by Rene Folsom
Finally alone, I survey my surroundings, finding the room more open than I’d like. The walls and ceiling are glass, and plants surround the bed I’d just stood from moments before.
As I examine it, I realize it’s not really a bed at all, but a flat metal table equipped with restraints that appear smooth and soft. Still, I know just how uncomfortable they can be.
The plants confuse me, making me wonder what the hell kind of house this is. I’ve never seen plants enclosed inside walls. The only plants I’ve ever encountered have been weeds and the occasional blade of grass attempting to thrive.
Still, camp plants aren’t nearly as beautiful as what I’m seeing around me. These are like nothing I’ve ever encountered before, their colors nearly overwhelming my senses. The reds and yellows contrasting against the greenery is simply captivating… controlling my mind and telling my body to just breathe and chill for a few.
But still, I don’t even have a chance to catch my breath before another voice, this time male, bombards my senses.
“Why are you still in here? You should be dressed and ready to receive orders.”
4
My head whips around, attempting to find the source of the deep male voice. My eyes clash with the color of darkness.
One of his eyes emanates darkness—the soul behind the pupil void of any emotion. In that one socket, the white around the inky black iris barely shows, making my skin prickle with an uncomfortable awareness that sends chills down my spine.
I hide my reaction as I notice his other eye… which isn’t an eye at all. Where it should be is a machine of some sort, small gears and mechanisms visible, even with our distance. A bright glow emits as he assesses me.
I can’t help but examine him in return, though I don’t have a fancy machine to aide me—warn me that this being is no good. Granted, it should be pretty damn clear a man with one black eye and a droid in the other is never good news.
Still, I evaluate every inch of him while he acts as if he’s computing me from the inside out. His jaw is square, his brows are thick, and his cheeks are well defined. He would probably be considered a suitable partner back at the colony, though getting past his eyes would be a challenge.
Just when the thought crosses my mind, I notice three rather prominent slashes down the side of his left cheek. Even though the wound has long since healed, the damage has left deep grooves in his skin.
“You’ll need to be cleaned first. We can’t have you walking the compound like that. Make sure you wear a cap on your head at all times. It’s part of your uniform.” the man says as he gestures toward my torn clothes.
I want to rage.
I want to hurl myself at his body, then pound him with my fist until he’s nothing more than bloody flesh.
But this male isn’t like any of the guards I encountered back at the camp. He’s different. His eyes are glued to me. He isn’t dumb, and by the size of him, it wouldn’t matter how many times I hit him.
He’d never go down, and I’d only end up hurting myself in the process.
He emits a deadly kind of strength in his black pants, a crisp black shirt, and shiny black boots that come to his knees. On his shoulder sits three gold bars.
But everyone knows the military is gone—defeated during the war.
How is it he has survived? At one point, he fought on the human side. Now he serves House Kincaid.
I am too young to remember everything that took place, but my mother told me tales of the soldiers. She even swore my father was a soldier in the war, fighting on the side of good.
I envy her—envy that she once knew good—once knew what it meant to be good.
“My name is Admiral Glen Willis. I am head of security at House Kincaid. You will refer to me as Admiral Willis.”
I nod my head quickly, really hoping he won’t need to repeat his name. Just his presence has me wishing I were anywhere else but here. His gazes narrows as he raises his voice.
“Speak up, girl.”
“Yes, Admiral Willis. I understand.” My voice is a low whisper as I try to keep from rolling my eyes. My vocal cords still hurt from my screaming. I want to limit my speech to short responses. The faster I can get to the next part of this fucked-up journey, the sooner I can plan my escape. I can’t seem to get past the overwhelming muscle this man’s aura emanates in my direction. His good eye travels the length of my body, while his other eye zooms in and out of focus on my face. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
The admiral begins to pace the confines of the room with hands behind his back. I wonder just what his goal is as I track his movements from one end to the other.
“You were brought here because you tried to escape, which is something that is punishable by death. But you have Lady Greann on your side. For whatever reason, she thought you’d make a good house subject. From what I’m told, so did the medics prior to your antics. Of course, I disagree, but I also respect the lady’s word. So here you are.” He stops pacing just long enough to peer into my eyes, his bionic iris glinting as if assessing something I will never understand. “Your time here may be very short, especially if you try to escape again. I assure you, escape is not a possibility. Not here.”
My fists clench at my sides, and the admiral takes notice. His black eye tracks my movement while his other focuses on my face. It’s uncanny how he’s able to do that. But as he continues his pacing, he goes on with his tirade, telling me of all the things I can’t do.
“You are confined to the grounds. You will not step outside the boundaries. We track all our staff with biometric locks, to which your fingerprints will be kept on record at all times. If you decide to go beyond the gates of the house without consent, you’ll be shot on the spot. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Follow all orders. If you neglect to listen to directives, you will be punished. The only word we should hear coming from you is yes, unless you are asked a question that requires a no. Understand?”
“Yes, Admiral Willis.” Despite how badly I want to defy this man and his rules, I play the subservient and bow my head, using all my energy to stop myself from showing my hatred.
He grunts his approval to my words, completely ignoring me otherwise, before striding over to stand in front of a glass door. It slides open with a hiss, making me jump. He then motions with three fingers for me to follow him down the hall.
My legs are still a bit unsteady after being out for so long, but I try to stand strong as I make my way down the corridor, following him despite my overwhelming need to flee.
Everything is white.
Everything is sterile.
It kind of reminds me of one of the medic tents, but cleaner. Glancing up, I notice that water runs along the ceiling.
Clear, clean water.
I can’t even remember the last time I witnessed water that ran without mud turning it light orange.
Even though the liquid is on the other side of the glass ceiling, I can still see it.
My throat burns with thirst at the mere sight of such an amazingly clear fluid, yet I try to swallow anyway, pretending I have it in my mouth. My tongue is puffy, and what little moisture I did have is gone, despite my attempts to will the water to appear in my mouth.
After a while of walking, the white of the walls starts to hurt my head, making me squint. It’s too bright, and I raise my hand to shade my eyes. The admiral turns back to me for a split second. Of course, he doesn’t care enough to stop walking and actually check on me.
We finally stop in front of another glass door. This one has condensation on it, along with a thick cloud of mist on the other side. When the door slides open, I’m hit with a smell so sweet my stomach clenches painfully. Back at the colony, we became accustomed to the scents of blood, sweat, and excrement. In contrast, everything here is fresh, earthy—and now sweet. The admiral stands aside and gestures for me to walk inside—in front of him.
Going before him into any unknown territory makes me wary.
“This is the bath
ing room for the servants. You’ll use it daily. You are expected to be clean at all times. Wash your body and your hair. If we find that your hair is infested, you will be shaved. Make sure you clean beneath your fingernails every single time you’re in here. One of the other girls will bring you clothing to wear—clean clothing. You will get two sets of clothing only. Use and clean them wisely. You must also remember to keep your hair covered.” Turning, he marches away, leaving me standing in front of the bathing room.
It’s an open, inviting area with gray cement walls and a cool stone floor. I can’t even remember the last time I was able to bathe with clean water.
How about never.
Without seeming obvious, I search the area, making sure there are no others able to see me explore the foreign bathing quarters. At the colony, we were lucky to have the courtesy of a water hose if the gods didn’t grace us with a heavy rain that day. Then again, mud followed the rains in our area, the soil beneath our feet splashing up and coating our ankles and legs.
Trying to distance my mind from my previous life, I focus on the moment as I reach for the lever and pull. I can’t help the audible sigh that escapes me right as I’m encased in a liquid wall of warm bliss. My knees threaten to buckle as my body succumbs to the foreign sensation. It’s nothing like what I could have imagined. It’s better. I was never lucky enough to own soap, let alone have access to a heated, clean water source. What I deem as a luxury for someone like me must be an everyday occurrence for someone who dwells in House Kincaid. Dirt and all manner of vile things are caked onto my skin. I hope the soap here will do the task Admiral Willis has demanded of me.
Thankfully, there’s a coarse sponge sitting atop a half wall in the shower. Beside it is a white bar of soap. Its smell is crisp and spicy.
I hesitate, but still jump at the chance to take them both in my hands, rubbing them until a lather starts to form. My mother talked of baths and showers, about how good it felt to use nice oils in her water to keep her skin soft. I don’t know what that’s like, but in this moment, I forget I’ve traded one prison for another and take advantage of the experience.
Washing myself should feel like a privilege, but dread starts to seep inside my veins. Holding out an arm, I see my skin, which was a black brown, is now a reddish brown. My true skin color breaking free of the grime and grit to glow brightly as I scrub myself raw. My eyes blur, and my gut clenches as an overwhelming dose of fear takes hold. Repulsion and guilt slide its way into my mind and my body begins to shake, repelling the staggering defeat that is taking over my insides. Whether it’s from shock or powerful emotions, I couldn’t say, but it hits me just the same.
My knees finally buckle, my hands making a splat sound against the wet concrete floor. The dirt from my skin creates a pattern on the ground, finding its way to the drain in the center of the vast room.
I know it’s a sign—an omen I need to cleanse myself of my past, of the filth that has consumed my soul for so many years.
Sitting on the floor, water streaming over me, I scrub every piece of myself I can reach… so hard that my skin turns bright red. Flakes of skin slough off while I continue to scour away the stench of years and years of abuse. Still, I scrub harder and harder until my skin is raw and blood pinkens the water.
Stop.
My mind is screaming at me to stop, but I can’t. I just can’t. I keep scrubbing until I reach my hair, stopping to feel the now-saturated strands.
The strands are matted and tangled. The curls coil tighter as the water continues to pelt my skin. Still, that doesn’t stop me from yanking on the ends—pulling and tugging until I can’t feel the pain I’m causing to my own scalp.
I’m out. But not yet free.
In the colony, a place where they abused us and treated us like slaves, where we were handled no better than the scourge of the Earth, I was made to feel less than human—unworthy and unclean.
But, deep down, I knew better.
I am meant for something more.
We—we the people—are meant for something more. But I can’t depend on a we… I can only depend on me.
Inside my mind, I am screaming.
I am screaming for all the atrocities committed, for all the unnecessary losses of life, and for all the injustices still taking place.
I can’t help but think that my screams will never be heard. What am I really screaming for? So that House Kincaid can have their pick of the litter?
Fuck that.
If it’s the last thing I do, I promise myself I will make them all pay. Every single one of them. I was selfish before, only thinking of myself when I wanted to escape this world. But now I see there are so many others who need their own escape. But I can’t help them. It’s not within my power. Not yet. I need to focus on myself first.
The decision doesn’t come lightly.
I’ll bide my time.
Build my strength.
And when the time is right, I’ll get out.
5
I’m standing in front of the admiral now, though I wish I weren’t. There are two other girls on either side of me. Neither speak. Instead, they stare straight ahead. They know something I don’t, so I try to mimic their actions.
I was given two pairs of black pants, two white button-up shirts, and two sets of undergarments, along with one cap for my hair and a pair of shoes. The woman who handed me the clothes also gave me a piece of advice.
Her exact words were, “House Kincaid doesn’t look kindly upon dirty servants. Keep yourself and your clothing clean. Use the bathing room daily. Consider it your one and only luxury.”
She’d been a well-fed woman with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. The wisps of hair I could see under her habit-like shawl were silver.
The rules are clear—house workers are to stay clean and our hair is to be kept under our caps at all times. Only the mistresses of the House are allowed to wear their hair down and uncovered. This includes Madame Kincaid and Lady Greann. Lady of House Kincaid is that wench’s new title.
The admiral moves to stand in front of me, his lips in a constant frown as he eyes me from head to toe.
“I don’t like the look of you.” His words are a growl. “If you act out of line once, you’ll be forced back to the colony and be removed from the selection pool forever. You’ll be taken back for manual labor only, and you will die there. Do I make myself clear?” His words cause spittle to splash onto my face, and I hold back the primal reaction to spit back at him.
My palms are flat against my thighs in every attempt to control my anger. If I were to ball them up, he’d notice.
“Yes, Admiral Willis. I understand.” It’s apparent he wants to hear my voice after my placement in this damn house. It’s scratchy and still sore from the screaming I did. This house is filled with sadistic bastards who gets off on hearing the torture of others.
I bow my head slightly in acceptance, only to control my body’s basic need to react and give the man a nosebleed.
“Follow the girls down the hall, there.” He’s still addressing me as he points to the darkened corridor. The lack of light makes me waver, but the brute standing before me doesn’t notice my hesitation. “They will show you to your sleeping quarters. No one is to leave their room except during work hours. You only come down to serve the meals, clean the house, wash your clothing, and bathe. If there is any recreational time, it will be scheduled by the madame of the house. But since you and Lady Greann were in the colony together, you will serve as her attendant.”
My skin crawls at the mere idea of serving Greann. But I know if I refuse, I will be much worse off. Greann is a bully, and it will only take a matter of days before she reverts back to her old ways. More so now that she is Lady Greann of House Kincaid.
“Yes, Admiral Willis,” I say in agreement, again bowing my head ever so slightly to appease the man.
His lips tilt up into what I think is a semblance of a grin. It doesn’t take a genius to know it isn’t a nice one, or on
e I want to be the receiver of. “Good.” His grin intensifies before his gaze hardens. Without breaking his stare with mine, he says, “Talia, take her to her sleeping quarters. But don’t dawdle because Lady Greann is waiting in her room for introduction to her duties.”
“Yes, Admiral Willis,” comes the hoarse voice of the girl he called Talia.
Even though the corridor is dark, light barely catching the edges and curves as we walk, I can still see enough to notice pictures of enormous dragons with wings. Some even have women being embraced by these majestic creatures. I’ve never seen anything like it, but as we make our way to what I presume is the sleeping quarters, I’m constantly flicking my eyes left and right to search for doors—any sign of escape.
I can’t get too comfortable here.
I don’t plan on staying.
When Talia opens the door to my room, I’m surprised there is only one bed and one chair over by a window.
Does this mean I have a room of my own? I’ve never had anything to myself before.
I barely hide my excitement as I wait for Talia to leave.
She doesn’t.
My excitement falters.
“Word to the wise,” she hisses.
I turn in her direction. Her face is blemish free and her clothing clean, despite the fact I can see the scar that peeks out beneath the neckline of her shirt. “Don’t try to escape. You’re new… wild. I get it. But if you’re good, House Kincaid is good to you in return. I started off in this room, and now I sleep in Madame Kincaid’s adjoining room. I even have my own things. Don’t fuck this up for the rest of us. It won’t go well if you do. Myra has already placed your other outfit in your closet there.” She points to a door in the corner. There’s another door next to it.
