Unedited.
Like my other story, this is not going so stop. I just didn't update for a while.
There is no non concensual scenes throughout this. Sexual abuse may come up as a theme briefly but nothing graphic.
If you're waiting for it, it's not going to happen.
Anyway, enjoy! (and sorry)
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C H A P T E R F I V E
When the cell door slams open, the note from Margery is still weighing heavily on my mind. I don't know how long I've been here, lying down sideways on the cold, hard, unforgiving concrete, just staring at the wall. Though, I've been just staring into darkness the whole time.
In that time, I've been able to reflect on a lot of things. Deafening silence has been my own ally in that time and it's been the loneliest I've felt since they'd killed my mum and taken me to be sold to someone.
The tears I've cried stain my cheeks. They're for too many things to count. The overwhelming, agonising pain in my ankle. The loss of losing my family. The anger at the General for just being in power.
Not even the note from Margery can get rid of the deep ache in my chest. Nor the fact that the ring isn't lost. Wherever room A98 is, I'm not going to stop searching for it until I've found it. Until I've found the ring again.
Of course, there's the niggling voice in the back of my head that it could all be a trap. But I've been ignoring it. So far they've shot my mother, branded a number on the inside of my wrist and shaved my hair. If it is a trap it pales in comparison to what they've already done.
The ring is more important the any threats they can give. If I'm going to escape from here, I'll need more than the clothes off my back to survive. Someone will pay thousands, millions even to buy it off me. With that money, I can get away from them and never get caught again.
"Up!" a voice barks.
Blearily I turn my head to the sound of the voice. There's still an absence of light, aside from what's coming from outside the door. But it's dim due to the body blocking it.
The man standing in the doorway is a hulking figure, arms the size of my head, and at least twice my size. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail behind his head, dark, empty eyes glowering at me. His face is rough, dark and haggard, a long scar going from the tip of his right cheek to his chin. He wears the same uniform of the other soldiers, his gun pointed at me.
"Up!" he barks again.
The reprieve is over then. With a small sigh, I sit upright, aware of his eyes on me. Weakness isn't something they can see, so awkwardly I stand, balancing on my good foot.
Wordlessly, he turns and marches out, barking, "Follow!"
I have no choice but to follow him and I hobble along. At each step the pain in my ankle is jarring and it sends spikes of pain shooting up my legs. The walk to the cell door seems to take hours but I know it's a matter of minutes.
Standing in the door frame, I blink rapidly to ward off the harsh light. The soldier stands just outside the cell frame, eyebrows drawn low in agitation. "Can I have some food?" I whisper. I haven't eaten since the slice of chocolate cake. I'm used to the hunger pains but it's worth a shot asking.
Usurpingly, he grunts, laughing darkly. "You think I'm going to give my feed to you? You're worthless."
The insult doesn't hurt nearly as much as the jarring pain of my ankle. In lieu of a response I just hobble along behind him as he marches forward.
"Hurry it up. I need to get you to the auctioneer before your lot is over."
This is the point I've imagined in my mind the whole time in the cell: finally being sold to the highest bidder.
And the heart stopping fear is a thousand times worse that I could have ever imagined.
*
I lose track of the amount of turns we take. Everything looks the same.
All I know is that when the soldier finally opens one last door and I see real light from outside, my ankle is burning, and claustrophobia is starting to sit in. I breathe in the outside air gratefully, tears of relief stinging my eyes. The cold air wraps around me and with no protection from it, I shiver.
Off in the distance, I can hear the sound of a man yelling but the words are disorientated and blurred. Numbers are shouted out and loud clapping ensues along with shouts of victory.
None of it is comforting to hear.
"Where's the next one?" a voice snaps, close to my right side.
A hand shoves my shoulder and I stumble out of the doorway, falling onto the concrete. My hands catch my fall and I twist my head around to look at everything. The area is barren, a closed off shed with tin walls and no roof. In the small space there's nothing but a hose and another elderly bald male with a protruding stomach and an overgrown beard.
The man stares at me, his gaze disinterested yet leery. "This her?" he grunts, deep voice flat.
"Yes. She's the next one."
The man sighs. "How many left?" His voice is weary and tired.
The soldier walks over to the man, kicking my shin as he goes. I wince but stay quiet, hoping they'll just forget I'm here. "Don't know. Too many."
The bald men laughs, his stomach jumping in the too tight suit he's wearing. "Got that right." Then the laughter dies, and he sighs again. When he speaks again, his voice is an angry bark, akin to the rabid barks of the dogs I used to hear in the streets at night when sleeping. "Number."
When I just stare at him, saying nothing, he grinds his jaw in anger. The booted foot that kicks me in the stomach, leaves me breathless. I breathe through my nose, fighting the pain.
"He asked your name," the soldier snaps, punctuating the action with another kick to the stomach.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The kick this time is aimed at my shin. The same leg as my broken ankle. The pain is like a shower of bullets.
"Fico, do not bruise them before they're sold," comes the elderly man's voice. "No one pays money for the broken ones."
The soldier just grunts noncommittally, though he steps away.
The elderly man sighs. "Now, girl, what's your number?" His voice is harsh, like a blade being sharpened. "Push me, and I won't stop him next time."
For a second, I'm too distracted by the pain for the words to sink in. But when they do, I feel numb. Wordlessly I flip up my wrist.
"I can't see," he snaps.
The last thing I want is more pain. So, weakly, I read out the number on my wrist. "2309."
His eyes widen, before the mask of aloofness and indifference returns. This time, though, there's something malicious in the way the corner of his lip curls. "2309," he murmurs, voice carrying something I can't identity. "I heard about you. Good luck out there."
The words aren't comforting. They're also the last thing I want to hear. To escape I need to become just another Gift and not stand out. So, I say nothing in response, standing up when he says too.
He stares at me for a while, eyes careful distant. Then he raises an eyebrow. "Any problems I should know?"
"Broken ankle," the soldier—Fico—grunts. "Don't know about health problems. Don't care either."
So they noticed. And made me walk on it, knowing it was broken.
"We'll have to hide that," the man says. He pins me under his dark gaze, and I refuse to shrink away, though it's my immediate instinct. "No limping. Your ankle isn't broken."
I don't respond, just stare somewhere far off. The voices are still loud off in the distance. Absently, I notice a space in the tin walls, the size of a door. I can only assume it leads somewhere. Wherever it is, I don't want to find out.
"That's as good as she's going to get. Send her through."
As if on cue, there's a shout of victory and a loud, booming voice, yells, "And sold to Lieutenant Winchester!"
I blink owlishly, heart racing. Then next person to be sold is me. And I don't have time to prepare for it.
"And you're up." The elderly man laughs. He then leans down, speaking into some sort of decide, the worst clipped. "2309 heading your way. Female. Uninjured."
It turns out that I was right about the gap in the wall.
It leads to a concrete path, surrounded on both sides by dense, green foliage, much like the forest from home. The walk is short and I'm conscious of the gun pointing at me from behind. There's a limp in my step but I can't help it.
The closer we get, the louder the shouts get. There's yells from random voices, some male and some female—and obscene amounts of money being yelled out. More money than I'll ever see in my life.
As a set of stairs comes into view, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don't show weakness. Don't let them see your fear.
I repeat the words like a mantra, over and over until my hands aren't shaking and I can draw in a breath that's not shaking with fear.
Jaylee. You're doing this for Jaylee.
"And now we have 2309!" The voice booms, boisterous and overzealous.
I hesitate, revolting at the idea of stepping onto the stage. I'm not a number and I have a name.
But, now, that doesn't matter. At least not to them.
Because the tattoo on my wrist says otherwise.
And I don't have a choice. They've already shot someone for revolting against orders. They won't hesitate to do it again.
So, I walk up the steps. Internally, the pain that spikes up my legs from my ankle is shattering and I want to curl in a ball and sob. But, I hide any pain I feel. It has nothing to do with the elderly man's orders to hide the injury, but everything to do with self-preservation. They're like the pack of wolves I used to hear, ready to prey on the first sign of weakness they hear.
At the top of steps, I still can't see anything. Which means they still can't see me. In the few seconds I have as a reprieve, I take a deep breath. Escaping is the endgame and for that to happen I need to be smart. They want to buy someone meek and subservient so that's what I have to be. So, I duck my head and walk forward, heart racing.
"And here she is now!"
The first step out into the open feels like something heavy crushing me, threatening to swallow me whole. Taking everything all in is impossible. There's a stage. An auctioneer—a short, bald man, in a bright blue suit. A crowd of thousands of people. Bright wigs. Expensive jewellery. Obscenely large hats. Expensive things I'll never get the chance to own.
Other than the people, auctioneer and stage, everything is a blur.
The minute I step into view, there's silence. It only lasts for a second. Whispers soon follow.
There's nothing to hide behind. No longer do I have hair to cover my face. My clothes are tattered, flimsy and holy barely offering any protection. I feel naked under their gazes and my skin prickles in discomfort.
"Move."
Fico's voice is sharp as a whip, yet quiet as a mouse. Beyond the stage, it's not even perceptible.
For a second, I can't move; I'm physically incapable of it, jarred by fear. But then I force myself to walk.
In the centre of the stage there's a square, the only part of the stage that isn't black. I walk to that square, keeping my head down. There's a part of me that wants to look up and see the people that decide it's moral to buy another person. But that part of me is sparse and hard to find, overridden by fear.
It will only be detrimental anyway.
Blue Suit voice rings out, just as lively. "And let's start the bidding, at shall we say, a hundred?"
After that it's chaotic. Numbers are called out. Incredulousness runs deep as they call out the number carelessly, as if throwing away the money they are means nothing to them. They don't seem to realise they're talking about money. The thing that puts food on the table. Pays for your clothes.
But, then again, to them the money they're throwing around is worthless. They can just get more of it when they're done. They don't have to worry about becoming malnourished and being so thin your bones stick out. They don't have to worry about hunger pains, or giving up your only food of the day so someone else can eat.
They don't know anything but greed.
None of their children are taken away and sold. They don't come home from a day of hard labour to find the body of their child lying carelessly in the middle of the road because they were killed by the General.
As the numbers get higher, so does my anger.
"Ahundred thousand! Going once . . . going twice . . . and sold to Sergeant Holmes!"