, and the dog attacked the girl.  I shudder at the memory and shake it off.  I think that’s why she hates me,  but she doesn’t matter, only the Erudite do.  I want them to respect me, I want to show them I have no doubts, I won’t even look at the bowls.  I’ve been to so many Choosing Ceremonies,  I’ve almost memorized where each bowl is. Almost, I tell myself, I have to look. I would feel foolish if my blood fell into the wrong bowl.  I close my eyes and picture my blood splashing into  the water,  the Erudite initiation, and the rest of my life, coming up with a cure or a curse, and the Erudite initiates looking up at me in awe. I have no doubts,  I know where I belong.


I roll out of bed and stumble up to my dresser,  combing out my strawberry blond hair.  As I put my hair in a neat bun,  I admire myself in the mirror.  I am not tall, nor am I short.  I’m always in the middle,  not pretty or ugly,  not even a definitive eye color.  I stare at myself, looking deep into my own eyes. They are a dark blue, and as I stare into them, I can’t help but think of water.  I laugh at the thought of creatures swimming around in the darkness of my eye.  Glancing at my clock, I realize I should be leaving soon.  I see no shame in arriving early, so I load the bus that is already full of gray, the Abnegation.  I notice a couple sitting in the corner, in the man’s lap a young boy, he notices my stare and waves slightly.  In the woman’s lap there is a small baby.  I don’t know why, but  I find myself walking up to them.  “What’s it’s name?” I ask.

    “Beatrice”,  the woman says with a smile,  “She’s three months old.”

    “Congratulations.” I say, and walk away.

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