THE DOZEN

TAG DAY.

Whatever that was. She hadn't the slightest clue.

She could only imagine the monotony the subjects endured daily, but they knew what to expect every morning. They had schedules in place. And she was just dressed in her church attire, doe eyes fearful and anxious.

The thought escaped her when she entered the expansive room and struggled to take in the sight before her: numerous doctors, twelve chairs, and eleven subjects all receiving tattoos. What troubled her wasn't the fact that she was soon to be tattooed, but that all the subjects were motionless in their chairs. Not even a hint of pain or... anything in their dazed eyes. It was saddening, seeing how lethargic and stoic they all were, then it was frightening as she realized that was her fate.

The guard lingering behind her gave a small push to her back and that was when she realized that she had fully stopped in the doorway. "Sorry," she mumbled faintly, looking over her shoulder at the guard - or rather just the helmet that covered his entire head. A reflective, black visor covered the majority of the helmet, and it was then that she could see just how scared she seemed: eyes wide with anxiety, lips swollen from being bitten far too many times to count.

"Move." The guard's voice was extremely monotonous and flat, almost to the point where it sounded computerized, but Eight decided not to think anything of it. It was chilling and that was all that mattered to her. She took a few small steps forward, without any knowledge of where exactly to go, but as if the guard could somehow tell she was confused, he spoke up, "The last chair on the right."

With a deep breath, Eight began walking to her designated chair. Just as she hesitantly sat down, a woman in a white lab coat pulled a chair up beside her and began to prepare tools laid on the table next to them. "What are we doing?" the teenager asked in a faint voice, almost unheard beneath all the mechanical humming.

"It's Tag Day," the woman flatly answered, with a sigh like it was the last thing she wanted to do. Just her tone made Eight feel bad for even opening her mouth. "You're Eight," the woman continued, grabbing the teen by the shoulder and forcibly moving her back in the seat. Eight opened her mouth to reply, but it closed with a second thought. If she spoke, she'd just earn another exasperated sigh. I'm not eight, I'm seventeen, she wished she could say. The woman recognized her apprehensiveness and flatly assured the young woman, "We're tagging you, hence the term Tag Day. Thought that was pretty self-explanatory, but I guess not."

She immediately drew in a sharp breath when she felt something cold on her arm. Her eyes swiftly darted down to see the woman wiping her arm and just as soon as Eight began watching, the woman pulled out a syringe and held it just above Eight's arm. Eight's eyes widened, her racing heart pounding in her chest. "What is th–" Eight's hurried question was cut off by her own shuddering breath as the needle was stabbed into her arm.

"Nothing," the woman answered after Eight had caught her breath. "Just something to ease the pain." Eight thought it was rather ironic since it failed to ease that pain, but she decided not to speak her mind. "Just relax... You'll be okay." The woman's voice was calm, soothing; a complete contradiction to her earlier tone, but that didn't make Eight feel any better. If anything, the sudden mood change worried her even more.

But then she felt nothing. Not even her own heart beating in her chest. She just felt tired, exhausted, which was odd considering she had an entire cup of coffee before her father brought her to the facility. She slowly exhaled, watching as the doctor readied the tattoo gun. She expected the thought of getting a tattoo, something that would last forever, to worry her, but she felt completely relaxed.