by Amy Solus
Chapter 3
I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like days. My dreams were plagued with the images of the police and the death that consumed that desolate little town. I was hungry, but whenever I was conscious I couldn’t even move, so there was no use whining about it. Reality and my dreams were mixing together and my perception was becoming skewed. I would think that I was conscious and then I’d start hallucinating and wouldn’t even know if I was alive or dead. To be honest, I was completely lost.
When I finally came to, my head throbbed and my lungs burned. I could finally sit up and open my eyes, but I knew I wouldn’t be capable of escaping anytime soon. Really, I didn’t know if I would be capable of recovering at all. I felt changed, I felt defeated. That little shred of hope that I had always held onto was missing. It was like the poison had crept inside my heart.
I was in a small holding cell that had a bench on the side wall and a bucket of water in the corner. They certainly knew how to treat their guests. The floors were stone, but looked as though they had been torn at by some psychotic inmate. The long gashes appeared to have been brought about by someone’s fingernails. I could even see some dark stains of what looked like blood in the crevices. The walls were also stone, but they were smooth and unscathed.
I dragged myself over to the bucket and looked in. It looked clean, but I really didn’t want to end up drinking someone’s feces. I cupped my hand and brought some water to my lips. It felt cold and refreshing as it rushed into my mouth. And thankfully it just tasted like water.
After getting my fill of water, I dragged myself over to the bench that I guessed was to serve as my bed. I pulled myself onto it and tried to relax a bit. I knew I should be keeping my guard all the way up, but I still felt sick and scared and I really just wanted to be out. I wanted even just a small sense of security. But this wasn't the place to be looking for security.
I wanted to be at home. I longed to see my brother and my parents. I wanted to feel the dew on the grass that would accumulate through the night and I wanted to see the birds land in the bird bath and splash around. I missed all of the little things in life. There had to be more to life than running and hiding. I hoped one day I’d be able to do all those things again.
My eyelids became heavy and I drifted into a light sleep untouched by terror and nightmares for the first time in what must’ve been days. When I awoke again, I was greeted by the shouting of officers and the opening of clunky metal cell doors.
“Everybody up! Get your lazy bones up and out!”
I wasn’t known for being extremely perceptive, but I guessed it was time to go outside.
I attempted to pick myself up, but my legs were too weak. I felt pathetic and stranded, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. I decided I’d just have to stay in. But then I heard someone say something to me.
“Hey, you need to get out of the cell before they come back looking for stragglers.”
The girl who said this must be about ten years older than me, with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked sad, yet understanding. Behind her stood a dark-skinned girl, most likely younger than me, looking concerned. They were both very thin, most likely not possessing a single ounce of muscle in their frail bodies, but for some reason they wanted to help me.
“My legs are completely numb, they shot me with some kind of gas and I can’t walk, just go on without me, I’ll deal with whatever they do to me.”
I couldn’t understand why they would actually care about me. I was nothing to them, just some pathetic girl who couldn’t even stand up on her own.
“No, we’ll help you out, but you’ve got to try and pick yourself up one more time.”
They both came into the cell and helped prop me up. I never thought I would come into contact with people who offered so much kindness in a prison, but I’m not complaining. We walked to the end of the cell block and out the doors that led to the grounds. There was no grass, only dirt, and there were only about 25 other inmates.
In front of the inmates, there were a number of ugly, pig-faced looking guards. There was one in the middle whose uniform was plastered with little medals which probably didn’t mean anything, so I figured he was probably the leader. They all wore “intimidating” expressions on their faces, but the head guard’s expression was different. It was as if he were perusing a pawnshop, being careful not to miss anything that could be of value.
But when the head guard’s eyes came to rest on the three of us and he saw that they were helping me, his eyes turned to liquid fire and I heard him let out a loud grunt. He came over to us and grabbed the arms of the girls, pried them away from me, and threw them to the ground. Without support, I sank to the ground as well.
“Inmates who show characteristics of kindness, caring, or who think of grouping together will be punished. You are the only person in this prison you should care about, although you’re really not all that important either,” bellowed the guard. He walked over to me and gave me the most bone chilling Cheshire grin I had ever seen. This man was sick, and I tried not to look at him.
The two girls who had been helping me stood up and walked over to the line with their heads down. I saw the older one glance at me. I could tell she was ashamed. I felt sorry for her. She was being humiliated for doing the right thing. If only the world still smiled upon those who did things because they were right, rather than because they were easy.
The guards gave some daily announcements that sounded standard for a government prison.
"No communicating with one another."
"Do not attempt escape."
"If you disobey our commands you will be punished."
Blah, blah, blah. I think they must think that we're complete fools. You would think if a person had somehow survived the Slay and had been on the run for years, that they would at least have enough common sense to not do anything stupid. But hey, they probably just said this to drill their message into our heads.
Oh, by the way, “The Slay” is what everyone who’s not a part of the government calls the whole “apocalypse” thing. Some call it the cleansing, some call it the end, others call it the Dark Plague, sometimes the purge, but personally, I enjoy switching it up and calling it whatever I please. You know, in this world, we really need to take advantage of what little freedom we have left and I plan on doing exactly that.
"The world can only be perfect if we sacrifice our liberties for it."
Ha, yeah. More like the world can only be perfect if the entire race is wiped out other than the filthy rich and those who are in cahoots with them. I don't get why they're trying to do that anyway. The rich will become the middle class and this whole cycle will start all over again. People really need to start thinking over their plans of world domination and understand the philosophy of modern society. Maybe they’ll even regret the whole “wiping out humanity” thing.
I think my sarcasm is one of the main reasons I haven't cracked and been sucked into a whirlpool of depression. It may be a sick attempt at humor, but it's the only humor I can muster anymore. I used to love to laugh. Now I can’t even remember the last time I laughed for real.
As I sat on the starved ground, my thoughts drifted from this prison to the past and my old life. It’s all I ever thought about now. I regret so much, and I wish I could go back for just a day to be with the ones I loved, do the things I loved to do, and not waste a single minute of it. Loved? Wait, maybe I mean love. I don’t know, but it’s hard to think I’m still a person; a person who can feel and have opinions, because now all I feel like is a ghost.
Once the guards stopped lecturing us on things we knew they would lecture us on, they dismissed us and left us to our recess. It wasn’t the kind of recess you had back in elementary school. This recess consisted of people standing by themselves and looking at the ground, and one group of noisy inmates laughing at something that probably wasn’t all that funny. Most of the lone ones looked too afraid
to even move. There were about twenty-five of us and all were female.
I felt all eyes turn to me with either looks of disgust or pity. I didn’t approve of either. I looked down, trying to ignore their glances, and noticed they hadn’t taken my shoes off. My black Vans, a pair I had bought when I was 16, were still resting snugly on my feet. I’m glad my feet decided to stop growing once the fabric of the world was torn to threads. I guess there are still some things you have to be grateful for.
But fortunately these were more than just shoes. They were a safe, a locked cabinet, a secret box. They had more than just soles. They held things that may come in handy once I’m ready (and able) to be free of this place. I smiled, and immediately regretted doing so.
“What you smilin’ ‘bout girl? You’re a pit’ful little thing and I honestly don’t think you should be all that happy,” spat an inmate who blended sassy and cruel into her words perfectly. She was tall and thin and quite tan; men probably had fancied her back when she was free. She was nothing but bitter now.
Unfortunately, during the time I lived away from the living, I fell ill with a terrible condition called spacing off. And honestly, this would be one of the greatest examples of my illness causing me trouble.
Once I finally looked up, I saw about five or six of my fellow inmates crowded around me, gawking at me as if I were some parrot-nosed freak. I decided it may not be the best for me to get in a fight, considering my lack of control in my legs, so I just looked down and stopped smiling.
I could tell they weren’t a part of the greeting committee, and I could also tell they weren’t the type of people I usually got along with, so I decided that avoiding them from now on may be the best choice.
The “recess” was only about forty minutes long and I was strangely pleased when they blew the whistle and everyone started walking back into their cells. I attempted to drag myself to my feet and I even got up with a little success. But getting up wasn’t really all that I was worried about. I tried to take a step, but I staggered and fell back to the ground.
I was trying to get back up again when I saw the strawberry blonde girl and the dark-skinned girl. I looked the red-head right in the eye and the expression on her face became determined. She pulled on her companion’s sleeve and led her over to me.
I wasn’t sure if she was coming over to help me or to denounce her earlier ways and say she hated me. Her face was truly difficult to read.
I pulled myself up again and stood in front of her. She was a little shorter and much skinnier than me. She looked like she should be broken, but her eyes said something else. She had kind, understanding eyes, and I could tell immediately she wasn’t about to tell me she hated me.
She paused, probably to think over her choice of words, and finally spoke.
“Unfortunately for the guards here, some of inmates still have morals and hope,” she said gently. “I’m Mara. And this is Taylor. And one thing I’ve learned since I got put in here is that prison doesn’t break everyone, and you don’t look easily broken.” She smiled at me, linked my arm, and helped me along.
It was much easier to navigate with a friend. I didn’t even know if she was my friend, yet she made me feel comfortable, and safe. We walked through the door that led to the cellblock and continued down the hall to our cells, Taylor walking behind us silently. It felt very strange to be touching another person. Considering in the past five years I have had little to no human contact, and now suddenly someone was actually helping me, I was slightly bewildered over this whole situation.
Once we reached my cell, she helped me to sit down on my “bed”, and then they departed. For the first instance in five years, it actually felt strange being alone.
