The truth is, I want my choice to drive a knife right through my father’s heart, to pierce him with as much pain and embarrassment and disappointment as possible.
There is only one choice that can do that.
I look at him, and he nods, and I cut deep into my own palm, so deep the pain brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away and curl my hand into a fist to let the blood collect there. His eyes are like my eyes, such a dark blue that in light like this they always look black, just pits in his skull. My back throbs and pinches, my collared shirt scratching at the raw skin there, the skin he wore into with that belt.
I open my palm over the coals. I feel like they’re burning in my stomach, filling me to the brim with fire and smoke.
I am free.
I don’t hear the cheers of the Dauntless; al
