002A.
Snow's pale face mirrors that of his hair, assimilating into the flowers that are displayed throughout the room. Brenton tries to swallow under the deep stare of the older man. The aroma beginning to insight a gag reaction, as it coats his already horse throat.
The older man leans into the desk, once again appraising the image of the worn boy in front of him. He folds his arms over his tailored suit, slightly wrinkling the fabric lying over his chest.
"Are you quite accurate about that?"
"I'm not sure that I understand."
Snow shakes his head, his slicked hair starting to fly freely, "Your kind never stops to amaze me. Even when you're presented with a fact you still deny the factual possibility."
"Well then we seem to be at an impasse."
This invokes a sense of rage in Snow, as he pushes himself off of the sturdy desk, causing trinkets to fall onto their sides. The action unnerves Brenton enough that he leans back slightly as the older man closes the proximity.
Cold grey eyes are met with bright blue ones, as the two men stare each other down.
Snow's breath is dank and sickening as he speaks low, the tone not diminishing his anger, "Any fool can look into your face, and be aware of your lineage. I would notice the eyes of Peeta Mellark, anywhere."
Brenton holds his ground, "I wasn't aware you two were so acquainted."
"We've been trying to kill each other for a very long time."
"How unfortunate if one of you succeeds. Then you'd have to find something else to occupy your time."
A smile mares Snow's face, "It seems that his eyes are not the only thing you acquired from him. How unfortunate for you?"
Snow steps back, giving the boy a bit more room to breathe, the stench of copper mixing with the sweet perfume of roses in his nostrils, "Well isn't it fitting that you kill his child."
A croak of a laugh rumbles up through the older man's body, "My boy, you're not here to die."
"Then why exactly am I here?"
"To the show the world who you are."
Deep concern moves over the boys face, as Snow rounds his desk pressing under the lip of the desk. The creaking of the doors startles Brenton, as two guards walk into the room hooking onto each one of his arms. Snow resumes his seat from before, not bothering to look up from his desk.
"Put the inferior in population; make sure he's encoded and dressed appropriately"
The blond guard at Brenton's right side nods sharply, "Yes, Elective Snow."
The boy is jerked around, facing the hallway that lies beyond the office. The guards pull him forward, his weak body from the travel, dragging. He sneaks a look back at Snow who is now peering at his fleeting back.
"I'll be seeing you, sir."
Snows face hardens, surprised by the boys bravado. As soon as the doors are closed, erasing all signs of the young boy, Snow quickly types into the row of dials and buttons that are positioned to the left of him.
When he is finally met with a voice from the other end, that emits a greeting, Snow swallows the slight anxiety he was experiencing.
"Fetch me Serkan, be sure to inform him how imperative it is he arrive at my office, immediately."
When the other end goes silent, Snow presses the dial to signal finality of the call. The presence of this one boy could be the one advantage that Snow had been waiting for. The war could finally be over, and he would have the one thing to finally destroy the rebel leader, Peeta Mellark. His son.
BRENTON
My arms tense, as I'm led through the corridor by the silent guards, occasionally I'm rewarded with a monotone grunt, to instruct me where to turn. My legs are heavy under the exhaustion, and mud that has now formed its own caste incasing my calves. I have to occasionally blow my bangs out of my eye line, as I'm being dragged half hunched over.
The anxieties that I'm feeling about what lies ahead for me is slightly won over, by the guilt that I'm feeling about abandoning my mother. No doubt she's realized of my absence, frantic over what may have happened to me. She's left all alone now, and I realize in this moment , I am my father's son. I leave the people who love me, and the thought of being like Peeta Mellark is more haunting to me than any kind of torture I am in store for.
The walls blend into the sterile white, the deep tones disappearing to sleek flat ones. The clicking of the guard's boots, resonant with every step, as the carpet from before is replaced by linoleum to match the colorless walls. I'm starting to contemplate the idea of fighting them off, even taking in mind of how exhausted I am.
It's not lost on me, that whatever is at the end of this hallway doesn't bode well for me. It's shorter distance than I would have assumed, when we reach a dead end. I stay there silently with the two men, whose grips haven't lessened at all.
I tilt my head to the side; my eyes go upward landing on a camera perched in the corner. I resist the urge to smirk at my audience, or even to simply rise up my hand to give a finger gesture, if only my arms weren't pinned to my sides.
Without warning the wall opens into an entrance, much like from before. I dare to look into the room, as I still stand at the threshold. The room is abandoned, its solid white walls glowing because of the stillness. I notice that a single metal chair is located in the center of the room, accompanied by a small computer console, and an array of needles.
My heart drops, hitching my already shallow breath inside my raw throat. It's almost identical to the last chair I had been trapped in. The puncture at my throat is still sore, blending in with the rest of my aches. I'm ushered into the room, my feet dragging behind me.
The toes of my lived in boots scrap the clean floor, producing a sharp sound. I'm deposited into the chair, the familiar cold steel harsh against my back. The temperature sends a chill through my thin shirt, which is clinging to my back and torso.
My arms are once again twisted up, the inside skin of the limb revealed. The metal cuffs lock into place, trapping half of my body, while my head was still free to move.
Taking this present advantage, I look to either side, trying to find someone else in the room either than myself and the guards who are now stationed at the opening. What seems to come out of nowhere, a small figure dressed in white emerges into the room, advancing to where I am.
I assume, it's a woman by how the covering falls off her, and swooshes behind her as she walks. Like before I'm not met with any kind of greeting, before a hand pushes my head back into the head rest, securing my skull back with a familiar cuff.
She positions her body towards the screen, mindlessly typing into the machine. When she's through she reaches up to a small device, which is emitting a bright blue glow.
She moves the contraption closer to my arm; I wince from the heat that is easily felt from only a few feet. The glow intensifies, as it comes closer to my left arm, the heat of it threatens to blister my olive skin. When she positions it inches from my forearm, it's slowly inched upward toward my hand.
It's difficult for me not to wail at the discomfort, as it easily out weighs anything I've felt in the last few days, which is saying a lot. I'm angry with myself when a guttural scream escapes my mouth, vibrating off the naked walls.
The smell of burnt flesh is enough to make me loose the meager amount of food that is still in my stomach. I hold back the tears that are threatening to well up in my eyes, as everything is in pain from my eyes down to my now burning skin.
My eyes strain to see what is the cause of my pain, when the little breath I had escapes my lungs. I've been marked.
The swelling almost over whelms the lines, now etched into my skin. Sequences of numbers are positioned, below the array of markings. A memory from when I was little comes to mind, when I first noticed the mark on my mother's arm, asking her curiously what it was.
She looked down at me with solemn eyes, taking me into her lap. With a loving hand she leaned my head down onto her chest, rocking me slowly.
"There are those in this world that try to define who we are as people. Never forget Brenton, you are who you aspire to be. Not the bines that others try to lock us into."
As a six year old, I had absolutely no grasp on what she was trying to tell me. However, now in this moment, it's all starting to come into view. My arm still throbs, as I'm released from the chair. I keep my seat; slowly I reach over to my blistered arm, cautiously running my fingers over the tattoo.
I can feel the grooves of the lines rising up from my skin. Without warning the metal chair is leaned back, the sound of a motor screeching in my ears. My arms are still restrained, when the cuff located on my forehead, unlocks with a click.
My anxiety shifts from the pain resonating from my arm, to the question of why I'm exactly in this position. I feel rough fingers clawing back the bangs hanging in my eyes. That's when the buzzing starts to register and I'm met with a tickling sensation.
It takes me a few seconds to be fully aware of the hair that begins to fall away from my face, falling to the tile floor. My head jerks back periodically, the clippers becoming entangled in my thick dark hair.
The texture of the blades slightly scraps my scalp, as I becoming acutely aware of the temperature. It's only a few minutes until, all of my hair, my mother's, is lying in scattered piles around the heavy chair. Before, I'm able to fully register the moment I am pulled from the chair, the cuffs clicking off, pinching my skin once again.
I don't have much time to feel my now bare scalp, until I'm pushed through the opening. I'm led to the wall directly across from us, the wall opening. I assume it will be similar to the other ones I've been in. I'm immediately corrected, when I'm met with a dark dank room, whose only light source is a flickering light.
The two guards push me through the door, I land on my knees. The ground is freezing, littered with small sharp stones that dig into the heels of my palms. I breathe in the cold air, my lungs burning. A set of strong arms pull me up into a standing position.
I'm positive that this is how I'm going to die, waiting for my neck to be slit or broken. I silently hope that my mother will be able to recover my body, I know how she is about burials being sacred. However, instead of being assaulted by a blade, my stiff clothing, from the rain and sweat, is being forcefully pulled from my body.
My shirt is ripped from body, landing on the floor in two pieces. My chest is now bare, already irritated from the intense cold. Suddenly, I'm thrown to the floor, falling to my back with a hard thud, the tiny rocks digging into my skin.
My boots are being thrown off, both hitting the adjacent wall, causing plaster to flack off. Finally my training kicks into gear as I kick off the guards located at my feet, both landing on the ground. I proceed to stand up, when I'm forcefully hit in the ribs with a butt of a rifle.
I fall back with pain; my head is secured by another guard, my shoulders also, as I'm powerless to what is happening to me. I'm still nursing the pain in my ribs, when I feel my pants being tugged off, my underwear joining them in a pile by my discarded shirt.
I'm yanked up by my throat, standing on wobbly legs. When the pains in my body start to ebb, I become aware of the chilling air, as it whistles around my now entirely naked body. I'm almost afraid to look around at the guards that now surround me, fearing anymore punishment, with my body being so raw.
Before, I can take another breath of air, a flood of cold water with intense pressure hits my body. I start to crouch, trying to protect my face from the high power washer that is causing shallow cuts on my naked form. As I bend, the barrel of a rifle is put to me temple.
I'm ordered to stand up, by a burly man with a slight stutter. I do as told, the water assaulting me from head to toe. After a few minutes, that feel like an eternity, the assault ceases. The water dripping from my face, ears, and chest settles at my feet. The cold air mixes with the water, blistering my skin.
The sensation is more than I can bear, before I'm tossed a set of clothing, and forced to dress with once again a barrel to my temple. I clutch the shirt to my chest, its itchy material irritating my chest as the pants and thin boxers almost fall to the puddle at my feet. I hastily pull on the articles of clothing, pleased to not be naked in the freezing room any longer.
The shirt and pants rub against my skin, stiffly. I try to adjust my lower body against the thin boxers, feeling less comfortable than I did before. Pair of light boots are tossed at my head; I catch them with more finesse than I did with the other articles of clothing.
I throw on the boots, lacing them up tightly, trying not to slip in the water, that has started to seep into the hem of my slightly too long pants.
When I'm done with my shoes, I'm ushered to move forward by yet another gun. I come to the conclusion that all this passive aggressive gun authority is really starting to piss me off. I try not to slip in the puddles of water, the ground slick and unlevel.
My still wet body is starting to cling to the stiff fabric, as I walk out into the cold. I look up into the dark grey sky, thankful that the rain has finally stopped. I survey my surroundings, noticing they're not much better than they were outside the fence.
The ground is unlevel, sloping drastically. The ground is almost barren of any kind of plant life, mud as far as I can see. I finally come to the conclusion; this may very well be my own private hell.
002B.
Brenton takes in the desolate place around him, the earthy tones blending into the harsh grays of the buildings towering over everything in sight. He notices there's an array of kids from different ages to ethnicity. He's positive most of them can't be older than thirteen, as they keep their heads down and try to keep close to their chosen crowds.
The feeling is somber, a chill rushing up his spine. He wonders if it's from the cold, are the sense of despair in the air. He turns to look back at the guards who had ever so helpfully assisted him in getting dressed. One tosses him a knit cap, he had been clutching. The thin winter cap blows in the wind slightly almost missing Brenton's hands, close to landing in the mud.
The second doesn't even acknowledge the boys presence any longer, as he takes his post at the rear of the yard. The first orders Brenton to go eat before, there's nothing left. Proudly commenting on his state of physical appearance, adamant it would be impossible for the boy to look worse.
His wounds from the previous day, are still healing, and bruises have started to form on both of his cheeks. Brenton was almost certain that he was also sporting a broken if not bruised rib from his encounter a few minutes ago.
The boy nodded a sarcastic thanks to the guard, placing the thread bare cap on his now shaved head.
He tried to ignore the stares, he was earning from the other children. Some would give him a slight glance, going back to their previous conversations or routines. Others were trying to size him up, Brenton noticed this action from when he would go hunting.
You first size up your prey before you attack, formulating a plan and then attacking. His body tensed, hands clenching ready for anything that would come his way. He proceeded up a steep hill, the rain had mixed with the dirt there making it a slope of mud.
Brenton dug his heels in trying to not fall flat on his face. All he needed was to look like an incompetent fool in front of the guards or even more so the others in the yard. He noticed there was a long line up against the furthest wall, leading up to a serving station.
One by one each child would walk down the muddy slope down to an area of metal tables, with their steel trays. The smell of the food traveled in the air, assaulting Brenton's sense of smell. It was reminiscent of the animal droppings he knew to be in the woods.
It was apparent by the food why most of the children in the yard looked beyond malnourished. However, he noticed at the foot of the line, there was a bundle of bright red apples. Most were falling off, rolling away, making the cook having to bend down with a groan to fetch them.
A small red headed little girl who couldn't be more than twelve licked her lips, and watched the fruit with hungry eyes. Brenton walked over to the side where he couldn't be seen by much of anyone but the little girl.
Bending down he picked up a medium sized rock, waited till the cook turned his back to go to the back, and pitched it to the basket of apples. Ever the sharpshooter, he nailed the top apple causing it to wobble as one rolled off the brim of the basket, rolling on a slope over to Brenton.
He smiled faintly to himself, picking it up he wiped it on his clothing, holding it tightly in his hand. The little girl stared at him with wide eyes, her bright hair darting to each side, looking if anyone had noticed.
Luckily the meal line had thinned by then, and most of the children were hunched over their thin soup and rotten fruit. While the guards were lost in their own conversations. Brenton walked over to the little girl who had now joined him at the side of the building. He kneeled down to her height, the mud seeping into his pants.
He held the bright apple to her, "Here little one. Take it. Just don't get too attached."
Her fingers shook, as she reached for it, pulling back as fast, "No."
"It's ok, just take it."
The little girl snatched it from his hand; afraid he would change his mind and ran the other direction away from any prying eyes. Brenton watched as she rounded the corner, until he couldn't see her long hair anymore.
He sighed standing up; in vain he tried not to fall into the mud anymore, as he made his way over to where the meal line was. He took his place behind a thinning blonde boy about his age, from the looks of him may have been husky at one time.
Brenton was sure the extreme temperature and the awful food were to blame. The line moved briskly, everyone already in tune to how the process worked. Brenton reached for his own tray, the slimy soup sloshing from side to side, drops landing in the small helping of nearly rotten fruit.
He looked up at the server with raised eyebrows, the man kept his attention on the vats of steaming broth. Brenton sighed, making his way back down the slippery slope, mudslinging around his ankles, in tune with the broth that did the same.
He finally reached the end of the hill, taking his seat at an empty table. The yard had been more or less deserted, and he was fine with having at least a small amount of time for himself.
Brenton worked his spoon through the soup, the stench turning his stomach. He pushed it over to the side, leaning his head down into his hands. He idly scratched his head under the winter hat, the lack of hair feeling foreign to him.
He tried to piece the last few days together, the whole thing seemed to just mesh into one whole beating. He shouldn't have left his mother, so that he could make sense of old dreams that haunted him.
She always warned him about his curiosity, that it could have the capacity of getting him killed one day. It seems that she was once again right.
"You keep pulling that charity shit and you'll get all of us killed."
Brenton looked up from his hands, looking into the face of a strong jawed boy, his light hair sticking out at each end. His back was hunched over the table, keeping close proximity to Brenton.
"Excuse me?"
The boy hitches his thumb, motioning behind him, "The apple thing."
Brenton straightened his back, "I didn't think anyone noticed."
"They didn't."
Brenton kept his bright eyes locked with the boy's dark ones, "You did."
"I'm different."
Brenton nodded, trying to ignore the boy who had interrupted his time of self hatred. Brenton stood up making his way to the other side of the yard, pushing his hands into the pocket at the end of his shirt. The boy follows suit, keeping pace with the slightly shorter boy.
"All I'm saying is you being like a person will get the rest of us shot."
"Is that so bad?"
The boy raised an eyebrow, "Being shot? I haven't taken a survey, but I'm sure it doesn't feel good."
Brenton rolled his eyes, "No, being human."
"Here? Yes."
Brenton slowed his pace kicking a stray pebble, the blonde boy continued, "Look, you're not a person here. You can forget all that being who you are shit, because here you're only a number-," The boy grabbed for Brenton turning his arm upward to face him,"323."
Brenton yanked his arm free, running his fingers over the sensitive skin, the boy tilts his head, "New to the code, huh?"
"Code?"
"Barcode, it's what they call us for short. That's weird, because even some who aren't reaped yet, still get lasered. Where are you even from?"
Brenton stopped walking entirely, "Around."
"Hmm. You're from the farm now."
"Farm?"
"Yh, like cattle? Moooo."
The boy laughed, "That's' all we are. We keep our heads down, work on our trade, and hope we make it to twenty, so we can leave."
Brenton squared his shoulders, "Maybe, I just can't do that."
"Then you'll die."
"Alright."
The boy shook his hair, causing it to stick to his face, "You don't get it. You're not a person here. And the sooner you learn the lay of the land, the sooner the rest of us can stop worrying about being buried beside you."
Brenton averted his eyes looking to his right then back to the boy, "What's your name?"
"193."
"No, your real name."
"It is."
Brenton held up his hands, "Fine, the one you were given before you became a cow."
"They called me Carr."
Brenton held out his hand, "Brenton."
Carr eyed Brenton's extended hand warily; finally he takes it shaking strongly. Carr drops his hands quickly, backing up from the other boy. Brenton raises an eyebrow, question on his face.
Carr points behind him, "Careers."
Brenton turns around, noticing three large boys walking straight for them. Their clothes are different than what the others have the differences easy to spot. Where Brenton and Carr's clothing is gray and stiff, the other boys are dressed in all black, silver boots stomping through the mud. The leader keeps eye contact with Brenton, his eyes golden hard. Carr raises a hand up, his arm stretched in front of him.
"Serkan! How's it going, buddy?"
Serkan reaches the two boys, pushing Carr over into the mud, "Shut up, piss ant."
Brenton bends down helping the boy up, Carr pushes him off immediately. Brenton comes to the conclusion that human contact and kindness isn't something normal here. Serkan steps in between Brenton and Carr, his breath heating Brenton's cold face.
"They told me we had a new guy, but I wasn't expecting someone so … infamous."
Brenton narrowed his eyes, keeping his guard, "What are you talking about?"
"You're his kid right? Rebel Mellark?"
The two other boys with Serkan let out gasps, as Carr rounds Serkan to look at Brenton closely.
"Holy shit! You are his kid. I can't believe I didn't see it before."
"Tell me boy. Does being a pussy run in the family?"
"You're very transparent trying to get a rise out me. Next time try using someone against me who I don't hate more than you."
Brenton turned to walk up the hill, Serkan rushing up to him, "MELLARK!"
Brenton stopped in his tracks looking over for a way out, he noticed that most of the yard was abandoned, other than the boys behind him. The guards had moved away from their posts, and this made Brenton's stomach turn.
Serkan made his way in front of Brenton once again, stopping him in his tracks, "I heard your mother a was code. She ran away is what they tell me. I say she was tired of fucking all the same people, and went to whore herself out to your asshole father. What's it like to have a criminal and a whore for parents?"
Brenton smirked, "You tell me."
"I'm sure your whore mother is proud of her bastard son."
Brenton's eyes blazed, shifting forward, his elbow connected with Serkan's nose. Blood spilled freely, although not deterring him from tackling Brenton to the ground, both boys rolling down the hill of mud. Finally landing on even ground, Brenton is forced up, as one of Serkan's followers punches him against the face sending him down forcefully, Serkan takes this advantage to drag Brenton through the mud. His head bangs on hard sharp rocks, with a thud.
Swiftly Brenton twists his body, his right foot connecting with Serkan's jaw. Brenton stands up, keeping his guard up, twisting the arm of one of the boys until he hears a break, the boy calling out in pain, as Brenton kicks him forward.
His crumpled body melting into the mud. The other boy comes up behind Brenton, where he easily hip tosses the heavy boy forward, bringing his boot down on the boys face.
Brenton turns, assuming to find Serkan, on the ground also, however, he's far too fast when Brenton sees the heavy rock in the boys hand, as it collides with his jaw.
Suddenly everything goes black, as Brenton stares into the mud. Before he passes out, he wonders if underestimating Serkan may have been a mistake.
002C.
DARIA
I wipe the mirror free of the steam blocking the view of my face. I'm met with tired haunted eyes, which have experienced far too much beyond their years. My entire body aches, making it hard to stand upright. I push back my dark hair, beads of water falling freely around my sore naked body.
I trace my long fingers over my body, it's become a ritual I do each time I get back from one of my visits. I trace the light bruises over my arms, moving around my neck and over my breasts. I cup each one turning to each side surveying my body.
I release my chest, moving my fingers over my face to make sure I've washed off the remainder of paint that hadn't came off during the train ride. When I'm positive it's all been washed down the drain, I try to smooth down the bags forming underneath my eyes.
This had been a bit harder on me than most, even though none were meant to be relaxing. It had been a birthday party for one of the council members, and he had a taste for young girls dressed as jungle creatures.
There had been around ten of us ranging from ages of ten to seventeen. He wasn't much of watcher like most of the council members I had to entertain. He liked to participate, and he had a preference for pain. He had picked one of younger girls to be his favorite of the night.
She had light blonde curls that rolled off her back in waves, and her brown eyes were deep and wide. Her ten year old body had been barely broken into, I had remembered her at a few events in the past, but she was never chosen to be the main attraction.
When he announced who would be his favorite, I sauntered over to him, bending down far enough so that my breasts showed partially purring in his ear that I wanted a chance to make his birthday special, and that a girl like that had no idea how to make him scream, but I did. He leered at me, before pulling me into his lap, petting my long dark hair, like you would a pet.
But I suppose that's what I am, a pet. He had beaten me until I couldn't breathe, and once again proceeded to take his sexual frustration out on my body. Halfway through, I think I blacked out, my body going with the motions, but my mind thinking about the ocean, and the deep orange of the sky before sunset, the deep purple color of the flowers my mother would weave through our hair, and the way she would throw her head back in laughter.
And sometimes when I needed to I let myself slip thinking perhaps I one day would have what my parents did, of how I imagined it from my mother's stories. A man that would cherish me, and never rape me in the middle of the room with strangers watching and cheering us on.
I suddenly break out of my reverie, my body is shaking uncontrollably. Rationally I know there's no sense in hoping, because I know whores like me never get happy endings.
I sigh deeply breathing in the scent of lavender, from the oils in the drain. It relaxes me slightly, grateful that my stylist Cinna was so generous to smuggle them in for me. He is kind and strong which I both envy of him and worry.
This world is not a place of hope and those who think otherwise are fools. I breathe in once more reaching for the uncomfortable uniform I have to wear, the material scratching my chest as I button up the front of my shirt.
The pants are just as bad; rubbing against the thin pair of underwear we're given. I reach for my lightweight boots, lacing them up midway, the clunking sound moving through the bathroom, as I walk to the vanity.
I reach for a clear rubber band to knot up my hair, a few dark wavy strains escaping the piece of rubber. I lay out my dress I wore on the train, trying to not wrinkle it further. Cinna comes for his dresses after I've vacated the bathroom, cleaning up after me.
He doesn't have to but I sometimes think he sees himself as my keeper. He's not that much older than me, but he has brilliant mind for costumes and clothing. They call him a stylist, but in reality all he does is throw glitter on the tarnished whore. His job is far more difficult than any other.
When I'm sure that the dress is laid out properly, I leave the bathroom, walking down the hallway. I finally make my way out to the yard, the dank smell of mildew assaulting me, making me wish for lavender again, when I see him throw the rock at the bushel of apples that I know are meant for Elective Snow.
He hits it perfectly, a difficult shot from the distance he was standing. The rock must have done its job, because now he's bending down to pick it up. I scoff; some of these codes are so vain that they think they can do whatever moves them.
As I'm sure I have the boy figured out he moves over to the little dreamy red headed girl that I know as 454. He's bending down to her height holding it out to her; she hesitates slightly before running off with it.
He keeps his place, and I make my way over to 454, as she rounds the corner. She's clutching the apple when I approach her.
"What is that?"
She looks up at me with meek eyes, "Nothing."
"The hell it isn't. That's a death sentence if anyone sees you with it," I sigh seeing the pain in her eyes, "go into the quarters and hide under the bed. Eat it as fast as you can, and wash your mouth and hands after wards. Do you understand?"
A small smile comes to her face as she nods, and runs down the sidewalk, to where the younger girls sleep. I round the corner, my curiosity about the boy has gotten the best of me. I search for him and finally find him walking the yard with the boy I've come to know as Carr.
We don't dare use our birth names around the guards or even some of the other codes, but Carr is one of the few people here I truly respect and trust. Even in spite of his quick mouth he's the best at smuggling anything you need into the compound.
He and the boy with the good aim are now standing in the middle of the yard talking. The boy looks tense and guarded where Carr seems as laid back as always. I lean my face against the cold stone watching the boy, and I find myself drawing my eyes up and down his body.
My face becomes red when the shame of what I was thinking sinks in. I'm just as bad as the perverts who use my body as their personal play thing.
I'm thrown out of my train of thought when I see Serkan, arguing with the boy, his two cronies flanked beside him. The boy blows him off, walking up the hill towards me. My face becomes red again, and I'm back to thinking those thoughts again, when I'm shocked by the name Serkan is calling the boy. Mellark.
I suck in a breathe when, I realize that if this is true, than the resistance leader's son has been thrown into the one place that is sure to get him killed. However, before I can finish my thought, he's rolling down the hill with Serkan, and fighting off his cronies as well.
His fighting is swift but also sloppy, and I get the feeling it isn't for show but survival. He finally gets the upper hand, but becomes too cocky, not noticing the weapon Serkan has picked up from the ground.
He turns at the last minute to be knocked to ground unconscious and my heart unexpectedly falls. I finally notice that Carr has left the yard a while now and only the boy, Serkan and the battered other boys remain.
I start to turn around when I hear one of the doors open to reveal Elective Snow walking out with a few guards. He waves Serkan away and instructs the guards to put the unconscious boy in one of the solitary blocks. I run the other direction, rounding the corner as I see the boy being dragged into the hallway and thrown into an empty cold room.
I decide that I'll wait until only the guard we know as Darius, is there and ask him if I can take care of the boys wounds. I feel a sense of obligation all of sudden, this sickening need to take care of this boy, albeit man is rising up through me. And it frightens me.
002D.
BRENTON
I am acutely aware of the medicinal stench, wafting around my body. The cold stone floor stings my knuckles as my arm hangs from the bare mattress. My body feels like one giant elaborate bruise, starting from my toes up to the top of my naked scalp.
I try to open my eyes, which one I'm sure is slightly swelled, the light bright and harsh. I curse the blinding light, assuming it is the sunlight seeping through, only to notice an artificial light positioned above my head.
The blinding light makes my head pound, I groan from its effect. I roll onto my back slowly, my ribs sore and unrelenting. I can hear the shuffling of feet, from my position on the mattress. I assume to see another guard, keeping post beside my bed.
I'm surprised to instead have a dark head of hair come into view, falling into waves down their back. With their back turned, I'm not able to see much, but by the small stature and curve of hips, I assume it's a she.
My hypothesis is shown correct when she turns, back to me, and my breathe catches in my throat. I give out a low guttural groan, at the sight I'm taking in.
I'm met with the most incredible green eyes I've ever seen. The almond shaped eyes are accompanied by soft golden skin, which shines under the harsh lamp light. Her dark thick hair frames her face in waves, allowing her bone structure to become easily noticed.
She leans over me, running her fingers over my forehead, her chest only inches from my face. My cheeks go red due to her body next to me. She mumbles about the pain I must be in, assuming that my red cheeks and groan from before have to be due to my present physical being and not her presence.
I reach up to where she's feeling, my hand covering hers. This causes her to flinch, taking her hand away from me, her posture straightening. I finger the tiny threads that are now stitched through my skin.
"I did the best I could with the resources I have."
"Thanks."
She ignores my gratitude turning back to the steel table, where I can see it contains a bowl of water, clothes, ointments and various spools of thread, along with a needle. I sit up, my back leaning into the brick wall, the bed is up against.
"I went ahead and treated the other various wounds you had on your body. You've must have had quite a few days."
I swallowed, my throat raw, "You could say that."
She turns around, her hands behind her leaning on the steel table, "I found more than one deep gash located on your skull. How many times have you been knocked unconscious, in the last few days?"
"I lost count."
"Well, you may want to end your streak, seeing brain damage can come from that."
"Why would you even care, I've been told that being human here is a liability."
Daria looks down at the brick floor, "It is for the most part. So don't get used to my help."
She pushes herself off of the table, walking over to me reaching for my right arm. Leaning over my waist, she turns my arm up to her. The swelling on the tattoo has almost disappeared; she runs her fingers over the markings. I notice an oily sheen is covering my skin, the stench of urine faint, over powered by the smell of mint.
"What is that?"
"An ointment made from animal urine and mint leaves."
She looks up to gauge the expression on my face, when all I do is smile faintly at her.
"It doesn't freak me out. I'm used to having to improvise with things found in nature."
Daria nods, her dark hair falling into her face, "Hmm."
I'm almost knocked over by the sweet smell of lavender that wafts off of her skin and hair. A heat starts to rise up my body; the embarrassment I'm feeling is not lost on me.
She stands up from my body, moving back over to the steel table, gathering up her things in her nimble arms. I open up my mouth to say something but nothing comes out as she knocks on the door.
My mouth is still agape, when a red headed guard opens the door for her. She turns back to me, one foot over the threshold, a small smile on her delicate, striking features.
"Maybe I'll see you again soon, Brenton Mellark."
The steel door closes behind her with a resounding clank, echoing through my sore body. I scoot back down the mattress, allowing my body to relax. The last thought in my head before I fall asleep, is somehow an angel was able to enter hell.
A/N: The next Chapter is entirely PK's story which will provide information for the later parts of the story. I hope you the readers are still hanging on, I promise it gets very good.
-Stace