Number Thirteen (2 page)
No one deserves to die.
But I did die, that day.
And in my place, a monste
r was born.
M
y knees scrape across the jagged concrete as a large, hooded man clutches my hair and pulls me along. My mouth is covered, and breathing has become problematic. Tears well under my eyelids as we come to a stop, and my skin has a chance to begin a deep, penetrating burn. I can feel the warm blood that runs down my legs, and my throat stings with the bile that has been rising up and down for the past three hours. My body is suddenly jerked off the ground, and before I can register what’s happening, I’m being thrown into a large, wooden crate.
“We have to move them, and we have to move them now. They’ve been purchased, and they’ve been requested to be delivered in top condition,” a male voice grunts out.
Through my hazy vision, I can see there are two other girls in here with me. Both are equally as battered. I can hear the shrill shrieking from the crate beside me, and the sound has my body tensing and quivering. A sick sensation clenches my stomach and I try to focus my attention away from the screaming girl, and instead try and listen to what’s happening around me. Information is key, and in a situation such as this, it could likely save my life.
If I have a life left to save.
“He wanted ten,” a male voice says. “It’s like he hand-picked them. Fucking strange if you ask me. I heard he is gathering them from other places, too, like off the streets.”
I don’t know who they’re talking about.
I don’t even remember how I ended up here. My mind is a fuzzy mess, and I can’t even recall my own name. My body has been pumped full of so many drugs I don’t know left from right.
I have brief bouts of consciousness before they come along and drive a needle into my neck again. Then I slip away, god only knows for how long. It’s hard to know where you’re going when you spend half the time unconscious.
I hear a small broken cry from behind me, and I shift my bound body to focus on the two girls, also bound and gagged. They’ve got tears running down their faces, and they look as terrified as I feel. The girl to my left is rocking backwards and forward, her hands tied tightly in front of her. The one to my right is staring silently at me, like a part of her is hoping I’ll save her, or maybe just tell her how we ended up here. I don’t have an answer for her. I’m as clueless as she is.
“I just threw the tenth girl in,” a man barks. “Let’s move.”
The lid to the crate slams closed, and my heart rate picks up. I squirm, not wanting to be crammed into this tiny little crate for god only knows how long. I hear a curse, and then someone barks an order. The crate lid is swung back open, and I look up to see a dark-haired man leaning down with a needle in his hand. My squirming becomes more persistent and I shake my head, using my feet to shove myself further back against the crate. It’s no use; the man plunges a needle into my neck, sending a sharp, scorching pain through my body, and then he steps back, smashing the lid closed again. I turn my eyes to the girl staring at me, and she shakes her head softly.
I know what she’s telling me.
It’s no use.
T
he aches radiating through my body rouse me from my haze. It takes me a few moments to be able to blink my eyes and force them open. When I do, I’m in complete darkness. I try to move my body only to feel that I’m still bound, but the gag in my mouth is gone. I force myself into a sitting position, and cry out in pain as my body fills with a prickling sensation. My arms are numb from lack of circulation, and every slight movement is complete agony. It only confirms that I’ve been in that position for a long time, possibly overnight.
I press my back against a cold, possibly stone, wall. I try to focus on the noises around me, but there are none. I can’t hear the other girls; I can’t hear voices. I can’t hear anything at all except the sound of my own breathing. My throat is dry and burning, and I feel as though I’ve not had water for days. It’s likely I haven’t, and with all these drugs, my body must be going into protection mode, trying to save what it can.
I sit like that for more than two hours. I know this because I start counting, waiting to see when my next dose of drugs will be, and trying to get some sort of understanding on how this works. If I know when to expect them, then maybe I have more chance at escape.
I hear mumbled male voices, and then a light flickers on. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to my surroundings. I’m in a tiny room, with no windows and only one door. That door is solid metal, with minuscule bars blocking a window at the very top. The floor is concrete, and the walls are, in fact, stone. This isn’t a room; it’s a cell. Even in my haze I know that.
The door rattles, and slowly creaks open. I set my eyes on the space, waiting to see who will come in. Three men enter the room, all with their faces covered by masks with eyeholes and a tiny nose slot. They’ve each got two girls, clutching them by the chains that are shackling their wrists together. They thrust the girls onto the ground, and then they disappear, coming back a moment later with another two each. They dump them on the floor, too, before turning and slamming the large, metal door, leaving us alone together.
Once my eyes fully adjust, I look around and take in each of the girls. I try to see some sort of similarity that would help this all make sense. There’s no pattern between us; the only thing I notice is that they’ve all got a number on their hands. It seems to be tattooed on. Curious, I glance down at the back of my hand, and I see a bold black
13
. I stretch my shackled hand over, and run my finger over the raised skin. It’s sore, which tells me it’s very real. I peer around at the other girls, whom are all keeping to themselves. Most are staring at their hands, refusing to make eye contact.
I study their hands, and their faces. Number One is a short, plump girl, sitting in the far corner. Her hair is mousy brown, and she’s got a light scattering of freckles on her nose. I can’t see her eyes, because she won’t look at me.
Number Two is sitting closest to me. She’s an attractive Latin American with hazel eyes that slant upwards, giving her an exotic look. She’s got long, brown hair that is ratty and unkempt. She looks like she’s been here a while. I think she was in the crate with me.
Number Three has tears tumbling down her freckled cheeks. She’s got flaming-red hair, and pale-blue eyes.
Number Four is a dark girl with skin that reminds me of pure silk. Her eyes are as dark as her skin, and she’s got locks of frizzy hair.
Number Five is a blonde, pale girl. I can’t see her eyes, but I would imagine they’d be blue; she’s that kind of fair. Her body is fraiotibody isl and tiny, like she’s not eaten in weeks.
Number Six has raven-black hair, cropped into a pixie cut. Her eyes are emerald green, and she’s probably one of the most stunning girls on the ground.
Number Seven is an Indian girl, with long, thick brown hair and milk chocolate eyes. She has a tiny dot in between those eyes, and when I look in her direction, I feel instant warmth towards her. She’s the only one who has connected her eyes with mine.
Number Eight is a tall, skinny girl with light-brown hair. She looks like an athlete, and her body is extremely muscular. She’s tensing and un-tensing her jaw in rage.
Number Nine is a tiny, petite girl who couldn’t be more than five foot. She’s got bleached blond hair that’s cut around her ears. Her eyes are brown, and her skin is tanned, as if she’s spent a lot of time on the ocean.
Number Ten is an Asian girl, with a tiny body and that beautiful, unblemished Asian skin. She’s curled up in the corner, her hands turned just enough for me to see her number, she’s not moving, not looking at anyone.
Number Eleven is a very butch girl. She’s got short, black hair, and pale skin. Her eyes are a hazel color, but edging more towards brown. She glares at me when I look at her, so I quickly turn my eyes away.
Number Twelve is staring at me, and she’s also a tiny girl with dark-red hair, and green eyes. She gives me a wobbly smile that I can’t bring myself to return.
That brings me to myself, Number Thirteen. I’m couldn’t tell you what I look like, because I don’t remember. I know I’ve got blond hair, because I caught a wisp of it in my vision. I have olive skin; I can see that, too. I’m very short compared to some of the girls, more resembling the pixie girl in size and height. I’m what they’d call petite. Even my hands and feet are tiny versions of a normal person’s hands.
So here we all are, ranging from stunning to average. This makes it more confusing, because there’s no distinct pattern, and that makes it even scarier. And out of all of us it’s only me, Number Seven, and Number Twelve who seem curious about our surroundings. The other girls act like zombies, like they have no personalities left. Like it’s been stripped of them. This causes a shiver of fear to run through my body.
M
y head throbs at the sound of Number Six’s obstinate screeching. It’s been four hours now, and her screaming hasn’t diminished. She’s by the door, banging her tiny fists against the metal, like it’s going to make it move. Aside from me, she’s probably the smallest of us, yet she’s screaming as though she’s ten times her size, and beating the door like every pummel with her tiny fists will somehow break it down and change this situation. My nerves are shot, and we’re all feeling the same fear she is. Her screaming isn’t helping.
“Please stop,” Number Twelve whispers, closing her eyes as if in pain.
I meet her gaze, and she shifts closer to me. A part of me wants to reach out and take her hands, but the other part is too terrified to move. I’m trying not to think of all the awful reasons we’re here, but with Number Six screaming the way she is, that’s impossible. Numbers Three and Eight are sleeping, as though they can’t hear Number Six’s carrying on. Either that, or they’re extremely patient. Me, I’m not. My entire body is tingling uatxwith a building rage, the kind that will have me shrieking at Number Six in a short time if she doesn’t stop.
Then I remember that we’re all in this together, and yelling at her for expressing her fear would make me a bad person. So I lay down on the unsympathetic, hard floor, placing my bound hands underneath my head. My back sends sharp intense pain through my hips and right down my legs, and my ribs ache from laying on such a hard surface. I try to press my hands over my ears, because Number Six’s screaming just picked up. She’s also decided that her fists aren’t going to work, so she’s leaning back and kicking the door with everything she’s got. When she gets nowhere doing that, she begins banging her head into the bars, sending sickening thudding sounds through the air. I spare her another quick glance.
I feel sorry for her.
Her panic has taken over.
I hope I never get so desperate.
I manage, somehow, to fall into a light sleep. I can hear Number Six screaming, but eventually it turns into a croaky scream, that slowly fades into a hoarse rasp. She’s determined, I’ll give her that much. Every now and then, when my mind wakes up a touch, I hear the thump as she still occasionally tries to kick the door. When she quietens down, my body falls into a deeper sleep, and I stay that way for what I imagine is about eight hours, because when I wake, it’s morning out
—
I can tell this by the light coming through the tiny bars
—
and Number Six has started her screaming again.
“Let me out, please, let me go!” she screeches.
I see there’s dried blood on her knuckles, and her face is red and puffy. I feel bad for her; it’s hard not to. She’s hurting, and she’s terrified. She doesn’t know why she’s here, and instead of keeping it together, she’s letting it show. I can’t entirely blame her. It’s taking all my inner strength not to walk over and join her at the door. The only reason I’m not is because in my moment of full clarity, I want to take in everything I can. If I scream, the chances are I’ll get drugged again, and I’ll miss something vital.
“Will you shut up?” the butch girl, Number Eleven, snarls.
I let my eyes travel over to her, and then back to Number Six. I stare between the two of them. Number Eleven has her fists clenched, and she’s glaring at Number Six, who is still screaming, albeit hoarsely, and kicking the door.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Number Eleven roars. “God dammit, shut the hell up!”
The other girls are all sitting. Some of them are crying, and others are staring at their hands still, as if they’ve not moved. I push my sore body into a sitting position, and I try to croak out a ‘stop’ to Number Six, but my throat is so dry it just sounds like I’m squeaking. I close my eyes, taking a deep, painful breath. I hear the lock to the door click, and my head snaps up. Everyone watches as the door swings open, and Number Six is sent soaring backwards.
She lands with a thump over the other side of the room, and when she gets to her knees, she’s bleeding from her lip. Her eyes are frantic, and the moment two of the hooded guards step in, she charges them. Even though her hands are bound, she still tries. She doesn’t make it close enough to hurt them, because one of their hands launches out, slapping her across the face. A scream escapes her throat as her head twists sideways, and she lands with a loud crash on the floor. One guard swoops down and takes hold of her by the back of her shirt. He lifts her into the air, and shoves her towards his friend.
Then they step out of the rooI ct of thm, slamming the door again. We can hear Number Six’s screaming all the way down the hall. We hear another door slam, and then the sound of another slap. My stomach coils tightly, and a silent tear comes out and falls down my cheek. Number Six’s broken screams turn into strangled sobs, and desperation takes over. I want to press my hands to my ears, and block it all out, but I can’t. I have to sit here and listen, and from a glance at the other girls and their pale faces, I can tell they’re feeling the same way.
