Blackout
I’m in her arms; they protect and envelope me. My eyelids feel too heavy, the tiredness overwhelms me. She sings our lullaby and I smile. I focus my attention solely on her. The closeness and perfection of this moment.
Something doesn’t feel right. I feel completely alone, I feel as though there is only darkness in the world. That all light has been extinguished. But how can that be? I am basking in her radiance, her love. I try to look at her face, I long to see it, I need to see it. But I can’t open my eyes, I cry in desperation. I need to see her, though my eyes are too heavy.
I can feel her slipping away from me, her love and light vanishing. I choke on the darkness, scratch and claw at the emptiness. Where are you? I need to be with her again, to fill the emptiness. I hear a scream. I jolt from my sleep.
Darkness. Sobs break from my chest, animalistic. The constant nightmares, tearing the stitches from my already broken heart, revealing a raw and vulnerable young girl. I fear death. I fear loneliness, emptiness. My eyes scan the room erratically, trying to seek out the slightest amount of light, revealing only blackness. I was seven years old when I saw my mother die. She fought the guards who removed me from her arms, and they killed her. Her life wasted.
The covers have become tangled around me; restraining me. I struggle to prise myself from their grasp. Sweat covers every part of my body; sleep is my only escape, though even in my slumber I am tormented. The reliving of her death, her screams and her last breath. The memories were distorted, like an old film. I’d created my own memories and now I couldn’t tell reality from the dreams.
I wonder if I could have saved her? Saved us? If I had wanted to go to the park, would that have made a difference? If my father had been at home, instead of on a business trip, would he have protected us? Hidden me? I think of his face as he opened the door after the raid. Had anybody told him? Was mum still there? Her lifeless body abandoned on the floor. Had he expected mum to have dinner on the table? Tears fall. I press my knuckles into my temples, trying to take the pain away. It doesn’t help.
The sound of doors opening and closing came closer, until finally my door is opened. I wipe away my vulnerability and replace it with a dark hatred. I glare at the door. A guard stands in the doorway, his shoulders pushed back, and his chest protruding outwards. He looks at me, and then lowers his eyes, avoiding my gaze. I hate him. I hate everything that he stands for. Is he not ashamed? He’s dressed from head to toe in a black robe, the hood covering his forehead, two ice cold eyes peer under it. He raises his gun, aiming it at my head. I laugh. Idiot.
“Out now. Put your hands where I can see them. Is that understood Number Thirteen? I’m not going to have any of your bull shit on my shift.” I don’t move. His eye twitches slightly; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“Is that clear?” He spits. I nod in agreement, and slowly place my hands above my head. This guard is new. I can smell it. The gun is still aimed directly at my head, though it shakes slightly, as does the rest of his body. Idiot! He doesn’t have the guts to shoot me; he is probably fresh out of the academy, excelled in all classes. But what he doesn’t realise is that life is nothing like the scenario’s they show at the academy. We are desperate to get out. We would do anything, and I mean anything.
I start towards the door, the guard edges backwards into the corridor, never taking his beady eyes off me. The detainment centre had been placed in an old psychiatric hospital; it is eerie to look at. It’s obvious that it had been chosen because it was in the middle of nowhere. In 2027, the police received more cases of child abduction, since records began. Investigators had no lead suspects or motive. It began with an IQ test, I know that now. It was compulsory for everyone of school age to take part in the test. It is now believed that the children who gained a result of 160+ on the test were removed from their families and locked up in places like this. I think they removed us from society because of the threat we would cause in the future to those already in power.
I glance out of the corridor window overlooking the square; a fresh pile of corpses has been placed in the centre. Some prisoners have already begun the mammoth task of digging their graves. Exercise? More like child labour. The sight makes bile rise in my throat, how can they just slaughter them? Guards should be here for our protection, not this reason. Not for massacre. Tears burn in my eyes, I bite my lip, keep it together, don’t let them win.
The guard keeps a steady hand on my shoulder; he knows that if he takes his eyes off me for one second, I will have him on the floor with his gun to his head, and I will not hesitate to pull the trigger. A few of his colleagues have made this mistake; they all joined the pile of the dead. I have been labelled as a ‘high risk’ prisoner. He presses a four digit code into a pin-pad placed at the side of a plastic door, four, nine, seven, three, the door swings open. What type of people do the Government employ these days?
The stench is unbearable, I take a deep breath, hold it. It is a mixture of sweat, rotting flesh and vomit. This is my daily routine, and I hate every second of it. The prisoners stand out like a sore thumb, their orange jumpsuits in contrast to the sandstone walls. Girls and boys a like all have a shaved heads. I glance around the square; all I can see is corpses. Their gaunt faces glaring at me, our parents, sisters, brothers, grandparents, they all came to fight, to try and release us from our nightmare. They all lost.
“Number Thirteen, here for her exercise regime.” The guard salutes his superior before walking through the door in which we came. Four, nine, seven, three. He really is an idiot! A tall, slim female stands in front of me, she leans towards me, glaring. I glare back, she doesn’t scare me. Nothing that she can do to me will ever scare me. They have ruined my life, and keep me alive in mockery. Does she have a family? Was she brought up in a cell, digging graves as her only point of exercise? Scum.
She hands me a spade. It feels smooth against my rough hands. The square fills with a sea of orange, each person identical to another. He isn’t here yet.
“Plot number 1188, you’ve got half an hour”.
