Unedited. If you see mistakes tell me so I can fix them!
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C H A P T E R T W O
As they drag me away, I can only stare in horror at the scene around me. Bodies litter the street, the drain leading to the main creek running red with blood. At this point, I'm not even sure if I'm screaming—I can't hear a thing. Static buzzes in my ears, so loud it blocks out everything else. I know I should hear screaming—whether it's someone else's or my own—, and I should feel fear. But instead, I hear nothing but static and I'm too numb to feel anything.
Jaylee runs out of the house, voice opening in a soundless scream. It's my name she's saying, but I just can't hear it. A shadow looms above her and I attempt to warn her, but I'm too late. In the midst of her screams, hands grab her from behind shoving her to the ground in a violent tackle. Still, her eyes never leave mine, and the tears shining in them almost break through the haze of numbness that I feel. I can only watch helplessly, digging my heels into the dirt road in an attempt to get away, as one of the soldiers slaps her across the face. The red mark on her cheek appears immediately, violent and angry in its shade.
Staring around me, at all the bloodshed, I can't stop the anger growing until it threatens to boil over in a fit of rage. All this bloodshed—and for what? A few more servants for the capital? Just another scare tactic? Death surrounds me, bodies dropping by the second. As tears start to fall, I can only imagine the grieving in the aftermath of the morning. There will be hundreds of bodies to bury, all murdered for useless reasons.
Kaylee's face echoes in my mind, the visions painful enough to hurt. Tomorrow, Kaylee will wake up and mum's body will still be there, lying in the middle of the house. They'll have to bury her; essentially burying both of us. I'm gone, never to return again, unless it's in a body bag, damaged and broken. If that doesn't happen, Kaylin Renoz will disappear forever.
Movement flashes by and I watch, almost in slow motion, as a toddler, no more than three falls at my feet. I don't hear the gun fire, but I see the bullet hit, before the girls falls at my feet, hand reaching out to grab my leg. I'm too shocked to shake it off, the hand chilling me to the bone. Blood pools at my feet, staining the worn shoes on my feet. Lifeless eyes stare up at me and I shrink back in horror. Panic sets in; breathing suddenly becoming a difficult task.
A foot kicks out, jarring the slack hand off my leg. It falls limply to the ground. The hands around me grapple, before they grip my arms like a vice. I'm helpless as they drag me away, wishing I knew if I was still screaming. Jaylee stares at me, from where she's tackled on the ground, tears falling. Her mouth moves soundlessly, repeating the same words over and over: I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you too, I mouth back, trying to see through the tears blinding me—wishing I could say more. Tell her to say strong for dad. To honour mum. To forget about me and worry about her own life. But most of all I want to tell her to live while she still has the chance to be free.
*
When they finally stop marching me through the streets, I'm forced onto a set of steps. Wincing, I want to tell them to stop pushing. But I keep quiet, knowing nothing will stop them. They don't care that I may have a broken ankle, from being shoved into a ditch in the ground. The tears don't faze them, nor do the screams.
I force myself to concentrate, the edge of the steps harsh and unremorseful. My eyes widen at the sight in front of me. From the outside, it's huge, pristine and most extravagant than anything I've ever seen in my life. A soldier jet. The only time we ever see them is when they fly over us. At those times there's no time to gawk at the jets. You're too busy worrying why they're there—to drop bombs? Send down a firing squad? In the first few months of the take over both had happened twice. Now they aren't so frequent, yet the fear still remains.
The wings are easily twice the size of me, thick and strong. Fear shoots through me before I can stop it. The whole thing looks too heavy, too strong; how does it fly? Surely, it'll crash. Maybe, though, that's the plan. Stage a crash to kill us all before we even get sold. Considering the lack of knowledge, on what happens once you're taken, it's probable.
The fear must jar my body in place, because I'm shoved forward with rough hands. My legs collapse from under me, as pain explodes in my ankle. My cry is something I hear loud and clear. I'm not even sure if it's because of my ankle or the unforgiving ground crashing into me. The static is gone, gunshots and screams filling the space. I shut my eyes, willing them away. Jaylee's voice breaks through all the noise, my name hoarse and pained. Fresh tears fall.
Blissfully, the doors close and all that's left is silence. Balancing my weight on my arms, I try to push myself up. A foot in the middle of back stops me, pressing into my spine. Letting myself collapse, I resist curling into a ball and sobbing, like I want to do. Instead, I stay down, peeking off to the side. The interior is just as extravagant as the outside, three compartments from what I can see, though a large screen door blocks my view of the other two. The front compartment has seats lining the sides, a large table in the middle. Other than that it's bare . . .
Except the people sitting on the seats, eyes wide and fearful. I stare at them, recognising only a few of the other's chosen. Refusing to let the guilt sink in too deep, my eyes cut to Aril, a boy who'd given me food a few times when I'd been starving. The last time I saw him he'd been working with the town butchers, just ten years old. Now, seven years on, he's almost unrecognisable. His once short blonde hair, is now past his shoulders, almost brown. He's bulkier, the muscle of his arms clearly defined. I can't say I'm surprised. Generally, hard labour builds up bulk and Aril is no different.
Aril seems to sense my eyes on him, his own looking over. Blank, that's all I can describe it as. He looks emotionless. Sympathy shines in his eyes as he stares at me and I have to look away uncomfortably.
Avoiding his eyes, I stare at Cyril, one of the many kid's I've grown up with. I can't say I'm happy to see him either. The last time we'd met, it hadn't been much of a meeting. In his struggles, he'd concerned me into an alley, before beating me until I'd given him all the food I'd been holding. It hadn't been much, but it had taken me a month to save up for. Looking at him, I see that he hadn't changed at all. He's still scowling darkly, completely ignoring everyone in the room. He's scrawny compared to Aril, blonde hair wispy and thin.
Brianne is the next person I see, someone I've only ever seen in passing. She's one of the better off, living in the wealthier part of town. Her house doesn't have a caved in roof, nor does it have smashed windows. She doesn't struggle to find food on a daily basis. It surprises me that she'd even here. Generally, they avoid choosing the wealthier, picking the poor. Her eyes cut to mine, hand reaching out to fluff her blonde hair. Despite the fact that she'd now just waiting to be sold, she seems to not care.
Finally my eyes cut to the last of the ten people that I know. Freezing, I wish I can look away. But it's too late. He's seen me. Aaron glares at me, arms crossed over his chest. He's the same, only older than before. Dark black hair, short and falling over his left eye; bright blue eyes. He's bulkier than what I remember, but, then again, the last time I'd seen him we'd been young, and fighting for survival hadn't been a hands on experience then.
Glaring at him, I ignore the pain in my ankle. He's the last person I want to see, though I can hardly say I'm surprised. Though school, I've heard whispers that he'd joined a street gang for food. Staring at his scarred knuckles, I realise they're not rumours. He looks hardened, devoid of any emotion. As a child, he'd been sweet, innocent even. Now, he's far from that.
Forcing my eyes away, I scan the other six people sitting on the seats, ramrod straight, eyes wide and fearful. There's three girls I've never seen before, all completely different. One is blonder than the sun, tiny in the large white seat. She's pale, almost to the extent of looking like snow. Every second, her eyes flick around the jet, before they return to her lap. In the moments I see her eyes, I fall into them, enchanted by their hue. Bright green, the colour of the forest. The colour takes nothing away from the fact that she's terrified, still crying loudly.
The girl sitting next to her is a brunette with long hair. She's bigger than most people I've ever seen and I glance at her accusingly. While the rest of us starve for food, she's clearly eating more than regularly. She's hunched over in her seat, arms wrapped around her knees as they're pulled up to her chest. Her eyes catch mine, and she openly stares at me. I can't help but get the feeling that I recognise her from somewhere. But I can't pinpoint why. Before I can stare any longer, she looks away, breaking our connection.
The last girl, has short, cropped hair. She appears haunted, though lacking any fear. Gripping her knuckles tightly, she refuses to look up. I still see the tears shining on her cheeks. I can practically smell her fear. Her arms are red and raw from the scratches on her arms. They're fresh marks. As I watch her, she continues to dig her nails into her knuckles.
The last three boys look too young to be seventeen, still in their awkward stage. They sit next to each other, all still. They look eerily familiar and it takes me a minute to realise they're triplets. All with shoulder length hair and icy blue eyes. One stands taller than the rest, clearly the protective one out of the three. He seems to sense eyes on him, because he looks over at me. The look in his eyes is fierce and terrifying. I glance away uncomfortable.
What's surprising is that none of them stare at me, completely ignoring me. They're all too absorbed in their own sadness. There's eleven of us, I think. For no reason at all. The triplets don't look like they're fighting on the streets, too scrawny to get away with it. Staring at the rest of them—and not letting my gaze linger for too long—, I give up on trying figure out why we've been chosen.
"Up! All of you!" A cheery voice yells, feminine and high pitched.
Hands grab me roughly, and I keep my cry as silent as I can. The foot jams into my back, before moving off of me. I don't fight the hands that pull me up, forcing me onto my feet. My ankle almost buckles from underneath me and that's when I know it's broken. Staring at the uniformed soldiers around me, my heart sinks to my stomach. They won't help. They don't care.
When a gun fires, echoing in the compartment, like the ring of an exploding bomb. Several screams echo in my eyes, one of them from me. With wide eyes, I look around. No one's bleeding out from what I can see, but I don't let myself breathe easy. Outside of the plane, I know that people are still being mercilessly gunned down, families dwindling by the second.
"Up! The next time I shoot it'll be in one of your heads!" The voice belongs to rough, deep, angry voice, from the side of the plane.
All at once there's movement around me, people rushing to stand. The tears continue to fall, and I'm no exception. Fighting the pain in my ankle, I refuse to let myself collapse. The soldier isn't bluffing and if I'm going to die, I don't want Jaylee to see my body getting thrown out of the jet.
"Ah good, you're up! I don't want blood on the plane—the cleaners have a hard enough time as it is." The woman's voice breaks off into a loud, boisterous laugh, full of glee at our expense.
I stare at her, attempting to hide my anger. The tears haven't tampered off, but it isn't the only emotion I can feel right now. She stands in the centre of the compartment, a shimmering gold dress, hugging her body tightly. The shoes on her feet aren't flat, instead they have a large heel on them. Her face has layers of make-up over it, hair pinned to her head. Unwanted jealousy flares before I can help it—mixing with the anger. While we starve on a daily basis, she has a wealth of dresses to choose from and fancy heels.
The woman's laugh tampers off, a frown appearing on her face. It makes her seem look like a clown, lips too big for her face. I can only assume they've been surgically changed, something I've only ever heard off. "Oh, you're such bores! Laugh a little, would you? Today, your life is changing forever!"
No, today we're going to be sold like livestock. Our lives are ending today, not changing. We don't exist anymore. I don't correct her but I want to. The privileged understand nothing but themselves.
She continues to frown, finally sighing loudly as if our scared silence is tiring. "Oh fine!" she cries, throwing her hands in the air. "I guess I'll have to explain everything, since you all refuse to even smile. Okay, so I'm sure you all know the tales of the great Commander. It is a tale of great bravery and reliance. The Commander is our saviour, restoring peace once again. I won't bore you with the tale but know that you're far greater than you know. We've rescued you from your miserable lives and in time you will all be thankful."
The air is suddenly thick with tension. A bullet could slice through it and it wouldn't break. The others in the room are feeling and thinking the same thing I am: we haven't been rescued and nothing about this merits thankfulness. The Commander hadn't saved us from anything. He's the reason we have thousands of bodies buried in the flower field. The reason by morning there will be hundreds more joining them.
None of us are brave enough to say any of this though.
The woman waves her hand in a flurry of excitement, twirling the end of her hair. She looks healthy and radiant, polar opposites of us. We're all gaunt and malnourished. "Your sacrifice is inspiring. By volunteering yourselves you're saving yourself from war—saving your families. Without your sacrifice, destruction would surround us. Blood would permeate the air."
My ears ring loudly, fists clenching in an attempt to fight my anger.
Outside, there's bloodshed and families are being hunted by the minute. It will only continue until morning. There is no sacrifice. If the Commander wanted a war, he'd win. He's already won the war. This is the aftermath of his victory.
"Margery, if you'll get it ready," the woman says to someone behind her before looking back at us. My blood chills at the words. Whatever it is, it's not a good thing. "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. You may call me Miss Prestige or ma'am. Anything else and you won't like the consequences. Ari, is warming the iron for your brand."
The room seems to freeze, and my fear skyrockets. A hot iron brand, into my skin. My ankle almost collapses as I step back, watching the exit of the plane. Surely, there's an exit. Somewhere there has to be one. I try to stop the tears from falling but my attempts are futile. Fight or flight had kicked in and I'm choosing flight.
Miss Prestige claps her hands together loudly. "Which one of you will be first? Any one volunteering?"
No one steps forward. No one even moves. We're all frozen. Once the brand is on, we disappear forever. Kaylin Renoz will no longer exist. It makes the tears fall faster. An hour ago, I'd been eating chocolate cake for the first in my life. Now I'm standing in the middle of a jet, about to lose myself forever.
Miss Prestige sighs loudly. "Fine. It's not that hard. But, if you want to be difficult I guess I'll have to choose one of you to go first. If it makes you feel better, Ari is one of you. Don't speak to her because she won't respond. I had her tongue cut out for disrespecting me. I cannot do it to you, but once you're sold it's at your master's discretion."
The way she says it—as if she's proud of it—makes me sick to my stomach. That may be me, left with no identity and no way to communicate.
I shut my eyes, blocking everything out. There's a scream and a struggle soon ensues. It's not me that's been chosen. The thought doesn't comfort me in the slightest; if anything it makes it worse. Wrapping my arms around myself, I attempt to keep my emotions together.
In no time, there's screams coming from another part of the jet, so ear-piercing it burns. They continue on. And on. And on.
It seems never ending and it only escalates my fear levels.
*
By the time, hands grab me, I'm too tired to fight. There's no way to avoid it. Shutting my eyes, I pretend that it'll block everything out.
It doesn't.
I'm forced into a cold, metal seat, my arms and legs strapped down. My blood runs cold, but I don't open my eyes.
The burn on the inside of my wrist doesn't hurt for a few minutes. Then it starts to burn, scorching hot. I scream so loud it echoes in my ears, over and over until I don't know what's real and what's inside my head. The pain seems to last forever, my skin on fire, heart racing dangerously. Tears fall from my eyes, burning hot.
I can tell when the brand leaves my wrist but physically there's no difference. It still burns. I'm still on fire. Jaylee's face in my mind is the only thing that keeps me from passing out. White spots blur my vision but I refuse to let them win. They've branded me, stripped me of my identity. They won't get the satisfaction of knowing how bad it burns—like a roar in my ears.
I barely feel anything, but when I'm thrown onto a concrete floor, my ankle twists and I scream soundlessly, voice hoarse and dry.
Blinking my eyes open, I hold my wrist up, forcing myself to look at it. The skin is red and blistered, raw and angry. A barcode is branded onto the inside of my wrist. Under the barcode is numbers. 2309.
Only then, staring at my new identity, nothing but a worthless number, do I cry. Pulling my knees to my chest, I curl on the floor, allowing myself to break down. The pain has all faded into one constant burn and I just want it to end. But I know it won't. This is my life now. Nothing but a number. The sobs are just as painful as my raw wrist and broken ankle.