There was only one mirror in her house. Located behind a sliding panel in the hallway upstairs. The faction she was born into allows her to stand in front of it on the second day of every third month, the day her mother cuts her hair.

Beatrice — soon-to-be just 'Tris' — sat on the stool and her mother had retrieved for the occasion. She stood behind Beatrice with scissors, trimming. The strands falling to the ground in a dull, blond ring. When she finishes, she pulls Beatrice's hair away from her face and twists it into a knot. Beatrice noted how calm her mother looked. How focused she was. Well-practiced in the art of losing herself. Beatrice, one the other hand, couldn't say the same for herself.

Almost accidentally, Beatrice took in her own reflection when her mother wasn't paying attention—not for the sake of vanity, but out of curiosity. A lot can happen to a person’s appearance in three months. In her reflection, she saw a narrow face, wide, round eyes, and a long, thin nose. Just as she had expected, she still look like a little girl. Even though, sometime in the last few months, she had turned sixteen. The other factions celebrate birthdays, but Beatrice's didn’t. It would be self-indulgent.

“There,” Beatrice's mother says when she pins the knot in place. Her eyes catch Beatrice's in the mirror. It is too late to look away, but instead of scolding her daughter, she smiles at their reflection. Beatrice frowned a little. 'Why doesn’t she reprimand me for staring at myself?', the girl thought internally.

“So today is the day,” Her mother says. Only for Beatrice to nod in confirmation. Her mother asked if she was nervous and it took Beatrice a moment to respond. She stared distantly into the eyes of her own reflection for a moment. Today is the day of the aptitude test that will show Beatrice which of the five factions she belongs in. And tomorrow, at the Choosing Ceremony, on that day, she would decide on a faction, decide the rest of her life; decide to stay with my family or abandon them.

“No,” Beatrice answered finally. Looking into the eyes kf her mother’s reflection. As she reminded her that the tests don’t necessarily dictate their choices.

“Right.” Beatrice's mother smiles. Sweeping the clippings of hair off the ground. It was finally time for her daughter to chose her fate, though Beatrice wasn't afraid — a lie — her mother certainly was. But there were other things to concern them for the time being. She kissed Beatrice's my cheek and slides the panel over the mirror. Ushering her daughter off to breakfast.

Beatrice couldn't help but think her mother could be beautiful, in a different world. With such a thin body beneath the gray robe, her high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and the hair that flowed in waves down her shoulders when she let it down at night, she certainly was anything but average. But she must hide that beauty in Abnegation.

On these mornings when her brother makes breakfast, and her father’s hand skims her hair as he reads the newspaper, and my mother hums as she clears the table—It is on these mornings that Beatrice is guiltiest for wanting to leave them.

((Time skip))

Beatrice walks, separate from her brother, toward the Faction History Quarters in her local school, chewing on her lower lip. She had so many unanswered questions. The hallways were cramped, though the light coming through the windows creates the illusion of space; they are one of the only places where the factions mix, at their age. Today the crowd has a new kind of energy, a last day mania.

An Erudite boy in a blue sweater shoved Beatrice and she lost her balance. Her body hitting the ground with a thud as she fell. The boy told her to get “Out of his way” with a complementary “Stiff” at the end. If you considered “Stiff”a derogatory slur a complement. He continued down the hallway. Leaving Beatrice with cheeks burning in flushed embarrassment. She would have pushed herself off the ground, when a boy pushed passed the crowd. Offering a hand. She didn't recognize him.