“I won’t be leaving you alone with any other Bs,” Warden says. “You are not a B, and you are not permitted to touch any of them in a sexual way. We can’t have outside people contaminating the gene pool. So get your job done, and we will be going.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the brute says. I open my eyes to glare at him through my tears, but he has already turned his back.
He walks over to the metal dish, thrusts the branding iron into the centre of it and waits. More pale vapour streams from it, and eventually, the branding man steps away with the rod in hand. As he approaches, I notice the bronze rod has remained a steely grey colour and is dripping moisture, perhaps condensation.
My mind reels.
Hot branding requires a red-hot prodder! The stupid man is just going to singe me and have to do it all over again. I have seen hot branding done many times before, on cows and horses, and I know how excruciating it will be—especially with a rod that isn’t at optimum temperature. I would prefer to be branded a thousand times over than be strapped to a table and left alone with this twisted barbarian of a man. For some reason, I am not frightened of the branding iron, just confused by the unskillfulness of the brander. The fear of being violated is much worse than physical pain.
Warden has no sympathy for this part of the procedure. As a female, she’s probably had fears about being violated, but when I flinch away from the branding iron, Warden shows no repentance.
The aftershock from the man’s forceful advance is still pumping so much adrenalin into my blood that I hardly feel the branding iron press into my right upper arm. It’s so freezing cold that my skin numbs instantly, and I feel just a prickle of discomfort. I’m momentarily startled that I’m not screaming in agony. I look at the thing pressed to my flesh, smoking and hissing, and then at Warden for explanation.
“Freeze branding,” she says simply. “Much less painful than hot branding.”
So the dish is filled with liquid nitrogen? The rod is not hot and going to burn my flesh and scald me—it is chilled cold and going to scar me: freeze away the pigment of my skin. My whole body relaxes and only in the last few seconds of contact does the freezing iron actually begin to sting and by the time I jerk away, the process is over and Warden is unstrapping me from the table quickly and handing me my parka. I look at my shoulder and almost faint at the sight of the B brand, which has turned white and looks as though the maimed skin will just dribble away like putty in a mould. I don’t dare touch it, but as I watch, the white colour turns an angry red and the skin swells up. I feel the skin tissue boil and bubble itself away as my nerves realise the damage. Real, searing pain surges over my arm, and I grit my teeth. Now I have a constant reminder of my group. Now anyone who sees me will know what I was forced to do for the government’s sake.
Warden tells the branding man to fetch a bottle on a table in the corner. He does as he’s told and hands Warden a bottle of brown liquid. Warden sprays my morbid new mutilation with the liquid, which must be iodine. The burning sensation lessens a little, but not much.
Once she’s done medicating my wound, I yank my parka back on and cringe at the pain as the fabric touches my burnt arm and my mutilated back. When she leads me out and up the hallway, I follow her like a lost puppy, not daring to look behind.
My body is completely robbed of energy. The absence of strength and life has left a hollow, quivering husk behind. The handcuffs jangle against my wrists. As my body’s natural pain killers dissolve into my blood for good, I feel immense pain everywhere; my face, my back, my shoulder, and even my head throb as psychedelic colours dance past my eyes. The hallway swirls around me like an angry ocean, and I feel myself sway violently and almost fall. I’m about to faint from the pain and exhaustion when Warden comes to a stop in front of the last door at the end of the blinding white corridor. I stop just in time. Black sweeps over me for just a moment, but then I regain consciousness and widen my stance to stay upright.
“Alright, Freya,” Warden says. “This room is the common room. All of your bedrooms join to the common room. Your room number is three. There is a courtyard out the back where you can exercise, relax, or read, but I warn you to do your job. Seiger has told you what it is. If you don’t do your job, we have other ways of getting people impregnated, and I don’t think you want a repeat of what could have happened with our lovely brander. Besides, the percentage of success of impregnation increases if it happens naturally and when you are comfortable. Stress isn’t good for women who are trying to get pregnant.”
“Right,” I say, and although I intended it to sound sarcastic, no mocking tone sharpens my words. My voice sounds tiny and shaky. Just how I feel.
As weak as I may become, I have no intention whatsoever of doing what these people tell me to. So long as there aren’t those who will force their will upon me beyond this door, like the huge, revolting brander, I won’t be doing what this facility intends. Warden opens the door, unlocks my handcuffs, and pushes me inside ruthlessly. The door slams closed behind me, and I hear it click locked. I stumble forward into the room, only just managing to collect my feet and legs beneath me. I take a deep breath and slowly stand upright, unsure what to expect.
Dozens of eyes settle on me standing in the doorway as I struggle for consciousness. There are about a dozen people in the enormous room, all of them now staring at me over the tops of books or looking up from a plate of food in front of them. Of course, they have a reason to stare. Perhaps if I hadn’t been whipped to oblivion and sexually assaulted in the last half an hour, I wouldn’t be so interesting to look at. But a near unconscious, blood-stained young girl certainly catches peoples’ attention. I discern no face in particular but perhaps that is because I am struggling to stay conscious.
I lean against the door, slumping a bit, taking deep breaths that feel void of oxygen. After a few moments, my vision focuses again, and I slowly look up. I don’t smile. I don’t say hello. I’m not really even looking at them. Instead, I take in the prison to which I’ve been led.
The entire right wall of the flashy, modern styled room is made of windows and beams of natural sunlight fall into the room. The windows reveal a beautiful courtyard outside with lush green grass like I’ve seen on golf courses. The walls of the room are painted a dark, dull colour. Opposite to where I stand, there is a long white marble counter with two dozen iron chairs pushed against it to suffice as a dining table. Behind the counter is a clean white and black kitchen, with a few top cupboards, a sink, and a massive stainless steel fridge that is at least three metres wide and looks like some sort of machine from an old sci-fi movie.
Between the kitchen and where I stand are three absurdly long black leather sofas in the centre of the room. They are pushed together at the edges so they create a three-sided square shape, and the seats are turned inwards so those lounging are forced to face one another. Most of the people in the room are sitting there, and I note that there are a lot of women, and very few men. Perched between the three lounges is a metal bookshelf that stretches right up to the high roof like a chimney and it has the obscure shape of a DNA strand. The luxurious wooden floor boarding is polished so much I can almost see my sickly reflection in it. There are multiple doors leading from the common room, all marked with a bronze number like that on a letterbox. I count from one to fourteen and there are four doors labelled bathroom.
Talk about luxurious! Although the room is quite large, apart from the kitchen, lounge chairs, and bookshelf, it is almost completely empty. It looks like some sort of high-tech bachelor pad. There is so much space you could fit one hundred people in here comfortably. I suppose they want to make rape as comfy as possible.
I laugh bitterly, feeling very self-conscious, and walk straight towards the room labelled with a bronze number 3. Everyone is silent, watching, as if a tiger is walking through the common room. I open room three, step inside, and close the door. I think I can hear the blood pounding in my brain. Hopefully I’ve got internal bleeding and will be dead b
y morning. But then I realise the sound isn’t my blood streaming into my brain, it’s the people in the common room. They’ve all burst out into conversation that is muffled by the door. I know they are talking about me.
I lean against the door and breathe out heavily. The people didn’t look vicious, they just looked normal, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I didn’t expect this facility to be so accommodating. I figured Warden would want people breeding immediately. I thought I might just be thrown in a bedroom with a man and be expected to reproduce with him instantly. Not that it makes a difference whether it occurs now or later. Either way, I am given no choice to the act itself.
There are two single beds in the small room, both sporting deep green doonas and white sheets and pillows. A pile of clothes and a towel sits at the end of both. A square window in the roof gives a glimpse of blue sky and a few leaves of an overhanging tree. There are no drawers or cupboards. Nothing except these two beds.
And then I see her; a child sitting on the bed to the left.
16.
I start when my eyes settle on her, half expecting the youngster to spring at me and attack like everyone else in this wretched place does. Realising she is just as alarmed as I am, I stare and wonder what on earth she is doing in this compound. She is probably twelve years old and has a soft, childish face with shoulder length fawn coloured hair. Tan freckles are scattered all over her face. She is staring at me with a frightened expression her blue eyes wide.
“Who’re you?” she asks, cringing. She takes hold of the bed covers like she might dive under them for protection.
I remember that I am still covered in blood and must look particularly menacing to a little girl. I stay by the door so I don’t scare her. “I’m Freya. Who are you?”
“Isobelle,” she says. “Are you my new roommate?”
“I guess so,” I say solemnly.
I sit on the opposite bed and try to lie down but accidentally hit my freeze-burnt arm. Wincing, I glance over to the girl, who is still looking at me curiously, and see she has a B brand on her shoulder too. It looks like it is scabbing over and has healed somewhat. Mine isn’t bleeding but the skin is raw, red, and stings like thousands of miniscule insects are biting it. I wonder how long all of these people have been in the B compound if their brands are already healing. Had Whil and I been thrown into the arena because we didn’t show enough aggression at the rally? Were some of these people handpicked by the government and placed in this facility weeks ago?
“Why’re you all bloodied up?” Isobelle asks quickly.
“I got whipped.”
Her face registers nothing but understanding. “Oh. What’cha do wrong?”
“I bit Warden.”
Isobelle grins, and I decide I like her. “I bit her when I first got ‘ere too. There’s a bathroom in the room next to us if you wanna have a shower. Don’t worry, the door locks, and the people here ain’t so bad. They’re all a bit old but they’re okay. Even the boys are pretty nice considerin’ why they’re ‘ere. The staff make us good meals and you get to do whatever you want and—”
“Whoa there!” I say, holding my hands up in a gesture for her to stop. She must speak with a thick Australian accent for me to notice it. “Slow down. Why don’t I ask you a question?”
“Okay,” she says with a smile.
“Why are you here?”
The young girl cocks her head and a wistful smile creeps onto her lips. “For the same reason you are.”
My mouth drops open. “W-what?” I stammer.
Isobelle grows uncomfortable under my confounded gaze and begins playing with her fingers. “Yeah, I’m the youngest ‘ere, but they still eventually want me to… you know.”
“That… That’s just sick,” I spit.
Forcing me to come here was one thing. Forcing a little girl who quite possibly doesn’t even know how reproduction occurs, who might not even have the knowledge to understand just how wrong this whole situation, is another. It’s so vile that all I can do is shake my head and swallow back the slimy saliva in my mouth, which always comes right before I throw up.
“Have you… had to do it yet?” I ask her.
“No. We’ve all only been ‘ere for a coupla weeks. Warden is a bit nicer to me compared to the other girls. She also don’t expect me to do anythin’ just yet. I ain’t old enough, but she wants me brought up with the Bs so I get used to it.”
“W-what did you do at your rally to be here?”
“I tried to runaway… and I attacked the men guardin’ the doorway to the hall we were in.”
“Has Warden said how long we have to live here before we have to,” I pause, unsure how to continue, “Choose a partner?” I finish.
Isobelle looks at me with intrigue. “I don’t think it’s about choosin’ a partner. There are only three boys in this facility. We’re expected to mate with one of ‘em soon. Warden said pregnancy tests will get done eventually and there are security cameras in the boy’s rooms, the common room, and the bathrooms to see if people are doin’ what they should.”
“How can you talk about it so casually?” I gape. “It makes me want to throw up.”
Isobelle shrugs. “We gotta do it, and I been here long enough now that it’s become a pretty normal thing to hear and talk ‘bout.”
“You won’t have to do it,” I tell Isobelle firmly, looking in her blue eyes. “I won’t let that happen to you.”
She smiles as if she knows I’m lying. In reality, what can I do if Warden takes Isobelle and one of the men away from here? I can fight and try to protect her, but eventually I will just be darted or whipped again. Plus, I still want to escape, and I want to get Whil out with me! I can’t be concerned about my fellow inmates if I’m just going to end up leaving them anyway.
I wonder, if given the chance to escape, whether I would stay to try to find my way to Whil or leave without hesitation. Would I try to rescue this twelve-year-old girl from a horrendous fate? By nature, humans feel for one another and despair when another human is in sorrow. Yet, when it comes down to saving ourselves or another person, I admit, we are very selfish creatures.
“I’ll have a shower,” I tell Isobelle, picking up the towel folded at the end of my bed, as well as the pile of clean clothes. I don’t want to continue on this train of thought.
She nods, and I leave the room, clutching my towel and clothes to my chest as I step into the common room. Not everyone looks at me this time, but I’m glad to slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Just like the rest of the building, the bathroom is pristine white with just a few black fleur-de-lis feature tiles. There is a large bathtub, more like the size of a spa, at the back with a frosted window above it. Vertical bars run across the glass pane. The shower is absurdly large as well. It could easily fit all of the people in the common room behind its glass screening.
Warden would probably like that, I think. She probably wants all of us crammed in there together. I turn towards the basin and recoil when I see the deathly reflection in it. There is a girl standing in the mirror, but she looks more like a demon or a well-fed vampire. Hard, cracked blood covers her face, caking her skin and making parts of her blonde hair maroon coloured and crusty. Clutching my heart, I stare at myself for a long, long time, hardly able to breathe. This is a vision from a nightmare.
Desperate to get rid of the blood, I turn the shower tap labelled hot and am surprised when the water actually begins to run warm. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hot shower and heaven knows I could use one now. Stripping off my soiled clothes, I step under the stream and my nerve endings scream with agony as the hot water trickles into the lacerations on my back, face, and arms. The brand area stings but it is nothing compared to the searing pain where the whip broke skin countless time. There are a few face cloths hanging on a shelf in the shower, and I have to grab one and bite it to stop myself from screaming. I stand there, cringing, watching the water at my feet run red.
After a
minute, the pain subsides into a throbbing and I find the strength to scrub my face free of the blood and grime and then work on the rest of my body. As I wipe the cloth over my skin, paler flesh is exposed beneath the gilding coating of dirt stains. Hopefully, whoever owns this face washer is done with it. It is stained crimson and brown already.
I’m in too much pain to enjoy the feeling of my oily hair rinsing clean and the sensation of a week’s worth of grime on my skin washing away. Whil and I had been bathing in the dam at my aunt and uncle’s, but it wasn’t clean. The water was always a yellow colour and murky. How I wish I were back bathing in the grimy dam in solitude at twilight.
I turn off the water, get out, and catch sight of my clean reflection in the wall mirror, which is slowly fogging up with steam. Now, a pale-faced girl stares back at me, her dark blonde hair hanging in soggy drapes past her shoulders. The wounds etched into her face like carvings are red and swollen, though no longer bleeding. There is one on the bridge of her nose, so deep it would almost touch the cartilage. There is another gash on her forehead, and another on her cheek, which is the deepest and foulest looking. Her face isn’t full and radiant like it once was. It’s taut and her expression looks miserable; perhaps how prisoners feel after years of living in a cage—defeated.
I remember looking in the mirror in the farmhouse lounge room less than a month ago and seeing the tanned girl staring back at me with bright brown eyes, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her lips stretched into a smile. I hardly recognise this thin ghostly looking thing I’m looking at now.
I look into my reflection’s eyes, and I still see that spark; a spark that swirls with life and fire. Something in me lives on. The constant yearning I have developed for freedom will never leave me now.
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