365 Days Alone

by Nancy Isaak

  “So worth it,” rasped Cherry, smiling.

  Jude pulled back, surprised. “Sorry, Dude…like no offence—but you didn’t even get your licks in.”

  “Wasn’t about that.” Cherry opened her left hand, revealing a slightly bloody piece of paper. “It was about this,” she grinned. “Mail call.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I gasped. “Is that from Peyton?”

  Cherry nodded. “Her delivery system is somewhat flawed—and a little painful—but we take what we can get, right?”

  “Read it,” ordered Jude.

  “Actually, I’m seeing two of everything right now.” Cherry handed the note to Jude. “So, you’re going to have to read it.”

  A sudden look of trepidation appeared on Jude’s face—dyslexia rearing its head, no doubt.

  “Throw it over here,” I said, quickly. “Light’s better on my side. I’ll read it.”

  Jude gave me a look of gratitude and quickly tossed over the note.

  I took a moment to read it, then looked up at my friends, surprised. “It’s not from Peyton,” I divulged—astonished. “It’s from Jay!”

  * * * *

  There were only twenty-nine words on the note. I know, because I counted every single one of them.

  And then I ate the paper.

  Both Jude and Cherry looked disgusted, but I didn’t care. There was no way that I was taking the chance that one of the Foxes would find the note on us.

  It would be dangerous for Jay; it would be dangerous for us.

  Because of what the note said:

  Belinda’s birthday is on the 29th. They will kill her before then.

  You will be blamed.

  Escape if you can. If not, be prepared.

  I love you all.

  Jay

  A KANGAROO COURT

  Sadly, we never did manage to escape.

  Instead, they came for us on September 30th.

  There were nine 11th and 12th graders, including Alice, Orla, and Tray.

  —and Peyton.

  * * * *

  Ironically, the first thing I noticed as they marched us over to the high school was how the weather was cooling down. There was a slight breeze and it wafted among us, ruffling the pillowslips on our heads and tickling our senses with the slight scent of jasmine and the possibility of rain.

  I could hear other girls around us—murmuring as we passed. Their words were harsh and unkind and, once or twice, I could swear that we were being spit upon.

  * * * *

  During the last days of our basement-captivity, Jude, Cherry, and I had talked incessantly of escape. Plans had been made and discarded—honed and adapted—until finally just one plan had been left.

  When they unlocked our handcuffs to release us from the pipes, we were going to jump them.

  But Orla—as always—had been smarter than us.

  Before we had been uncuffed, the Protection Detail had put loops of rope around our necks and drawn them tight. The loops had then been attached to sticks that kept us at arms-length.

  Each of us had two loops around our necks, both threatening to strangle us. We were accompanied by two girls from the Detail, one on either side—using sticks to pull us in opposite directions.

  I had a vague memory of seeing a picture of this ‘immobilizing technique’ in history class—a hostage being controlled by terrorists.

  Guess Orla really did pay attention during class.

  * * * *

  When they finally did take off our pillowslips, Cherry, Jude, and I found ourselves seated on one side of the Performing Arts Center stage. In the middle, was the Tribunal—Orla, Tray, and Peyton.

  Meanwhile, standing around the orchestra pit, facing the audience, were the 11th and 12th graders of the Protection Detail. They all had their weapons out and were holding them in their crossed arms.

  * * * *

  If we were hoping for any solidarity from the girls in the audience—we were to be disappointed. The faces that looked back at us were angry and mean. Many of the girls were downright hostile, as they yelled vicious things at the three of us.

  We said nothing back, however—because we had no choice.

  Cherry, Jude, and I were gagged.

  * * * *

  After a few minutes, Orla rose from her seat and walked to the front of the stage. Immediately the girls in the audience went quiet—waiting.

  As Orla began to speak, I searched the audience for Jay and Lily.

  They weren’t there.

  “I have come to realize that the hardest thing for any leader,” began Orla, “must be the lengths that she must go to protect her Community. I would give my life for Agoura Hills—and for you girls, I love you all so much.”

  Her voice broke with emotion.

  Some of the girls in the audience applauded; others called out in support.

  Orla pointed toward us. “At the beginning of this month—September—it was discovered that Jude Engel, Cherry Winslette, and Kaylee Michelson had stolen three crates of canned turkey, fourteen cans of tomato soup, and twenty-eight cartons of Oreo cookies from our Community.”

  (Boos from the girls. Someone yelled out ‘bitches’.)

  “The Council and I—at the time of the theft—decided that the Community would be better served if we didn’t bring these girls to Tribunal. For the good of everyone, because of all the drama we have been through in the last few months, we believed it more expedient to simply expel and banish them from our Community.

  Which we did.

  Jude Engel, Cherry Winslette, and Kaylee Michelson were left at the corner of Reyes Adobe Road and Thousand Oaks Boulevard. There, they were instructed to head anywhere, except back here, to Agoura Hills. And—as we members of the Council wanted to be compassionate—we filled their backpacks with enough food and water for three days. Plus, we gave them knives, so that they would be able to protect themselves.”

  Behind her, Tray rose and came forward. She handed Orla a large, black plastic bag. From its outline, there was obviously something long and oddly-shaped inside. When I looked at Jude and Cherry in confusion, they both shrugged.

  “I cannot tell you ladies how sorry the Council and I feel right now,” Orla continued. “How we wish that we had made a different decision back at the beginning of this month. In our effort to be compassionate, we have failed both you as individuals and this Community as a whole. Now, we—I—ask humbly and honestly for your forgiveness.”

  Immediately, the 11th and 12th graders around the orchestra pit began to clap. A moment later, the girls in the audience followed suit. Orla let the applause flow for a bit, then lifted her hands for silence once more.

  “Thank you,” she said—looking as if she was struggling not to cry. “Your support means everything to me.”

  Orla then walked across the stage, carrying the plastic bag. She stopped directly behind our chairs. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck and it sent shivers of dread down my spine.

  “Last night,” Orla proclaimed—her voice rising in volume and excitement, “Jude Engel, Cherry Winslette, and Kaylee Michelson—starving and apparently unable to survive on their own—re-entered our Community and murdered one of our girls!”

  The audience cried out in dismay. Shocked, I turned and looked up at Orla. She didn’t even acknowledge me. Instead, she continued talking, her voice rising in anger.

  “These three girls—whom the Council so mistakenly had given mercy to, used knives to stab and butcher—and ultimately—murder Belinda McIlroy while she so innocently slept in her bed last night!”

  With a flourish, Orla opened the plastic bag she was carrying and threw its contents flying over our heads to fall on the stage in front of us.

  Looking down, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—a partial human arm, bloody and torn!

  All around us there were screams and gasps. Girls broke into tears or angry muttering. A few threw up.

  “These three girls—starving and without conscience,”
Orla practically screamed, “they killed Belinda McIlroy and then.........they ate her!!”

  The audience of girls erupted with cries of hate and vengeance. Orla moved to the front of the stage and held up her hands. The tumult slowly died down, but the angry faces remained.

  Orla began to speak again—loudly and clearly.

  “It is hereby the sentence of this Community’s Tribunal that Jude Engel, Cherry Winslette, and Kaylee Michelson—for the crimes of theft, murder, and cannibalism—be executed. And, as befitting their horrendous crimes—their sentence shall be carried out on Halloween…October 31st.”

  And the girls in the audience cheered.

  OCTOBER

  CAGED

  It was miserable in the cage.

  If we weren’t baking in the noonday sun, we were huddled together for warmth as dusk fled toward a cold autumn night. On the days it rained, the ground beneath us softened into a mud that sucked and leeched away at our feet—a curious and squishy sensation of heat and ice—ironically, both at the same time.

  The Protection Detail had at least removed our handcuffs and pillowslips, so we were able to move freely about our new prison. We walked constantly, to maintain warmth and to relieve boredom—a slow plod—ten feet along each cage wall, with four right turns. Reverse direction—ten feet along each cage wall, now four left turns.

  Outside the cage, there were two girls from the Protection Detail guarding us at all times—one never more than a few yards away. They carried guns and whips and, frankly, looked as bored as we actually were.

  Over the days, we attempted to strike up a conversation with them—but they rarely answered us.

  Mostly—they just watched.

  And listened.

  * * * *

  Our ‘bathroom’ was a bucket, set into one corner of the cage.

  It was humiliating and degrading, having to do our ‘business’ in public. There was always—at least—one person watching. During the day, it wasn’t unusual for girls from the Community to sit in the stands—eating their lunches just like we did once upon a time—except that, instead of football players and cheerleaders, we were now their entertainment.

  To our watchers’ twittering amusement, Jude was entirely capable of relieving herself in front of them. Both Cherry and I, however, waited until the dark of the evening. For us, using a truly ‘public toilet’ was both uncomfortable and dehumanizing.

  Of course—that was the whole point.

  * * * *

  Ironically, the one good thing about being caged in public, was that Orla felt obliged to let us clean ourselves. Twice a day, a bucket of water and a bar of soap was placed inside our cage.

  We began to take great pleasure in the simple act of washing.

  No matter that our bare feet might have been muddy and black with filth; our bodies practically tingled from intense scrubbing and our hair smelled of generous applications of Ivory soap.

  Later, in the afternoon, we’d often sit and braid each other’s hair—well, Jude’s and mine—trying out new styles amidst the childish giggles and vicious taunts from the girls in the stands all around us.

  * * * *

  Like Cherry and Jude, I treasured the one toothbrush I was allowed. It wasn’t electric like my toothbrush from the old world, nor did it have pretty flowers on it like the one I used at Jude’s house. This toothbrush was simply green.

  But it was my green toothbrush…and it made me feel human.

  Jude’s feelings about her toothbrush differed slightly from mine, however. Hers was used to rub—not so much as across her teeth—but across the base of the metal bars.

  She was secretly sharpening the handle into a point.

  Because it was never about dental care with Jude; she was too busy making her toothbrush into a shiv.

  (That’s a ‘homemade prison knife’—in case you didn’t know.)

  * * * *

  Meals tended to be a variety of soups and stews, all catered by Sophia.

  Most times, she arrived at the football field, carrying our food on a large tray. On occasion, though, Reena would accompany her. Then, the two of them would supplement our meal with bible verses and pleas for repentance.

  For the most part, we simply ignored them.

  But, every once in a while, it just became too much for Cherry.

  Sophia’s betrayal was still a very raw, very sore point for her.

  * * * *

  “So, I guess there’s no chance that you’d actually tell the truth about what’s really going on here to the other girls?” asked Cherry. “Or maybe even to your pretty apostle, Reena?”

  Sophia’s back was rigid as she pretended not to listen.

  She and Reena were bent over their food tray, spooning vegetable ziti into bowls. Meanwhile, Cherry, Jude, and I were all sitting against the far side of the cage, as we had been instructed by the armed guard who was standing just outside.

  “Jesus would want you to tell the truth,” cautioned Jude. “Just saying.”

  This made Sophia pause—frowning.

  “Oh, and almost forgot,” added Cherry. “Someone was here this morning, looking for you.”

  Sophia finally looked up. “Who was it?” she asked, curious.

  Cherry shrugged. “Not sure…but he said that his name was Judas, and that he wanted his thirty pieces of silver back.”

  Reena gasped in horror.

  Sophia just looked angry. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” she quoted, her lips pursed and thin.

  “Then I guess you’re real lucky that the bible didn’t say ‘traitorous bitch’ or you’d be in here with us, hey Soph.” Pleased with herself, Cherry held up a hand in Reena’s direction, grinning. “High-five, Apostle…don’t leave me hanging!”

  If anything, Reena shrank back even farther.

  “No worries” said Cherry, making a fist. “We’ll pound it extra hard at Sunday church service in a couple of days. Oh, wait—that’s right—one of the benefits of our new accommodation…we don’t have to attend your dumb-ass coming-to-Jesus anymore!”

  Her eyes narrowing, Sophia leaned over and spat in a bowl of ziti. Then—with a mean smile—she pushed it in Cherry’s direction.

  Jude, however, reached out a hand and grabbed the bowl first. “Extra protein! Thanks, Sophia. That’s just so very Christian of you,” she chuckled. And taking a big bite, Jude chewed away happily—all the while, staring at Sophia—her mouth open, food particles flying everywhere.

  Sophia was absolutely disgusted.

  Within moments, she was gone—hurrying away across the field—Reena trailing a few feet behind her.

  * * * *

  It was ten days into our ‘caging’ before we saw the Foxes again.

  They showed up on the field one morning, wandering around us, earnestly discussing the best way to execute us.

  “Hanging’s dramatic,” said Orla, “but then we’d need someone to build the platform.”

  “And, unfortunately, your best builder is in the cage!” Jude yelled.

  She—like Cherry and me—had been moving from side-to-side, following the Foxes’ conversation along the bars as best we could. So far, they had obliged us by staying well-within our hearing range.

  Personally, I thought they were doing it on purpose—to add to our torment.

  “Best builder?!” smirked Orla; she turned to face Jude, hands on her hips. “Trust me, Rude. You’re not that good.”

  “I’m freaking amazing,” bragged Jude. “In fact, I’m so good with my tools that you dream about me in your sleep. Oh Jude, oh Jude—saw it, hammer it, put your big screw in my little bolt hole, Jude!”

  Behind Orla, Tray grinned and Peyton giggled.

  “What we should do,” sneered Orla, “is simply burn you at the stake like they used to do to witches. That’s what Sophia wants and—thinking about it—it just might be more appropriate for Halloween.”

  “Actually, I’d think twice about that if I were you, Orla,” warned Cherry.
“All that burning flesh smelling like chicken and the stands filled with hungry girls. They might just mistake your skinny white legs for the wishbone.”

  Ignoring Cherry completely, Orla moved a little farther along the cage, until she was standing directly across from me. “What about you, Kaylee?” she asked. “You’re awfully quiet today. You have no opinion?”

  “What does it matter?” I shrugged. “However we die, we’re out of this hellhole on Halloween. A month and a half later—you guys turn eighteen and follow…win-win.”

  Tray came up beside Orla. My fingers were curled around the metal bars and, before I could step back, she put her hands over mine—holding me in place. “What if I took my knife,” she asked, quietly, “and skinned you slowly—piece-by-piece—until you bled to death? What would you think then?”

  “I think that I’d feel sorry for you!” I snapped, wrenching my hands away. “And for your lack of imagination.”

  A few yards away, Peyton stomped her foot, irritated. “Can we please get on with this?” she grouched. “The heels on my Jimmy Choo’s keep popping through the ground. Like it’s so annoying!”

  Orla stood up and turned to Peyton. “All right, Princess…what’s your suggestion then?”

  “Duh,” shrugged Peyton. “Just shoot the bitches in the head…no fuss, no muss.”

  * * * *