Grey

by Kayley Barratt

  “Take a seat.”

  He gestures to the wooden chair in front of me and I gently slide into it, folding my arms over my lap as I glare at the light that seeps through the one, high window in the corner that reaches to the roof. The window is decorated with Biblical images, like the ones that I know too well from Church.

  “Do you know what this place is?” he says as he stares at me, I see him through my peripheral vision, he waits for me to meet his eyes, but I glance down at my fingers instead.

  “Is this a convent?” I say quietly.

  “No. It is an academy. Convents are for those that already hear the word of God.”

  “And the members here… don’t?” I say, flicking my eyes up hastily.

  He nods. “Parents bring their children here to correct them. To better them. However, we do have members that join voluntarily. Over time, many of them have been promoted to leaders, and they pass on their knowledge and authority.”

  I clench my teeth at the word correct. It angers me that he views us as incorrect, as damaged or wrong. We should be able to embrace who we are as individuals, as unique and bright humans from all walks of life, but that concept doesn’t apply to people like me, who were born into this way of life. It’s as though we’re not worthy of thinking for ourselves, or believing that we can be different—we have to all be the same, we have to all be obedient.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask.

  “I have been running the academy for twenty years, I took over from my father and my son will take over from me.”

  There’s something awfully odd about Duncan. He’s too calm, too keen to answer my questions. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s being polite. But his eyes tell me a different story, there’s a darkness there, although, I can’t quite work out how bad that darkness is. I’m doing it again, the ‘reading’ thing that Nathan always criticises me for. I can’t help it, it’s just a gut instinct of mine.

  “Rest assured, Elizabeth,” he says, noticing my uncertainty. “You are safe here. I suppose, you’ve never known safety in your life, have you?”

  I shrug.

  “I can grant you freedom from the life you have come from. From the pain that your parents have inflicted. I can unite you with peace. Even if you are not committed with the faith, even if you do not feel as though you belong, one day, you will find where you belong.”

  “How do you know about that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “They didn’t even say goodbye,” he says, a cluster of pity laughter shrieks from his lips. “They didn’t even look at you when they left you here. They didn’t even give you a second thought. You are better with them out of your life. Parental abuse is very common here in many members, I take notice of it. Here, you will make friends, you will learn different types of survival skills, you will get stronger, able to take control when you are returned to the outside. Don’t you want to take control?”

  I hang my head, giving a gentle nod.

  “Then give it a chance,” he says, and then his hand falls onto a piece of paper and I watch as he slides it across the desk. “You’ll have a home. A new start. We’ll be able to accommodate you when you leave, we’ll give you money to start over, even get you a job through connections. All we ask is that you play nicely and do some work for us during your time here. Cleaning jobs, harvesting, things like that. Every job you complete will earn you more money for when you leave.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I say. “Even though my parents were the ones that forced me to come here, probably like other children that are here, your solution is to set us up so we never have to go back to them?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Even though they’re the ones that sent us here?”

  “I understand it’s not exactly ideal,” he says. “Most of the victims don’t wish to involve authorities into their ordeals. Just because we know about it, doesn’t mean we can do anything about it. What we’re doing here is for you, so you can still have a life. It’s for your own safety that we keep your parents on board and after, if you wish to pursue a prosecution, then that’d be your own choice.”

  I bite on my lip, slightly laughing at the thought. “So, it’s a safe house.”

  “It’s been called that, but mostly, it’s just a religious academy with a wide range of possibilities and people that are dedicated to helping you.”

  “It’s a safe house conveniently for mistreated people from religious backgrounds?” I continue, ignoring his speech. “How many Christians and Catholics mistreat their children? Because it sure seems like a lot.”

  “It’s not just for mistreated children, Elizabeth,” he says. “As I said before, many members join voluntarily because they want to be here. If your parents hurt you, it has nothing to do with religion. We believe in forgiveness, kindness and we very much respect the will of God. You can be free from whatever hold they have over you, all it takes, is one signature.”

  Duncan smiles at me, warmly and sweetly, as he holds out a pen in his palm for me to reach over and take. I glance down at the contract he pushed across his desk, my eyes scanning over every single word in less than twenty seconds. Every word is perfect. And then, I reach the small print.

  The member must remain inside the grounds of the academy and is not permitted to leave under any circumstances, regarding length of time, not stated.

  “Do you think you know me, Duncan?” I say with a sudden smirk. “Because of a few truths that my parents have filled you in on?”

  “Pastor,” he says through his teeth.

  I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. "Allow me to fill you in. I’m good at reading people, fantastic at it, actually. Yes, my life has been hell and I was subjected to years of torture, but I’m smarter than I look, and I’m more sceptical than most teenagers. This contract is rigged, if there’s no length of time stated then you can keep me here for my entire life. And how do I know that you won’t? So, I’m sorry to say, but you’ve just wasted minutes of your breath sprouting lies because I’m not signing anything.

  Duncan remains expressionless, he leans back into his chair and begins tapping his fingers against the handle as he observes me, properly, for the first time. “I underestimated you,” he says, his voice flows along with the rhythm of his fingertips. “It won’t happen again. You will sign, one day, be sure about that.”

  “What is this place really?” I demand. “The women out there, they’re mechanical. They’re miserable. You’re not helping them, you’re exploiting them.”

  “How many psychology books did you swallow?” he asks.

  “Enough,” I say. “You can’t just altar someone’s personality because you want them to fall into your congregation. It doesn’t work that way. Do you manipulate them all into signing their lives away? Or is it rare to find a girl that can see through it?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, taking large breaths as he evaluates me, again. “I’m impressed. The sin inside of you is much stronger than I anticipated. You see, Elizabeth, it doesn’t matter whether or not you sign the contract. The contract is merely insurance. By the time it will ever be needed, you won’t even be in the right mind to refuse. You are still a member here, as of now and you won’t be leaving for a very long time. So, I suggest, you open your mind to your new surroundings and gain comfort from knowing that you will be healed from the damage inside of you that you may view as personality.”

  “Personality is free will,” I say. “To take away free will, you are going against the Bible.”

  “How so?”

  “And that they may recover themselves out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will, Timothy, chapter two, verse twenty-six.”

  He gasps, widening his eyes with amusement. “Right you are. However, that passage is not interpreted by a human’s free will. But the damnation of being taken by the devil against one’s will.”

  “That’s not a justification,” I say
. “Whether it be the devil or otherwise, taking a person captive is—”

  “That’s enough now,” he says, he pushes his chair back angrily and begins pacing himself around his desk. “Madam Katelyn is waiting outside to take you to your dorm. She is your supervisor and will report to me regarding any disturbances. Whatever you may think of me, please be assured, I am only trying to help you.”

  I rise from my chair, looking him straight in the eye. “I believe you and that’s what worries me.”

  “You may go now,” he says angrily through clenched teeth. I might not had ever been able to provoke a reaction out of my parents, but I’ve definitely got under his skin. “God be with you.”

  I turn away from him, feeling a wave of pride wash over me. I know I took that too far, I know I crossed over limits in which I will probably regret, but it felt so good. It felt good to finally stand up for myself, to finally have a voice, to be able to actually put my knowledge of the Bible to some use that can tear apart this foundation of pretence. And I will continue to do so, for as long as I am here.

  I feel his frosty eyes on me as I open the door, glaring at me with frustration and loathe. I’m used to that, I’m used to being disliked and treated as an inconvenience. Only this time, it’s giving me courage rather than conviction.

  I step out of his office, pacing myself back into the chapel that is still deserted, except now, there is a woman standing before the front row of seats. She turns to me and I get the first look at her face. She looks the same age as my mother and her back is slightly bent as she stands. She wears the same black and white gown that the leaders of the lines of women wore, and her white hair is covered by a large, black bandanna.

  “Are you Madam Katelyn?” I ask.

  She nods. “Follow me, quickly. We have much to go through in little time.”

  Before I can respond, she is half-limping through the pathway between the seats and I’m wondering what exactly quickly means to her.

  “Where are you taking me?” I say.

  “First, you will change,” she says, staring forwards. “And then, you will be put to work.”

  “Work? What kind of work?”

  “Allow me to phrase it more bluntly,” she says. “You work for us. And you will complete the job that you are given to our standards, and afterwards, if you’re lucky, you might still be able to walk.”

  “And if I’m not lucky?”

  She doesn’t respond to that, but I see the corners of her lips curve into a delighted smile. Whatever ‘work’ she has in store for me, I get the eerie feeling it’s not going to be cleaning bathrooms.

  Chapter 11

  I stand just slightly back from Madam Katelyn as I don’t want to give the impression that I’m annoyed at her pace. She leads me across the quiet compound, her eyes point ahead, sharp and ready—unlike the women that are around me. Most of the lines have vanished now, only a couple remain, as they tread their feet simultaneously behind their supervisors.

  “Where are all the men?” I say.

  I know this isn’t an all-women’s academy, I remember the website advertising it for both genders.

  “Women and men are separated,” she says. “The men’s camp is at the other side of the academy.”

  “The other side?” I mumble, trying to see past the many small buildings to catch a glimpse of further into this prison.

  It must be much bigger than I thought.

  “The women and men are separated into groups,” she explains. “Your group is C.”

  “The groups are letters?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Ranked by what?”

  I watch as she grins to herself and she looks over her shoulder to meet my eyes before replying. “By behaviour.”

  “So, my group, C,” I say. “The women aren’t compliant?”

  “Well, are you compliant?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  “But the women in my group won’t all be new, will they?” I say. “So, even the ones that have been here who knows how long are still resistant.”

  “That brain of yours is going to be my bane,” she says through clenched teeth. “The women in your group are compliant to a degree, but they are not ready to be promoted to B.”

  “So, there’s only three groups?”

  “No,” she says. “There are four.”

  I think about that, scratching my chin as I consider it. If I am to be in group C, a group that fits me well, considering I just insulted Duncan to a dangerous degree, then what could be worse than that?

  “So, who is in group D?” I ask.

  “Pray you never meet them,” she says.

  That’s all she’s going to give me on the subject, so I remain silent, letting it go as I follow her into an isolated, pebbled cabin with a dusty, grey door. The inside of the cabin is plain as can be—the walls are black, the floor is just a long strip of concrete and it smells of damp crust, making my nostrils flare.

  “This is your living quarters,” she says. “The entire group C sleep here. However, you will share a dorm with seven other members. I am the supervisor of your dorm.”

  “But not the group,” I say.

  “No, there are five of us.”

  I do the math instantly. “So, if there are eight per dorm that makes forty members.”

  “Fifty-five,” she says, giving me a side-ways smirk of amusement. “We make adjustments when members are downgraded or upgraded.”

  “And how many are in group D?”

  She doesn’t answer that, angering me on purpose. She opens a door at the end of the long path, it creaks open—unleashing a dark, padded room that hosts exactly eight beds. Four against one wall and four opposite. The beds are single, low and only have a thin piece of quilt that is spread over each bed perfectly with a flattened pillow at the top. I glance my eyes across the walls, searching for a window, but there isn’t one. It’s a box room and the only light that is visible, comes from three lit lanterns that are nailed to the walls.

  Just like home, I think to myself. Although, at least at home I had electricity, this is like a chamber from the middle ages.

  “Beds must be made every morning to my standard,” she says as she opens a drawer beside the furthest bed on the right. It’s the closest bed to the door, but farthest from the lanterns. “If it is not made to my standard, you will redo it until it is.”

  I mentally make a note of all the beds at this moment in time so I’ll remember how to make it to her ‘standard’ in the morning.

  “This one is yours,” she continues, pointing her eyes to the bed she is stood at. She holds a neatly folded uniform in her arms and walks over to me. “These are your clothes. You will find extras in your drawers. Each night, you are to deliver them to the laundry room, and those on duty will have them cleaned and put back in your drawers the next day. You will eat once a day, at breakfast and you are required to tie your hair back.”

  She throws the uniform into my stomach and I clench my teeth as I take them from her grasp. I begin to unfold them, rubbing my fingers idly along the soft cotton.

  “Get changed,” she says. “You have two minutes.”

  “And after?”

  She just smiles at me, darkly and scarily.

  “Right,” I whisper, turning away from her with a frown. “Work.”

  Chapter 12

  I place my old clothes onto the bed, unsure what else to do with them. I’m certain someone will come and remove them at some point before I return, they’ll most likely be burned. I wipe a hand down the front of my grey sweater, leading down to the thigh of my grey sweatpants. This outfit is actually rather comfortable, it’s the type of clothes I’ve always wanted to wear at home, I’d even sleep in them—I imagine they’d be extra comfortable to sleep in.

  My two minutes is suddenly up. Madam Katelyn stands in the doorway, narrowing her eyes as she observes my alacrity.

  “Comfortable, are you?” she sa
ys.

  A smile lights up my face. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  She snorts, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling as she spins around.

  “You’re going to be a fun one,” I mumble under my breath.

  I jog to catch up to her and then I slow my pace as I realise that really doesn’t take much. The woman walks as though someone is twisting a screw driver into her spine. I’m not sure if it’s a medical condition or if something happened to her to cause her to walk that way, but she limps so frailly like she’s in unbearable pain.

  “Where are the rest of my group?” I ask her as I exit through the dull door and rake in the fresh, cool air.

  “Your introduction is over,” she says. “You’re not permitted to speak anymore.”

  I scowl at the back of her head, rolling my tongue across the front of my teeth as I fight to remain silent. Does she mean I’m not permitted to speak now? Or ever? There’s many more questions I want to ask, there’s so much more information my brain yearns for. Such as, where can we get water from? When is the time period in which we’re allowed to write a letter home?

  My thoughts drift slowly to Nathan. I’ve been trying not to think about him because the reminder of him, of everything we were, will distract me from remaining focused. I can’t lose myself to sadness, I can’t lose myself to the light sting in my heart—I have to stay strong. And if I linger too long on the image of his face, I might just break down. I haven’t come that close yet, it takes a lot to reduce me to tears, the last time I cried, properly cried, is after my parents water boarded me.

  That was the moment I was reborn. That was the moment I was forced to appreciate the strength I never knew I had. I found what I needed to keep me going, I discovered a part of me that had always been suppressed by their manipulation.

  I know how to easily access it now. I know how to easily access courage now. And I’d like to think that my time here will only make it magnify.