November 1st, 1984.
14
I wake up with no recollection of falling asleep. I start to sit up, but a pain shoots through my abdomen and I fall back to the cot, memories rushing through my head. My eyes burn, but I blink harshly. There is no room for weakness here. Weakness ends in bruises, dead babies, and pain. I cannot, I will not give in to that. I must be perfect. I must stop making mistakes.
The door creaks open and I shut my eyes, flexing my hands. I'm still bound.
"Eleven?" It's Papa. My lips tremble. No. No. No.
"How are you feeling Eleven?" His voice is soft and I crack slightly. He does care. He just didn't want another baby. I'm too much of one. Always needing to be fed and watered and exercised. Stupid baby. I choke. I am useless.
"Shh, shh. It's all right. Papa's here." His hand strokes over my head, the hair that's begun to grow there.
"It hurts."
"It will be better soon. We had to do it. To help you. It's very unfortunate that this had to happen, but it was necessary. You are very important to this country. I have a story to read you Eleven. One of those nursery rhymes we used to like so much." My eyes slide open, tracing over his face as he begins to read.
Babies are made of Mama and Papa. Would Olivia have had white hair?
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again."
His words are nonsense, running together, creating stories I cannot understand. After about three more stories, Papa is done. He kisses me possessively before standing up. I just close my eyes.
"She was mine." I mumble to myself as Papa starts to leave.
"What did you say?" His voice is stern.
"She was my baby." My spark bursts out for a moment. Long enough for his eyes to darken and the men to grab me.
The bad room is just as dark as I remember. But I don't scream like I used to. I just cry quietly, huddled in a corner. I have shown him I know. And now I will be perfect. I will help the country.