Six days flash by with nothing much done in between. Of course, we're locked up in an insane asylum so there isn't much to do but relish in the horror of this place. We have casual conversations now and then. We talk about random topics like the weather and food. Ironic, really. Unsurprisingly, I still don't trust him. The only personal information I know about him is his height and name. The only information I've told him about me is my first name. I guide him around, ensuring he doesn't get himself killed. I've seen enough death to last me a life time, I don't need Jonathan to be added to that horrendous list.
The cell is awfully cold today, the both of us shiver where we sit. I distract myself by adjusting the ribbon on my wrist. Jonathan eyes me from where he's sitting.
"What is that?" he asks. Purple shadows make his eyes even darker. He must not be sleeping much.
"It's a ribbon," I tell him.
"Sentimental?" he cocks his head to the side. A small smile appears on his face. It's contagious.
"Yes," I sigh. "I was given a little chocolate bear when I was 8. This was around it's neck," I shake my thin wrist. The broken bell makes no sound. "I've had it on my wrist ever since. The bell is a bit mangled, though."
I smile at the memory. It's one of the happiest memories I have. I can't remember if it was a special occasion or not, all I remember is that golden bell. The chocolate was sweet and bitter, it tasted heavenly, like nothing I had ever eaten. I tried to make it last forever, but it was gone within days. The red of the ribbon was so vibrant, so alive. Nothing like the dirty rusted colour it owns now. I don't really care about that, though. I can't imagine myself without it's simple existence. Some days, I feel like it holds my sanity.
The door crashes open and 5 people swarm into the room, rifles pointed at our chests.
"What the-"
I'm on my feet. Jonathan is on his feet. I'm not feeling very brave right now, so I don't do anything stupid.
"HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTHS SHUT. DON'T MOVE AND WE WON'T SHOOT YOU."
They back me into a corner, Jonathan into another. The armed men shout muffled words at me, a barrel of a gun 3 inches from my face. I lift my hands in surrender, because I'll die if I don't, apparently. I have half the mind to disobey them. I want to see what happens. Why now. Why are they here? After all this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe my 17 years are up.
One of them put the barrel of their gun up against my chest. I feel the biting cold of the steel through my shirt. I ball my hands into fists. I want to dare him to shoot me.
"She doesn't cry," one laughs.
"We'll make her," another joins.
The butt of a gun connects with my face, rendering me silent on the stone cold floor.
I wake with a raging headache. My right cheekbone feels double it's regular size and is painful to touch. A sharp ache renders me still for a moment. In the dim light of my new cell, the blue and yellow bruises look like a disease on my pale skin. There's a tin of water and a tin of food set off to the side and I inhale the cold contents, suffocating on my own thoughts.
Jonathan is nowhere.
I am alone, 4 walls no more than 10 feet in every direction, the only air creeping in through a small slot in the door. Just as I make a move to stand, the heavy metal door opens widely. A guard with 2 rifles strung across his chest looks me up and down. He stands, stunned for a moment.
Pause. "Out."
The guard's voice is thick and deep, his eyes unreadable. He looks only a few years older then me, his dark hair cut close to the crown, tattoos snake up his arm.
The realization cracks me in half, paralyzing me for a moment. I could almost laugh. How did I miss it? I was one of them before.
Jonathan crosses the threshold, a rifle pointed at my chest. His features are tight and controlled, he's unreadable too. They're all the same. Of course they are, they're soldiers. I want to hit him. I want to hit the both of them and escape this nightmare. Maybe this is inevitable. Maybe this is my end.
He leads me out of the cell and gestures toward a wide hallway made of grey stones. I mumble how much of a dick he is under my breath, it only seems to anger him more.
"Move." Jonathan thrusts the gun into my back, making me stumble forward. He does it again and again until a boot kicks my back in. I land hard on the floor, a dull ache goes through my entire body. An unhealthy sounding click jolts from my knee as I am forced to kneel.
Bright artificial bulbs shine on my face, I bring my hand up and shield my eyes away from it.
"Burrow, dim the lights." The command is strong, full of authority. "I need to see her face." It sounds almost urgent.
I lift my head to see who's speaking, but flinch when I find him kneeling in front of me. I'm looking into his soft emerald eyes as he touches my hair and brushes it away from my face. If I wasn't looking so intently at his beautiful face, I wouldn't have noticed. But I do notice. I see his eyes widen, shock registered there. He might have even gasped a little. I shake my head. This man is the enemy.
I slap his clothed arm away. He steps back like a kicked puppy. Another boot collides with my spine, sending my battered body toward the floor. I wheeze and inhale as much oxygen as my lungs will allow.
He's sitting in a worn out leather chair when I look up. He's staring at me.
"Juliette," he whispers. It sounds like a question he never wants answered.
I rub my forehead, searing pain renders me silent for a moment.
"Who the hell is Juliette?" I ask from the floor.
I squint closer at the man in the chair only to realize his suit has been adorned with tiny colored patches. Military mementos. His last name is etched into the lapel: Warner.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of his men hand him a thin file. He glances at me before he tares it open with his gloved hands. Gloved. He's wearing gloves. I take a deep breath and prepare for the worse.
"Ophelia Clarke," he glances at me. Does he honestly expect me to answer? "Given up for adoption only a few hours after your birth. No names given for birthparents, only a nurse; Margaret Clarke. In and out of foster homes, then orphanages, different schools, messy lawsuits, hospital records." Warner tosses the file at me. It lands in front of my knees. Papers, documents, my whole life sprawled across the floor. I don't look at them. "Most of your life is documented in those papers. I've been studying them for a very long time, but something doesn't add up, Ophelia." I hate the way he says my name. "After the age of 11 and up until age 16, there is no sign of you. Nothing, nowhere. Then suddenly you're a soldier in Sector 53. Then you're here."
I confuse him. He wants to know who I am. Warner has this need in his eyes, a wanting look I have never seen before. I fade away forgetting who I am. Kneeling on this stone cold floor, I decide I will never let him know of my difficult life. I can use this to my advantage. I will be free.
"I know your secret, Ophelia." His voice is cold and haunting. "I know why you are here. You were a very difficult girl to find."
I don't tell him how I feel. I don't tell him how the room is spinning. I don't tell him how every part of my sanity is falling away. I've been through this before, just like all of his men in this room. Their faces controlled and unreadable. I am not a book he can just pick up and study. I will never be his.
"Does the name Juliette Ferrars mean anything to you?"
If not for the look in his eyes, I would lie. I would act stupid and lost. Maybe I'd break out some tears. But I can't because there is something about him I already hate, but a part of me wants to know more. A fraction of me wants to know what he knows.
"Ferrars is my middle name."
His eyes clear and harden. He stands, an iron rod as his spine. He tosses Jonathan a pair of black gloves. "You're going to need these."
Jonathan slides them on, his dark eyes on me.
"Take her." Warner stands tall, unflinching. The command sounds like a death sentence.
A part of me wants to know more, but we don't always get what we want. Especially me, especially now. That is the way it has always been and I am happy not knowing. They are not taking me anywhere. I am not going to be someone's pet or slave. Not now, never again.
I think I see a bird fly by through the tiny window in the corner of the room.
"Over my dead body," I spit through clenched teeth.
This time, I see it coming. I shift to the side and a hard boot meant for me, slams the floor. A devious kick sends him flying to he floor, cupping himself. The room is no longer quiet as everyone lurches into action. I grab the guards rifle and I'm up on my feet. I feel something seize my leg and I turn, using the butt of the gun to smash his nose. Another two come flying forward. Everyone is dodging my skin, grabbing me only where I'm clothed. They know, they all know. I side step one and run out the same way I came in. I'm surrounded by terrorized darkness, a single light at the end of the hallway. I bolt to it, my side screaming. I'm suddenly thrown against a wall, my head turning. I grunt as a blow to my side leaves me immobilized for a moment.
Blood is gushing from somewhere on my body. "Son of a-"
I tackle his legs, angry. Nothing is going to stop me from escaping this prison.
I kick something fleshy in the gut and hear a wheeze. I'm up on my feet again, but a few steps in and I'm surrounded.
It happens too fast. I'm shoved against a wall. I fight but something hard collides with face. I feel the skin on my lip break and begin to bleed. I feel numb. My hands are bound behind me and I'm led through dark hallways to a unknown destination. Three of Warner's men follow my foot steps, Jonathan grasping my cuffed wrists. I thrash and catch a glimpse of Warner. A lion in a bed of tigers. He looks amused. This is a game to him.
I'm terrifyingly excited when I see the door open at the end of a hallway. I haven't been outside for over a year. I haven't felt natural light or a cold breeze on my skin for over a year.
I feel the icy cold droplets of rain hit my bare skin first. I gasp at the sensation. I nearly choke as I inhale the clean air, breathing it in as quick as I can. It's light and plentiful, nothing like the stuffy and used oxygen of the asylum. The furious gushes of wind whip my extensive waves, leaving it a tangled mess.
I'm quickly escorted to a tank, but I plant my feet in the solid concrete floor. I refuse to budge even when Jonathan attempts to drag me.
"Come on."
"Leave her for a minute, Stevens," I hear someone say. "She's been locked up in that shit hole for God knows how long."
I turn to see dark eyes and dark hair through the storm of rain, but he's quickly forgotten when I look up at the open, grey sky. The delicate clouds remind me of soft pillows. The burning sun is hidden behind them, but a few beams of light hit the wasteland surrounding me. The dead tree's remind me of a graveyard, but they're the most beautiful things I have seen in over a year.
By the time I'm in the tank, my clothes are entirely soaked and my hair is dripping rain. My bones are cold and I shiver with a smile on my face. Rain. I'll never get enough of it.
Warner's men are soaked, too. The driver is pissed, cursing about how cold he is. Jonathan also seems pissed, but the young man with the dark hair and dark eyes in the passengers seat, almost looks perplexed. While I'm looking out the window at everything in awe, I feel him steal glances at me. I ignore the persistent man and focus on everything on the other side of the rectangular window.
The entire world has been stripped of it's clothing. The whole world is dead. There is no warmth to the grey background. There are no street signs, no stop signs planted in the broken pavements. The only decoration on this plain canvas are a few metal boxes stuffed full of machinery and lying posters plastered on walls. They read; Reestablish Equality. Reestablish Humanity. Reestablish Hope, Healing, and Happiness. Off in the distance I notice smoke rising. A lonely fire, burning endlessly.
The Reestablishment ended us all.
Even know, I remember life before the asylum. They lied. They lied to the entire human race. They said the solution to all our greed, overindulgence and gluttony was in self-control, in minimalism, in sparse living conditions; one simple language and a brand-new dictionary filled with words everyone would understand. In no time at all, everything was being eradicated. Books were being burnt. Languages forced to be forgotten. Historical artefacts, destroyed. No more pointless holidays where man kind could rejoice. Personal convictions were what nearly killed us all, is what they said. No more of anything and everything. Nothing was given to us but cold brutality.
I don't know how many minutes, or even hours pass by before I see any form of life through the tiny window of this tank. Dull, tired corpses mill around a quiet street. They all look starved, they all look broken. What has this world become?
We pull up to an enormous structure. From the outside it looks like a bland building, inconspicuous in every way but its size, grey steel slabs comprising 4 flat walls, windows cracked and slammed into the 15 stories. It's plain and unidentifiable, it bares no insignia. Political headquarters camouflaged among the masses, per usual. Innocence is always their first line of defence. If ever an attack, the people would suffer first. The thought has always made me want to gag.
This is where I am going to die.
One by one, everyone climbs out of the tank in their turn. The door to my left opens and I'm dragged out by the handcuffs binding my wrist together. Again, the three soldiers surround me, Jonathan pushing me along. The big double doors come into view and I panic. I am not going in there. I struggle against Jonathan's grip and I scream in frustration as the soldiers hold my arms in place, both of them assist Jonathan's efforts to get me inside.
A blunt object collides with my face; a butt of a gun if I had to guess. The soldiers let go of my clothes in enough time to let me fall to the floor. I hear nothing but the rustling of wind and a cry off somewhere in the distance. I let my mind wonder for a moment, remembering all the cries I have caused with my own bare skin. I hate myself for it.
Blood spills from my mouth, the metallic taste reminds me of the old, rusted beams I had loved to climb as a child. They, too, made me bleed.
I spit on the dirty ground, dying the bare floor crimson. The sight of it makes me angry.
"You're a real dickhead, Jonathan," I say through gritted teeth as I'm hauled up to my feet. "You should know that."
He doesn't say a word, that makes my angry, too. His eyes become hard but he says nothing. He doesn't hit me again, which is surprising. My fate is inevitable, so I let them guide me. My eyebrows furrow as we enter the building. The sight stops me breathing and I feel my own features turn into a snarl.
Thousands of dollars wasted on marble floors and marble walls. The floor is lined with crimson Persian rugs, dyed red by the dead. Horrifyingly beautiful stands display decorum paid for with hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical aid. Ten years worth of food hangs over head my head in crystal chandelier form. I feel the artificial heat pouring in through air vents and think of children screaming for clean water. They even have the nerve to stick dirty dollar bills on a canvas and hang it on their walls, while hundreds, thousands, millions of their people die.
Before I know it I'm jumping at the decoration, wanting to tear it down, spit on it. I'm screaming and thrashing as the image of dying children rushes through my mind. People are grabbing at my clothes. Dragging me somewhere, hopefully to my death. I scream again, kicking at whatever I can. Soldiers fill the hallway trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion. When they see me, they stop and hold their guns tighter to their bodies.
Good. I hope I'm frothing at the mouth. I hope my eyes are black and my dripping blood, dark.
I hope I look insane.