Foresight

Foresight: Getting #87

"We have ourselves a Kunta Kinte!" An armed man joked, grabbing a bat that leaned against the wall next to him.

Of course I was afraid, but fear couldn't take away my dignity no more than these men could take away my name.

"Little girl, don't make this harder for yourself." The examiner demanded, tapping her pen on the fairly empty paper. "Now, what is your name?"

I don't answer. I've said Awiti more than enough times for these people to know.

The examiner tilts her head towards me again, giving the man permission to do his job.

"No please!" I scream before the bat rams into my side, knocking me over. Another barrage of attacks all over my body follow the initial hit. My skin was ripped and bruised everywhere except my head.

"You're doing nothing but entertaining Bat-man over there sweetie. Once you accept that you are number 87, no further damage will be done to your body." The examiner informed. She crossed her legs and placed the pen onto the top of her clip board before bringing it to her chest, knowing that I probably wasn't gonna let up any time soon.

What feels like hours later I know that I am either near death or fainting. When someone says anything I just repeat, "Awiti" and proceed to be beaten.

I'd rather die with my dignity, than be a slave to my abductors: which is actually my plan.

I hear a door open behind me, footsteps, and an angry voice.

"What's the hold up? We have twenty more kids outside! You don't know how to get a 15 year old to say a number? How long have you had her in here anyway?" A man interrogated ferociously.

The next words came from the examiners voice, "It's been six hours. . ." She shamefully admitted.

There was a pause before the man spoke again, "Great!" He exclaimed. This new tone of voice, a happy voice, brought me out of my near death state. "I'll make sure she knows her name later, go on to 88."

My body moved and I sat up. I didn't try to sit up, I was gonna lay here and die but my body was forcefully taken up.

It took a little longer for me to process what was going on. The man who came in was grabbing my arm, no, dragging me towards him.

"She'd do perfect. I thought we'd need someone a little older, but if she can survive Andrew here then she's probably fit to-" He began, looking down at me before yanking me harder and bringing me into a large and white hall way.

I couldn't stand up on my own. I couldn't even protest for my release because I was near fainting again.

I think I fainted actually. I remember being exposed to bright lights that seemed to pulsate and hearing people speak but not being able to understand them. Like they were talking underwater.

I gained enough consciousness to understand what was going on again. I didn't have on shoes or my bloody clothes anymore. I was instead dressed similarly to a hospital patient. I'm on a long wide bed inside of a small room with a mirror, a sink, and a metal plate. Everything is next to me, I only need to turn my head a little to see.

The mirror shows me me: Dark-skin. An Afro that's matted since I lied on it, and an array of bruises trailing my skin.

It was awful, seeing myself like this. I couldn't help but cry at the sight.

I go to wipe my face, but my hands are restricted. I lift my head up to look at my body. There are thick black straps around my wrist and ankles. The sight and vulnerable feeling that being constrained gives me only makes me cry harder.

I don't want to be here. . . I want to be off somewhere playing with barbies and playing dress up with my mom. I want to be failing at cooking and forcing my friends to taste it.

I wanna be anywhere that's not here. . .

I hear a knock at the door before a man who looks like a doctor enters.

"How respectful." I blurt, at least these people have the decency to knock.

He ignores my comment and proceeds forward, allowing two women in behind him, carrying trays. "87. Designated plasma and medication is on the assessment sheets."

He proceeds to say a few long words and I have no Idea what they mean. The women are taking needles out of plastic bags and sticking them into tiny bottles, filling them up, and placing them on the once empty metal tray.

I am absolutely afraid of needles. When the tray full of them rolls closer to my bedside I jump, my range of motion stunted by the straps.

"No!" I scream, pulling on the straps  that hold my body, hoping that if I back up enough I could escape the needles. I know that as soon as a needle touched my skin i'd have to be still so I won't injure myself.

These women were quick though. A needle makes its way into my arm and a weird stinging sensation starts in my arm and travels where ever the surrounding blood goes.

"87." A lady calls. "We want the tests to reflect its effects on a fully functional person, so we're gonna heal your wounds and then begin the test." She says it like it's rehearsed and it's creepy.

I don't get to think about what's happening though, because after a while of laying down and staring at a blank ceiling, i'm off to sleep.