September 2nd, Year 497 [2 years, 11 months, and 30 days until The Fateless]

The mirror in my house has always been loose. It doesn't sit quite right in the frame; if you touch it, it shifts like it might fall. It's always bothered my father - I can tell; he tries to fix it before cutting my hair or his, tries to push it back and readjust it but it continues to be loose. I think it might fall one of these days, but it hasn't yet.

I like to think that it's some sort of metaphor for my life. It hasn't fallen apart yet, but it's getting there.

"You know what to expect," my father says as he trims the ends of my hair. When he's done, he runs a comb through it before pinning it up in a bun. Sometimes I wish my hair was curly like my mother's. I wish that I looked more like her in general, anything to keep me from looking like my father at least. "You'll sit behind me and wait for them to call your name, when they do you'll go up to the stage and take the knife from the faction representative. Then you'll cut yourself and drop your blood in the right bowl." Our eyes meet in the mirror's reflection for a second and he tries at a smile, which is practically a foreign concept to him.

He touches my shoulder and I notice that we're about the same height now but I'm more frail looking, my clothes baggy even for the normally loose Abnegation style. My father on the other hand is broad shouldered and stronger than most Abnegation.

For as long as I can remember I have found his strength terrifying. When my mother was alive I remember her being small and thin, and when my father would stand near her I remember thinking that he could snap her in half. He broke her wrist once, I was eight at the time and I don't remember why, just the two of them fighting in the kitchen and the sound of the bone snapping was so loud that I heard it in the living room. When I came in to see what had happened – a stupid idea really given that the only thing my father hated more than my mother crying is me seeing her cry because he said it would inspire me to be weak like her – she was sobbing, still caught in my father's grasp. He gave her a disgusted look and then shoved her back into the counter and left, muttering.

My mother hardly left the house anyways, but I remember specifically while her wrist was healing my father forbade her from leaving. He said that it would be embarrassing to have to explain that his clumsy wife broke her wrist falling down the stairs.

The feeling of him almost gently squeezing my shoulder draws me out of the memory, just one of dozens filled with pain and terror. The vast majority involve my mother crying whether silently as she cleaned my injuries as best she could, or sobbing because my father had hurt her severely and she was desperate for it to stop.

"The knife will only hurt for a moment. Then your choice will have been made and it will all be over."

I wonder if he really has any concept of pain, if the part of him that is parental like he should be ever thinks about what he does to me when he's the monster that's terrorized me all my life. I hate this part of him, I know that it's all an act but it makes me wonder what my life might have been like if he were actually good like everyone says he is. But then he shifts back into the man I have always known; the one that I would say tore me apart if there were any part of me that was whole in the first place, the one that I do believe my mother loved until the day she died no matter how much he tormented her.

My heart pounds in my chest and I flush. "Don't worry about me handling the pain. I've had a lot of practice."

He narrows his eyes and his grip on my shoulder becomes uncomfortably tight. My anger evaporates and is replaced fear. But he doesn't strike me, he just sets down the comb in front of the mirror next to the scissors. He accidently brushes the mirror and it shifts in the frame, filling the hallway with the sound of scraping. My father walks away, leaving me to sweep up the hair. When he's gone, I press gently on the mirror, trying to shift it back into its place before I close the panel. For a second I think the light illuminates something behind it, but I close the panel anyways. I'm not about to pry the glass out of place just to investigate something that's probably just a trick of the light.

When I'm done, I go back into my bedroom and stare blankly at the broken objects still scattered about the floor. I blink away tears over these objects that have been a comfort to me all these years as I kneel down near them to put each piece into the trashcan one by one. These little trinkets are all that I had. When I was younger I would take them out after an especially bad night and just sift through them while the tears ran down my face, carefully examining each one by the light of the moon. I kind of do that now, looking carefully at each shard before I throw it in the trash. As I do this one thought rings through my mind:

I have to get out.

I rise from the floor when I'm done and pull my mother's sculpture out from under my pillow. It's still perfect even after a night of sleeping on it. I've always gone out of my way to keep it as pristine as the day she gave it to me, in the morning light the sapphire blue seems especially vibrant. It's easy to see what my mother liked about this object. The day she gave it to me I asked her what it did and glanced back toward the door, afraid that any moment my father would storm in.

She smiled at me and said that it didn't do anything obvious, but then she added, "But it might do something in here." She touched her hand to her heart. "Beautiful things sometimes do." And then she smiled very fondly and happily like nothing in the world was wrong.

I don't know if any of the objects I'd collected over the years could ever compare to her statue, they weren't exactly beautiful things like she'd said. But they were comforting because they were my things and I loved them.

I wipe my eyes and put the statue on my desk next to my stack of schoolbooks. It gleams as the sun streams through my window and before I leave this room forever, I take one last look at it and manage a smile.

Downstairs, I'm too nervous to eat but I shove a piece of toast in my mouth anyways to avoid raising questions. My father ignores me in favor of the morning paper, pretending not to notice when I wince as I sit back in the chair, my back still raw from last night's beating. It's better when he ignores me, I think. In his eyes, the only time I am worth paying attention to is when I'm messing something up.

He still doesn't look away from the paper when he says, "Did you get that mess in your bedroom cleaned up?"

I nod. "Yes, Sir."

He nods as well and goes back to ignoring me.

I have to get out, I repeat to myself. I swear that last night will be the last time he ever lays a hand on me.

He finishes reading and hands his plate and coffee cup for me to rinse out. When I'm done we leave the house without so much as looking at each other. As we walk down the sidewalk past our neighbors who are also making their way to the Choosing Ceremony, Marcus greets them kindly. I've always wondered how no one can see the person that he really is. If everything was really so perfect for Marcus Eaton and his family than how could they explain me and my complete lack of presence in the community? As Abnegation community is pretty much all we have, it's hard to make individual friends but as a faction people are very close. But I've never been a part of that; at any point that I did not absolutely have to be working, my father preferred for me to stay in the house. If our neighbors found that strange I wouldn't know because I was never around.

When we reach the Hub, my father puts his hand on my back and I straighten, trying hard not to grimace or flinch at the shocks of pain that run through my body.

I have to get out, I repeat again.

I continue this mantra as we climb the stairs, trying to keep my breathing steady even though my throat burns and my legs ache. I focus on the path ahead of me through the sea of bodies, trying to focus on why it matters that I get to the top. With every step I take I get closer to my freedom, this is my only chance to be free of my father.

We make it up the seemingly endless amount of stairs, finally reaching the grand hall in which they hold the Choosing Ceremony. They will call us up in reverse alphabetical order; one by one every sixteen year old in the city will claim a faction as their own.

As we take our seats, my father in the front most row and me right behind him, he puts his hand on my shoulder. "You know what to do," he says, and it's more like he's telling himself than me. "You know what the right choice is. I know you do."

Andrew Prior's family sits down near me, the man himself sitting with my father as the leader and representative always have a front row seat.

Representative Prior's children are two years younger than me. Beatrice and Caleb, if I remember correctly. They came to my mother's funeral, but did not speak to me. That said, I didn't speak to much of anyone.

A hush falls over the room, signifying that the ceremony is starting and the only sound is the clicking of heels against the tile on the stage. The Dauntless leader takes her place center stage in front of the five bowls, brushing her black hair away to the side. She looks out at the crowd and smiles, white teeth seeming almost blindingly bright against her dark skin, black clothing, black hair, and impossibly large black eyes.

"Welcome to the Choosing Ceremony," her voice is smooth and if there were any sound left in the room then her voice silenced it. "a most momentous occasion in everyone's lives; a staple of our way of life and, in fact, to our survival. Our youth are the future of our city; our next leaders and the carriers of our legacy. The choices made here today determines not only their future, but the future of us all. Every day we continue to survive in pursuit of a better tomorrow, and on this day we celebrate that better tomorrow. The future belongs to our youth, those who know where they belong. I would like to congratulate them on their first step into their lives." The crowd applauds her as she pauses both for dramatic effect and to breathe. I have heard about what an amazing speaker Azalea Morgan is, what an amazing person Azalea Morgan is. My father has never cared for the Dauntless but even he acknowledges that Azalea is some sort of genius.

"Five hundred years ago, our ancestors found the unity that humanity had strived toward for so long. They found the root of human weakness in five places, the things that divide us from one another and thusly have led to the near downfall of humanity time and time again; ignorance, cruelty, cowardice, dishonesty, and selfishness. In the ashes of another great war, our city's founders gathered together the ancestors of everyone sitting here today and created our factions, five doctrines and the ability to choose which to live by. We do not have much left from that time, but we must always remember what endures and will continue to endure. Our city has been standing since the time of our founders and before; it is our home, it is the only place in the world that our founders believed to be safe. We know what our predecessors believed, and we know the founders' names. We know what sort of people they were and the system that they laid down for us became the foundation of our lives. Centuries past have led us to improve upon it, but at our roots we all live by the same core principals of those who came before us. Julianna Gilbert founded Candor on the idea that only when dishonesty was eradicated could humanity know peace; today they are our city's trusted judicial branch among many other things, a faction thirty thousand people strong." As the Candor applaud I think of the lies I have told year after year, about this bruise or that cut, the lies of omission I told when I kept Marcus's secrets.

"Ray Brighton believed in dealing with humanity's greatest downfall at the root; hate, aggression, cruelty. His people have become the kind and gentle Amity, now a staple to everyone's survival and the largest of our five factions." I think of the peace of the Amity orchards, the freedom I would find there from violence and cruelty.

"Glynda Seibold believed that conflict could be ended with the eradication of ignorance, that understanding would light the way to the future that her people, that all of us, deserved. Five hundred years later, Erudite is deeply essential to our way of life and unyielding in their pursuit of progress. " Erudite is Abnegation's enemy and the easiest way to cause strife with my leaving. With everything I could learn there, maybe I'd even be able to find a way to bring my father down.

"Miles Arden believed that the root of all strife was selfishness, the callous indifference to the suffering of others in pursuit of one's own benefit." Azalea looks toward the Abnegation section, fixing her black eyes on seemingly all of us at once; her stare makes me shiver, but then she smiles ever so gently and my apprehension dissolves. "They are our city's trusted leaders, and the caretakers of the most vulnerable among us." This is for your own good, that's what my father would always say before his first blow; as if beating me was some sort of sacrifice, as if it hurt him more than it hurt me.

"And the fifth founder believed that cowardice was truly to blame." A few cheers rise up from the Dauntless section. "Kerrian Price believed that the only hope for humanity's survival was to find bravery within the heart of every soul and in doing so they lit a fire that burns brightly almost five hundred years later." She smiles again, looking toward her still cheering faction. "Dauntless has provided this city with protection from threats both outside and in by honing both physical and mental strength than any fear that could strike them." I think of the fear that has been pressing down on me all these years, of the way that my will has been ground to dust under my father's heel until today.

"That is how we came to have the five factions that we know today, that is how we came to know all that we have. Our founders would be proud of all that we have accomplished, the heights that we have flown to. They would be proud to see the unity that we have achieved, for in truth our strength lies not only within ourselves, but within each other. We are five factions, but we are also one city and in our city we find who we truly are." As she finishes her sentence, the hall erupts into applause, the Dauntless the loudest among us.

Azalea smiles graciously and allows the applause to taper off on its own before she continues. "Let us begin this momentous occasion. Each sixteen-year-old will come forward when their name is called, take the knife that is offered to them, and drop their blood into the bowl representing the faction of their choice. Their blood represents a commitment, a promise to the faction they have chosen; the promise to place loyalty to their faction above even their own family, faction before blood."

"Faction before blood," everyone in the room echoes her.

"We will begin with Gregory Zellner."

I watch Gregory Zellner walk to the stage and take the gleaming silver knife from a man built like a giant standing just behind the bowls. I recognize him as Dauntless' representative, Max Donnahough.

Gregory allows his blood to drip into the dirt, announcing his commitment to Amity.

It does seem fitting that pain should follow me from my old life into my new one, the bite of a knife cementing my choice. But even now I do not know what faction I will choose as my haven. Amity is the obvious choice, with its peaceful life and kind people. In Amity I would find the sort of acceptance that I have craved my entire life, the unconditional sort of care that the faction is known for. Maybe over time it could teach me to be at peace with myself.

But as I look at them, in their reds and yellows, I can only see whole, complete people capable of supporting one another. They are too perfect, too kind for someone like me driven by fear and hate, someone who knows only how to fight and survive.

"Dakota Vermillion-Malachite."

Dakota saunters onto the stage and drops her blood in the water, returning to the faction that she came from. I learn easily enough to keep up with the Erudite, but I also know myself well enough to know that it is not somewhere I should be. There are people in Erudite who would sink their claws into me and tear out my heart. As if the people alone weren't a powerful enough deterrent, I know that living that sort of life would only strangle me. I want to be free, not shuffled into yet another prison.

"Helen Rogers," Azalea says.

The ceremony is moving too fast, it's coming too close to being my turn.

Helena chooses Candor.

I have heard enough rumors about Candor to be frightened of it. I have heard whispers of their initiation in school, how they force you to expose your every secret, to dig up every truth inside of you, rip yourself apart with your bare hands. I would have to flay myself alive to be Candor and that's not something that I can do.

"Anne Erasmus."

Anne – whom I never spoke more than a few syllables too – stumbles forward and accepts the knife Max holds out to her with shaking hands. She cuts into her hand and chooses Abnegation, easy for her because she has nothing to run from. She just has a kind, welcoming community to rejoin; and besides, no one in Abnegation has transferred out for years it is the most loyal faction going off of Choosing Ceremony statistics.

"Angela Eaton." I shiver and it takes me as second to recognize that as my name. My father looks back at me with stern eyes. I push out of the chair and stumble going up the steps, my foot catching on the hem of my dress. I take the knife that Max offers me, feeling the cold metal and gripping it tightly as I exhale. Looking to my right I glance at Azalea and she offers me a reassuring smile. Her pupils are all but invisible against her eyes which I swear aren't even brown, they're black as pitch, dark enough that I can almost see my reflection in them.

I think of what my test administrator, Tori, said. You're the one that has to live with your choice. So what choice can I live with? What will keep me alive? Not Erudite or Candor, both of which will eat me alive. Not Abnegation, where I am trying to get away from. Not even Amity, where I am too broken to belong.

The truth is that I want my choice to drive a knife right through my father's heart, to pierce him with as much pain and embarrassment as possible. There is only one choice that can do that.

I look back at him and cut deep into my hand, so deep that it brings tears to my eyes. I blink the tears away and allow the blood to collect in my palm. My back throbs as my shirt rubs against the still raw skin, skin that he tore up day after day, year after year. I look at Azalea again quickly and then open my palm over the coals. I feel as if they are burning inside of me, filling me with smoke and fire. Igniting every nerve with that flame that Azalea spoke of.

I am free.