Number Thirteen (4 page)
“Unless you want that,” our guard hisses, “then you’ll do as you’re told.”
He tugs us towards the door, and leads us out and away from the sounds of the sobbing girl.
But it’s not a sound I’ll be able to push out of my mind easily.
“T
hey’re in their rooms, sir.”
I lift my head and stare at George, my main guard, standing at the door. He’s got his broad arms crossed and he’s standing at full alert. I see a certain level of authority in his grey gaze, and I know I made the right decision choosing him for the job. He’s loyal, and trusting, and he obeys each and every one of my commands.
“Very good, George,” I say, my voice low.
I lift my eyes to the cameras, and zero in on the screens where the girls are all staring at their new rooms, experiencing their new lives for the first time. They’re frightened now, but they won’t be soon. They’ll learn why they’re here. They’ll see why I picked them. They’ll find out why they’re special.
Soon, they’ll all understand.
“Which girl do you require first?”
I keep my gaze locked on the screen, and I focus on the tiny blond girl, the one who seemed just that touch different to the rest. Fear doesn’t leak from her pores like it does from the others; she’s strong and steady.
It figures.
She doesn’t remember. I’ve made sure of that.
I turn my face to George. “Number Thirteen.”
T
he room our group is given is massive. It’s beyond what I’d imagined in my mind. I pictured a dark space with no windows, no fresh air, and ratty beds.
This room is open, and quite breezy. It’s very plain, though, with no paintings or pictures on the cream walls. The carpet is a pale blue, in perfect condition. The beds are all plain, with white linens and light-blue blankets folded at the end. Everything in the room is nice, but simple and logical. I’m sure there’s a reason for it; I’m just not sure what that reason is yet.
The guard shoves our group into the space and blocks the door. I walk in further, feeling my feet sink into the plush carpet. I cast my eyes over to the windows right away, out of instinct, but I see they’re fully barred. A pang of pain rips through my chest, and I feel some of my hope slipping, even though logic says of course the windows would provide no escape. I step in further, and stare into the large bathroom at the far left-hagiscand corner of the room. It’s got a large tub, a large glass shower, and a double vanity. I let my eyes settle on the mirror, and the sudden urge to go and look at myself is overwhelming.
I
need
to know who I am.
I
need
to remember.
“You will each pick a bed,” the guard says, and I turn to face him. “You are allowed to shower only once a day, unless you’re instructed to have more. You are not permitted to use the bath without permission. You have only basic soaps to wash with. The only time you’ll be given nice things, such as shampoo or conditioner, is if you earn them.”
He pauses for effect.
“Your clothes are in the drawers; you wear only one pair a day. There is to be no noise after eight p.m., and those who disobey will find themselves sleeping in the dark, stuffy basement.”
I stare at the guard, trying to take in all these rules. They don’t quite make sense to me. We’re slaves, yet they’re giving us basic things that are comfortable and nice enough to keep us feeling calm and content. We’re being told if we’re good, we will be rewarded with nice things, and if we’re bad, we won’t. None of it seems to be making a great deal of sense to me, and the more I hear, the more difficult it is for my fuzzy mind to process it.
I see another guard approach ours. He’s younger than our guard, with long red hair that’s tied at the nape of his neck. He’s a big man, and he’s got eyes as green as emeralds. He looks a little kinder, but he still doesn’t give us so much as a look as he leans down, whispering something to our guard. They nod, and murmur between each other, and I try hard to hear what they’re saying but I can’t make it out. The other guard walks off, and ours turns to us with a hard expression.
“Number Thirteen, you’re showering first. The master requests your presence.”
I look down at my hand, as if double-checking he’s actually called me, even though I know who I am. When I see the big, black, bold
13
on my hand, my stomach clenches, and bile rises in my throat. Why did he pick me first? Have I done something wrong? Is he going to send me away, like he did with Number Six? Am I not enough? Am I lacking?
Perhaps I’m terribly ugly. My brain feels like it’s throbbing, and I clench my eyes shut and try to remember what I look like. I can only come up with darkness. There’s nothing there.
The guard steps forward, and uncuffs me. “You’ve got a matter of seconds to get into the shower, Number Thirteen.”
I snap my head up, and I know my eyes are wide and alarmed. The other girls are staring at me with clear confusion and sympathy in the depths of their gazes. Yet I also see relief, as if they’re glad it’s not them going. I slowly force my feet towards the bathroom, feeling my heart pound as I step in. I go straight to the mirror, and my fingers curl around the basin.
Look up. See who you are
.
I lift my head slowly, and I stare into the mirror. A pair of sky-blue eyes stares back at me. They’re empty eyes. Like the girl who is meant to be in there has left nothing more than hollow orbs.
My hair is long, trailing down over my shoulders. It’s a light blond, but there are darker strands through it, giving it a streaked look. My nose is tiny and straight, and my lips are full. I lift my fingers, grazing them across my skin. It’s soft, and has a pink tinge. I look almost frail, somewhat like a doll that’s meant to sit on a shelf.
Even though I’m standing, I can’t see all of myself in the mirror because I’m so incrediblonlso incry short. I go up onto my tiptoes, trying to study myself further. On my tiptoes, I’m still not tall enough to see more. I guess that I’d be no bigger than five-foot tall, at the maximum. I can see I only have small breasts, and a tiny backside. My stomach is firm and small, just like the rest of me.
“Remove your clothes and shower,” the voice behind me barks.
I spin around, covering my breasts even though I’m still wearing clothes. I gape at the guard standing in the bathroom with me, his arms folded angrily across his chest. He’s got a level of authority in his eyes, like he takes his job far too seriously.
In the biggest voice I can muster, I croak, “I-I-I will, but you need to leave.”
His eyebrows shoot up, like I’ve surprised him. He steps in further, his face twisting with anger. “Do you think we don’t know what girls can do in a shower alone? There are instruments in here that can be used to attack. There’re also things that can harm a human body. We’ll not risk leaving you alone to plot. Now get your clothes off, and get into the shower.”
My skin prickles. He wants me to shower...in
front
of him? My head shakes from side to side as I take a few steps backwards. No, I won’t take my clothes off and wash myself while he leers at me. His face hardens as I continue to back up, shaking my head over and over, and giving him my clear answer on the matter. His hand lashes out, and his fingers curl around the top of my arm, causing a sharp, biting pain to shoot through my body.
I inhale.
“You will do as you’re told.”
I squirm. “Let me go!” I plead.
His hand lifts high above his shoulder, fingers splayed, and he slaps my face so hard my entire head swings to the side. Warm metallic blood fills my mouth as one of my teeth pierces my lip. I cry out, feeling my legs beginning to shake as I brace myself for the next blow. It comes quickly, and the loud slap fills the room, followed by my broken scream. Then he leans down and he tears my tank off with a loud rip. My pants follow behind. Leaving only my panties on, he swings the shower door open and shoves me in, pulling the faucet on.
Hot water comes roaring out, and it scalds my skin.
My cries fill the room as I frantically try to see through my blurred vision to turn the tap back to cold. It takes me a few seconds, and by this time my skin is burning from the contact. My tears blend with the scorching water, my sobs drowned out by the hammering of the shower. I lean down, picking up the bar of soap, and run it quickly over my body. I don’t look back at the guard, but I know he’s still standing and watching me. I finish up, and step out, drying myself with the scratchy towel provided.
The guard thrusts some clothes at me. He’s not going to leave, and I can’t put dry clothes over my wet underwear. I put the towel under my chin, and desperately try to balance myself and keep it tucked under there while I drop my wet clothes, and pull on the fresh ones. I force back the tears as I fold the towel over the rack, and run a brush through my knotty locks. Then I turn to the guard, and he reaches out, s
napping a new set of cuffs on my hands.
“Time to meet the master.”
I
try to take in every part of my surroundings, as I’m led down the long hall. I don’t know where it leads, but I count each room on the sides.
Four on the left, two on the right.
I catch a glimpse of what loon tks like a formal living area at the end, right before we turn into another hall that has a set of stairs at the end of it. We take the stairs up to another floor that’s open, and boasts a huge living area, a library, and a massive balcony overlooking the gardens.
Right in the middle of that room, imbedded into the wall, is a set of giant double doors. Two guards stand outside. My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my throat as the guard takes me closer, stopping at the door and lifting his little communicating device to his mouth, speaking in a different language. I so desperately wish I knew what he was saying. A voice comes across the line, and it’s deep and husky. That man also speaks in a different language.
Before I know what’s happening, a man is behind me, placing a blindfold over my eyes. I whimper, and try to duck my head out of the way. This earns me a hard shove and a snarled “stop moving.” I stop moving, though my legs feel as though they’ve turned to jelly. I’m terrified. This man doesn’t want us to see him. Is he that bad? Is he a monster? A beast? Maybe he’s someone very rich and important. I don’t know, but there’s most certainly a reason our eyes are never to fall on him.
I hear the door creak open, and I know I step into a darker room because everything seems to blacken. I swallow over and over, trying to control the desperation flooding my veins. My hands are shaking wildly, and my mind is spinning with possibilities. Will he rape me? Kill me? Sell me to someone else? I don’t know what’s about to happen to me, and that thought alone is enough to make me feel like my world is closing in on me.
The door shuts, and suddenly I feel alone. I listen for a sound, something to indicate it’s not so, but I hear nothing for the longest moment. Then I hear a shuffling, and I know there’s someone else in here with me. Tears soak the blindfold on my eyes, and I try frantically not to make a sound as I sob. I don’t want to beg; I don’t want to come across as feeble. I saw what happened to Number Six when she let herself give in to her fear.
I feel as though I’m standing in that spot for hours before a hand curls around the top of my arm. I flinch, not wanting him to touch me. I hear a hushing sound, and then I feel my body being pulled down. This is it; he’s going to rape me. I’ve got not escape. I can’t even fight. I’m bound. I let out a ragged plea, and squirm harder, not wanting to give any more of myself over to these people...these
monsters.
I’m pulled onto a lap, and I feel one hand land on my leg while another presses against my back. The man I’m sitting on is large, that much I know. He’s got to be quite tall, and the parts of him I can feel are pure muscle. His legs are resting against mine, and they’re solid. His chest is against my shoulder, and I know there’s a great deal of strength there by the way his muscles jump and move when he does. The arms around me are strong and commanding. The way he’s holding onto me, it’s controlling. He’s got me in a position I can’t easily escape from, and he’s put me there effortlessly.
“Please,” I whimper, and in my current state of despair, I don’t really know what I’m pleading for.
He doesn’t answer me. He just holds me there, as if I’m some sort of child. His arms rise up and wrap around my waist, securing me, and I can feel his chest rising and falling deeply with each breath he takes. I close my eyes, trying to take myself away, trying to control the fear that has my body trembling in his arms.
Think of something else, anything else
. I try to muster up a memory, only there are none. I try to think of the ocean or the forest, but I do hust, butn’t really remember clearly what they look like.
I only realize I’m sobbing when his hand comes up to my hair, and he strokes his fingers down the long, thick layers. I catch his scent when he moves, and he smells clean, like soap. I also get a hint of whiskey. I stop sobbing as he continues to glide his fingers down my hair. Who is this man? Why is he holding me like this? Why won’t he speak to me? Why won’t he let me see his face? I try to jerk free from his hold, but it’s no use. He’s got me in a vice-like grip, and he’s far too strong for me to break it.
“Who are you?” I whisper hoarsely.
He doesn’t answer; he just continues stroking his fingers down my hair. Is he trying to soothe me? Comfort me? Or is he just trying to mess with my head? My mind is swimming with thoughts, and no matter how long he sits, patting my hair, it’s not going to change the panic I’m feeling right now. But the more I squirm, the longer he holds me. I stop moving after ten minutes or so, and I clench my eyes shut, letting him continue, praying with every passing second that it’ll be over soon.
