'Мишка косолапый по лесу идёт
Шишки собирает, песенки поет.
Шишка отвалилась прямо мишке в лоб.
Мишка рассердиля и ногою топ!'
She never had anybody sing to her before.
Lullaby, he called it. It was nice. Relaxing, like someone was saying it was 'safe' without even using the word. Safety was such a foreign concept to her yet when she sat next to the Solider, safety seem much more real.
It was cold. It usual was, were they were, but tonight it seemed unnaturally so. She let out a breath, watching it come out in white puffs, like smoke. She would have giggled, if it wasn't so cold.
Most the girls had curled up into their blankets, a few who dared had even picked the lock of their handcuffs and bundled up together.
They would be warm tonight, before a beating tomorrow.
She turned, looking and the empty bed next to hers. Emily's bed had remained the same, as if she had just left it despite it being a week since she died.
She felt sad that she was gone. A harsh reminded of why you shouldn't make friends here. They all ended up dying anyway. They had begun with twenty-nine girls, thirty counting herself.
In the first week, that number had dropped to twenty, half the girls dying after being sick. Over the next few months the number decreased to fifteen, when they moved to a smaller room. Over the next few months that number decreased to six, five including Emily's recent passing.
She would never forget the first girls ten that died. Halfway through one of the first training sessions, one of them had dropped to the floor. Convulsing violently, spitting out blood, like she was choking on it. Her eyes had been bloodshot, her hands bloodstained and shaking as she screamed. Screamed about the burn.
She hadn't seen the rest of it, Mother ordering the 'men' (there were not many here, in fact she had only counted the maximum of ten in the entire Red Room) grabbing her and taking her away, Mother following swiftly after.
By the end of the night, the rest were gone. Some of their beds bloodied and stained with vomit.
In the end, that was all that was left.
Blood.
They had been coming out battered. Each girl that had entered the room, had come out looking like they had walked through hell itself. Considering where they lived, that was saying something.
"What do you think it is?" Sarai whispered. She was about her age, with thick dark hair and warm brown skin.
She was fluent in Arabic, Russian and German. She was also one of the few girls that 'prayed' at night. Rachel had once said it was because she had come from a 'family' and that the reason she 'prayed' was because she was 'religious'
Religion was a rather confusing concept to her, but Sarai had kindly explained the basics to her. From what she understood, there were many religions, most of them referred to a being known as God, but often was referred by many other names.
All of them had different rules, notes and agreed on different things, but the basic idea was that God loved everyone and was there to guide people to the good side. To give hope, light and kindness.
She often wondered if the God was what made Sarai have hope. That she would leave. She would open her 'school' teach people, get to see her 'family' again. She wondered if God made Sarai cry some nights, over the girls she had been forced to kill.
"I don't know." she finally answered. Sarai nodded, leaning back cupping her hands, lowering her head, mumbling something under her breath.
She leaned back, resting her head against the cold stone. "Are you praying?" she asked. Sarai nodded.
She shut her eyes, not wanting to bother her. Praying seemed important.
Sarai shifted next to her, making her open her eyes. "What did you pray for?" she asked.
"For us." Sarai replied simply, suddenly taking her hand giving it a squeeze. "We're going to be okay."
"How do you know?"
Sarai leaned back, running a hand over her glossy tight plait. "I don't, but I believe."
"Okay." she said, unsure what else to say.
Sarai smiled, her eyes shining in the low morning light.
Sarai came out with a broken arm. Her injuries weren't nearly as bad as the others, but her tear-stricken face and bruises caused and unfamiliar flicker of fear to shot though her.
What was in that room?
A few more girls went in after her.
Five were left.
Then two.
Then one.
Her.
Sitting on the bench, leaning on the cold stone, watching them leave felt like torture itself. Things always felt worse when they were drawn out.
It's why slow deaths were the most painful.
"Devochka," sad Madame Adelaide, her heels sounded like cannons to her ears. Her turn.
Getting up, she walked past the older woman, back straight eyes head. The turned on her heel, following her. She paused in front of the door, the dark wood was teasing her, as her mind eagerly began cooking up the scenarios and nightmares that might be behind it.
Madame Adelaide stood behind her, opening the door. Inclining her head towards it. She stepped though, a shiver running up her spine.
The room looked like a normal training room. A desk with a notepad on the side. Paintings on the walls, vase of flowers on a coffee table near the entrance. Locked window, flower curtains. Big mirror in the centre, mantel, fireplace, pretty floral carpets.
The rooms were designed to mimic areas of where one would be attacked. A reflection of how normal people behave. She used to love these rooms. They were the closest to the world outside, she would get.
While the room looked normal, the little tings of blood that were on stained on the wooden floor did not go amiss by her.
Pulling her eyes from the floor, she looked up staring at the back of the man in front of her.
His posture was stiff, perfect, hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in full black, tactical gear, black pants and shirt, combat boots, fingerless gloves. His hair was long, but not very, just below his ears. Brown, whether light or dark she couldn't tell.
But it was his arm that her eyes pulled too. It was silver. His entire left arm from his fingers, to the top of his shirt was covered in metal.
The door suddenly closed behind her, making her head snap. Madame Adelaide had closed the door.
For the second, the room was filled with silence.
The man turned around, facing her.
He had a light stubble, his face was set like stone. His eyes were blue. He looked young, but his eyes were old and…blank. The blankness made her pause, eyes always held something, but his empty stare was just that. Empty.
She felt very small next to him, she was very small next to him. She probably only came up to his elbow and that was at best guess.
The man was watching her, he wanted to see if she would blink first. She held his gaze.
The man's right hand dropped out of his clasp. She what was coming before it came.
The man grabbed one of the vases, throwing it across the room. She ducked it, jumping onto the coffee table.
She found the monster.
He was just a man.
The Red Room had been created by a man, a monster in a sea of innocent's. A monster who trained woman girls, to become monsters just like him. Emily used to say: "Monsters made monsters."
She wondered if this man was once like them.
A boy who was turned into a monster.
It sad, but considering he was trying to kill her, she didn't have time or energy to waste on feeling sad.
She ducked behind the brown wooden cabinet, she could see him in the reflection in the glass, and she knew he could too. But hiding wasn't the point.
He walked towards her, his steps were slow. Heavy, he was strong, very strong. He could have probably torn her in two if he really needed to. But that wasn't the point.
She would need to think very deeply about this, before she attacked. His left arm, looked completely metal, she wasn't going to get very far by attacking it.
He kicked the coffee table aside, the table crashing into the wall. It made a small dent. She knew how this looked, like she was cowing, hiding. This was a new test, they must be-there. She caught the security camera in the corner of the room, it was small, near impossible to detect under duress.
They were watching.
His eyes were staring at her from the mirror, his right hand gripping the cabinet.
Showtime.
Before he could move it, she launched herself at him, throwing herself at full force. Kneeing him hard in the gut, making him stumble slightly. She dropped to the floor. She got out of her hiding place.
His brief stumble gave her an advantage, sweep kicked him, in some attempt to throw him off balance. The man caught her idea, grabbing her left leg, throwing her into the wall.
It knocked the wind out of her, pain rocked her system. He marched towards her, when she saw it.
She jumped up, launching herself at him again. She hit his chest, swinging herself around, wrapping her arms around his neck in a chokehold, trying to turn him.
He grabbed her by her neck, throwing her to the floor. She slammed into the cabinet, landing on the floor, on some of the broken vase pieces. Grabbing the smaller pieces she threw them into this face as hard as she could.
He grunted.
Grabbing the larger piece of the vase, she ran at him again, stabbing the large vase shard into his right arm. He made a yelp of pain, his left arm, grabbing her by the neck slamming her into the floor.
She beat against it, kicking and screaming in anger, or maybe agony, but his grip was too strong. It was futile.
She knew what happened. It wasn't a fight. Not for him.
He was playing with her, like she had with Emily.
Touché.
She stopped moving, going silent. The man, was completely silent, if it wasn't for his breath she would have though she's been fighting a ghost. Her eyes meeting the security camera.
Did she do well?
Okay, 2-shot...
If I had a nickel everytime I wrote something once and had inspiration and ended up with a whole-damn story at the end, I'd have like 5 nickels...why? Anyways, thoughts?
Till next time...