Flicker
The two Hork-Bajir grabbed her roughly by her wrists and flung her into the cage, huffing—laughing—as they did so. She could only look up at them in terror as they slammed the door closed and locked it. Then, there was silence. Not the silence meaning no sound—the silence of one less voice in the universe.
She never spoke during her free time. She didn't keep her silence as a way of showing defiance or anger. She simply didn't want to speak. What was the point? She didn't matter. She was just a puppet hanging loosely by her strings. That's all she was. A puppet. A toy. Her first Yeerk had tried to convince her that she was being very generous by "donating" her body to them and providing a home for a helpless creature. But she knew from the beginning that the Yeerks only wanted her so they could complete the invasion.
A man, standing in the cage next to hers, began to scream and yell. "You piece of shit! Get over here!" he yelled defiantly to one of the nearby Hork-Bajir guards. She sighed. He hadn't given up hope just yet. He would, though.
A year ago, when she still resisted and tried to escape, she had spoken with another girl in her cage.
"I'll get out of here! I will!!" she'd yelled. The girl only looked sadly up at her. "Don't you have some hope? Any at all?" she'd said. The girl only shook her head and sighed.
"There can't be hope if there isn't anything to hope for." That was the last time she'd ever seen the girl. Now, sitting in her cage, she understood what the girl had meant. If she ever did escape—what would she do? There was nowhere for her to go where she couldn't be recaptured. Living in the wilderness on the run would be torture. Was escaping really worth it?
She thought back to her childhood, long before she even knew what a Yeerk was. It was a stormy day, and the power had gone out, leaving them with nothing but candles for light. She had sat down at the kitchen table in front of the glowing orange flame, ignoring the raging storm outside. It was so pretty—and so dangerous.
Out of curiosity, she swiftly ran her finger over the flame. Nothing happened. She did it again, with the other finger, feeling the heat of the tiny flame. The next time, she did it more slowly, and it actually burned her a little. She cried out and gripped her stinging finger, then angrily blew on the tiny little flame. It flickered twice, and eventually shrunk down to the charred wick, a thin trail of smoke rising into the air.
The tables turned on her five years later. Now, she was the flame, and the Yeerks were the ones, teasing her and running their fingers over her, threatening to blow her out any second. She'd tried to burn them several times. So they taunted her and blew on her a little harder each day, until she burned out, and the smoke—her remaining hope—floated off to some other lonely soul.
A few weeks earlier, she still had hope. She still believed that someone would come and rescue her, or that she would find a way of escape. And then she realized how good it must feel to finally burn out, to finally give up hope. She did. And she'd never felt more relieved.
The door opened again, and the two Hork-Bajir rudely yanked her out of the cage by her arms. She let her body hang limp as they dragged her across the floor like a sack of potatoes, despite the rocky ground that dug into the skin on her back, leaving cuts and scratches behind. She kept her eyes close to ease the pain. Her body slid over something smooth and metal—the pier.
Then, she opened her eyes and looked down to see a watery gray surface. The side of her face gently touched the warm churning liquid. Something brushed her ear, and then began to force its way into her head. Finally, she stood up. (Hello, Diana. I'm home.)