{ Barbed wire, Barbed wire – this is what one sees first…
At the first glance, this barbed, rapacious barrier looks senseless and surreal; who will try to cross it, if snowy desert spreads as far as eye can reach, no tracks, no people, snow lies two metres thick, one cannot make a step – and yet this wire wants to tell you something, give you a message. It says: take note, you are crossing the border into another world. From here, you won't escape. This is a world of deadly seriousness, command and obedience. Learn how to listen, learn humility, learn how to occupy as little room as possible. Best of all do what is for you to do. Best of all keep quiet. Best of all do not ask questions.
—Imprerium, (Warsaw 1993) }
Just pull the trigger.
As the bullet of the rifle pierced through the heart, the boy didn't even have time to scream before his body slumped lifelessly onto the ground.
Seven withdrew her rifle, her gaze hollow as she stared at the corpse that lay dead in front of her.
Yet another life she robbed out of cold blood…
It has been two years since she was kidnapped from her family. They came in their military uniforms, snatching every single child by the age of seven by force.
Many did not survive. Some died of diseases and sicknesses, some of hunger. There were always not enough food in the training camp; most of the food went to the adult barracks. There were also not enough blankets and clothes, or medicine for everyone.
Not like anyone cared.
The children captives had to get up early each day for their training, and they were trained to kill. Nobody was an exception, even children as young as seven year olds were required to wield a gun.
They were commanded to forget about their past lives. As soldiers, all they needed to do is to defend and fight for their country. Talking about their past lives were forbidden, whoever was caught was either beaten mercilessly with a whip or shot to death. They were forced to watch all the deaths of the children who broke the rules – it was a way of disciplining them.
Seven walked away, as some of the younger child soldiers dragged the body away. She headed to the canteen, where they could take their daily supply of food and water. As she took a bite out of the half stale bread, she suddenly felt a wave of nausea, her appetite gone.
Despite her emotionless demeanor, her heart was bleeding inside.
I knew him. He was from my village.
I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.
She shook her head, trying to clear those thoughts out of her mind.
I can't even remember his name. The only thing I remember about him was Twelve, because coincidentally the first four digits of our numbers were the same.
In order to help them forget their past, each of them were given a number, and that number functions as their new name.
Seven stared at the number on her uniform. 511207.
His number was 511212.
She forced herself to finish her bread, it wasn't everyday they had a whole piece of bread to themselves.
She had been killing for two years now. To toughen them up, the commander made them kill their own comrades. Whenever a soldier broke the rules or tried to run away, some of them would be selected randomly to perform the kill; and those who refused were threatened and whipped. Any show of weakness would lead to punishment, and the only way to survive in this military was to stay out of trouble. Seven learned that the hard way.
It was a week after she was captured, and she was homesick. The other children pleaded to return to their homes, but they were either ignored or given stern warnings. She knew, running away was the only way out.
She was nine, and she didn't know a single thing about the camp. She had survived a year with her family, depending on their savings. Though it was hard, and she stopped going to school, she was happy, and all she wanted was to be with her mother again. Her young heart was determined, and nothing could change her mind at that time, not even after witnessing some of the other children being brutally beaten for running away.
She decided to sneak out during meal time. It was dark, but the moon was bright enough to direct her to the exit. It was all too easy. She managed to sneak out after grabbing a bite, and she didn't meet anyone on her way to the big gate. It was so smooth and easy she almost laughed.
Then, a hand grabbed her on her shoulder. She was barely a few steps away from the gate. She struggled and kicked hard at the guard, but he only tightened his grip on her, making her cry out in pain. She was so close, so close to getting out, it made her want to curse her own fate.
The next day, she was brought to the assembly site. The other children were already waiting, sitting down in neat lines. The guards dragged her on stage, where a grown-up was standing there, with a whip in his hand.
The moment the guards released her, he backhanded across the face so hard that blackness curled in from the outside of her vision. She fell to her knees, wincing in pain. As the blackness slowly receded, she could hear him shouting to the other children downstage, warning them about what would happen to them if they made the same mistake as her. She shook her head and tried to stand up, her youthful pride would not allow her to be humiliated this way.
Such an action only resulted on a kick to her already bruised ribs. She gasped for breath, as another kick made her whole body clench in protest. The whip slashed against her back, and a scream of pain tore out from her throat. Shaking her head to try easing the pain, she wanted to stand up, or do something to stop him from hitting her, but she hurt so much. She couldn't think properly. She curled up into a ball, throwing her arms over her head to protect her head. Her whole existence revolved around waiting for the next slash and next explosion of pain. Her blood spilled on the floor, but nobody seemed to care.
She never attempted to run away again. The scars on her body reminded her of that day every time she had a shower. Her shoulders slumped at the thought of the boy she just killed. He had attempted to run away at least twice.
He broke the rules. He was naïve, just like all the others who died. Seven thought bitterly. I had no other choice.
It was difficult, at first. The first time she killed, her hands were shaking and she missed the heart, causing the child more pain as she was forced to shoot a few more times before he was dead. That memory haunted her for years, the boy will always be screaming at her whenever she fell asleep. Why? I only wanted to go home. Why did you kill me? Each time she woke up traumatized and frightened, and she would find tears rolling down her cheeks as she thought of how the commander tied the arms of the boy and made her smear his blood on her arms after he died. He said she had to do this so she would not fear death and would not try to escape. That boy never left her mind, no matter how hard she tried to forget about him. The nightmares only got worse, as the slaughtering never stopped; they even had to kill each other for food when food was scarce. Only the strong ones survived.
Running away wasn't an option. All of them knew that. Yet people like Twelve never gave up, they just kept trying. Idiot. Seven fought back her tears; she couldn't break, not now. That was how she survived for two whole years, she was not about to give in yet.
In a place like this, trust and friendship was not an option, and Seven had long learned how to suppress her inner feelings and emotions. She became a killer, one of the elites in camp. Sometimes she was selected to participate in the attack against the enemies. She survived, and ended up in hospitals and wards, but she was always brought back again the minute she recovered. Being in a battlefield was nothing like she imagined – lives are lost within seconds, and the generals didn't give a thought about them. They only retreated after most of the children fell, and then trained them even harder after that to ensure victory; but the cycle would repeat itself, over and over again. Many children died, but they just kept kidnapping more to join the army.
It wasn't long before the whistle was blown. Seven gobbled up the remains of her bread and slung her rifle over her shoulders, her jet black hair covering her expression. When she looked back up, her brown eyes held no emotion, she was back to the person she forced herself to be, a killer.
Seven was lucky; she survived in the battlefield, yet -
The camp was a battlefield itself.