Red Fox (16 page)

Talk about luxurious! Although the room is quite large, apart from the kitchen, lounge chairs, and bookshelf, it is almost completely empty. It looks like some sort of high-tech bachelor pad. There is so much space you could fit one hundred people in here comfortably. I suppose they want to make rape as comfy as possible.

I laugh bitterly, feeling very self-conscious, and walk straight towards the room labelled with a bronze number
3
. Everyone is silent, watching, as if a tiger is walking through the common room. I open room three, step inside, and close the door. I think I can hear the blood pounding in my brain. Hopefully I’ve got internal bleeding and will be dead by morning. But then I realise the sound isn’t my blood streaming into my brain, it’s the people in the common room. They’ve all burst out into conversation that is muffled by the door. I know they are talking about me.

I lean against the door and breathe out heavily. The people didn’t look vicious, they just looked normal, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I didn’t expect this facility to be so accommodating. I figured Warden would want people breeding immediately. I thought I might just be thrown in a bedroom with a man and be expected to reproduce with him instantly. Not that it makes a difference whether it occurs now or later. Either way, I am given no choice to the act itself.

There are two single beds in the small room, both sporting deep green doonas and white sheets and pillows. A pile of clothes and a towel sits at the end of both. A square window in the roof gives a glimpse of blue sky and a few leaves of an overhanging tree. There are no drawers or cupboards. Nothing except these two beds.

And then I see her; a child sitting on the bed to the left.

16.

I start when my eyes settle on her, half expecting the youngster to spring at me and attack like everyone else in this wretched place does. Realising she is just as alarmed as I am, I stare and wonder what on earth she is doing in this compound. She is probably twelve years old and has a soft, childish face with shoulder length fawn coloured hair. Tan freckles are scattered all over her face. She is staring at me with a frightened expression her blue eyes wide.

“Who’re you?” she asks, cringing. She takes hold of the bed covers like she might dive under them for protection.

I remember that I am still covered in blood and must look particularly menacing to a little girl. I stay by the door so I don’t scare her. “I’m Freya. Who are you?”

“Isobelle,” she says. “Are you my new roommate?”

“I guess so,” I say solemnly.

I sit on the opposite bed and try to lie down but accidentally hit my freeze-burnt arm. Wincing, I glance over to the girl, who is still looking at me curiously, and see she has a B brand on her shoulder too. It looks like it is scabbing over and has healed somewhat. Mine isn’t bleeding but the skin is raw, red, and stings like thousands of miniscule insects are biting it. I wonder how long all of these people have been in the B compound if their brands are already healing. Had Whil and I been thrown into the arena because we didn’t show enough aggression at the rally? Were some of these people handpicked by the government and placed in this facility weeks ago?

“Why’re you all bloodied up?” Isobelle asks quickly.

“I got whipped.”

Her face registers nothing but understanding. “Oh. What’cha do wrong?”

“I bit Warden.”

Isobelle grins, and I decide I like her. “I bit her when I first got ‘ere too. There’s a bathroom in the room next to us if you wanna have a shower. Don’t worry, the door locks, and the people here ain’t so bad. They’re all a bit old but they’re okay. Even the boys are pretty nice considerin’ why they’re ‘ere. The staff make us good meals and you get to do whatever you want and—”

“Whoa there!” I say, holding my hands up in a gesture for her to stop. She must speak with a thick Australian accent for me to notice it. “Slow down. Why don’t I ask you a question?”

“Okay,” she says with a smile.

“Why are
you
here?”

The young girl cocks her head and a wistful smile creeps onto her lips. “For the same reason you are.”

My mouth drops open. “W-what?” I stammer.

Isobelle grows uncomfortable under my confounded gaze and begins playing with her fingers. “Yeah, I’m the youngest ‘ere, but they still eventually want me to… you know.”

“That… That’s just sick,” I spit.

Forcing me to come here was one thing. Forcing a little girl who quite possibly doesn’t even know how reproduction occurs, who might not even have the knowledge to understand just how wrong this whole situation, is another. It’s so vile that all I can do is shake my head and swallow back the slimy saliva in my mouth, which always comes right before I throw up.

“Have you… had to do it yet?” I ask her.

“No. We’ve all only been ‘ere for a coupla weeks. Warden is a bit nicer to me compared to the other girls. She also don’t expect me to do anythin’ just yet. I ain’t old enough, but she wants me brought up with the Bs so I get used to it.”

“W-what did you do at your rally to be here?”

“I tried to runaway… and I attacked the men guardin’ the doorway to the hall we were in.”

“Has Warden said how long we have to live here before we have to,” I pause, unsure how to continue, “Choose a partner?” I finish.

Isobelle looks at me with intrigue. “I don’t think it’s about choosin’ a partner. There are only three boys in this facility. We’re expected to mate with one of ‘em soon. Warden said pregnancy tests will get done eventually and there are security cameras in the boy’s rooms, the common room, and the bathrooms to see if people are doin’ what they should.”

“How can you talk about it so casually?” I gape. “It makes me want to throw up.”

Isobelle shrugs. “We gotta do it, and I been here long enough now that it’s become a pretty normal thing to hear and talk ‘bout.”

“You won’t have to do it,” I tell Isobelle firmly, looking in her blue eyes. “I won’t let that happen to you.”

She smiles as if she knows I’m lying. In reality, what can I do if Warden takes Isobelle and one of the men away from here? I can fight and try to protect her, but eventually I will just be darted or whipped again. Plus, I still want to escape, and I want to get Whil out with me! I can’t be concerned about my fellow inmates if I’m just going to end up leaving them anyway.

I wonder, if given the chance to escape, whether I would stay to try to find my way to Whil or leave without hesitation. Would I try to rescue this twelve-year-old girl from a horrendous fate? By nature, humans feel for one another and despair when another human is in sorrow. Yet, when it comes down to saving ourselves or another person, I admit, we are very selfish creatures. 

“I’ll have a shower,” I tell Isobelle, picking up the towel folded at the end of my bed, as well as the pile of clean clothes. I don’t want to continue on this train of thought.

She nods, and I leave the room, clutching my towel and clothes to my chest as I step into the common room. Not everyone looks at me this time, but I’m glad to slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Just like the rest of the building, the bathroom is pristine white with just a few black fleur-de-lis feature tiles. There is a large bathtub, more like the size of a spa, at the back with a frosted window above it. Vertical bars run across the glass pane. The shower is absurdly large as well. It could easily fit all of the people in the common room behind its glass screening.

Warden would probably like that,
I think. She probably wants all of us crammed in there together. I turn towards the basin and recoil when I see the deathly reflection in it. There is a girl standing in the mirror, but she looks more like a demon or a well-fed vampire. Hard, cracked blood covers her face, caking her skin and making parts of her blonde hair maroon coloured and crusty. Clutching my heart, I stare at myself for a long, long time, hardly able to breathe. This is a vision from a nightmare.

Desperate to get rid of the blood, I turn the shower tap labelled hot and am surprised when the water actually begins to run warm. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hot shower and heaven knows I could use one now. Stripping off my soiled clothes, I step under the stream and my nerve endings scream with agony as the hot water trickles into the lacerations on my back, face, and arms. The brand area stings but it is nothing compared to the searing pain where the whip broke skin countless time. There are a few face cloths hanging on a shelf in the shower, and I have to grab one and bite it to stop myself from screaming. I stand there, cringing, watching the water at my feet run red.

After a minute, the pain subsides into a throbbing and I find the strength to scrub my face free of the blood and grime and then work on the rest of my body. As I wipe the cloth over my skin, paler flesh is exposed beneath the gilding coating of dirt stains. Hopefully, whoever owns this face washer is done with it. It is stained crimson and brown already.

I’m in too much pain to enjoy the feeling of my oily hair rinsing clean and the sensation of a week’s worth of grime on my skin washing away. Whil and I had been bathing in the dam at my aunt and uncle’s, but it wasn’t clean. The water was always a yellow colour and murky. How I wish I were back bathing in the grimy dam in solitude at twilight.

I turn off the water, get out, and catch sight of my clean reflection in the wall mirror, which is slowly fogging up with steam. Now, a pale-faced girl stares back at me, her dark blonde hair hanging in soggy drapes past her shoulders. The wounds etched into her face like carvings are red and swollen, though no longer bleeding. There is one on the bridge of her nose, so deep it would almost touch the cartilage. There is another gash on her forehead, and another on her cheek, which is the deepest and foulest looking. Her face isn’t full and radiant like it once was. It’s taut and her expression looks miserable; perhaps how prisoners feel after years of living in a cage—defeated.

I remember looking in the mirror in the farmhouse lounge room less than a month ago and seeing the tanned girl staring back at me with bright brown eyes, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her lips stretched into a smile. I hardly recognise this thin ghostly looking thing I’m looking at now.

I look into my reflection’s eyes, and I still see that spark; a spark that swirls with life and fire. Something in me lives on. The constant yearning I have developed for freedom will never leave me now.

I pat myself dry, wincing each time I touch one of the wounds on my back. I scavenge through the cupboards in the bathroom and find some cotton wool and bandages. It takes a lot of teeth gritting and quiet cursing to press the cotton wool against my back and then wrap the bandage around it. It’s awkward, because I try to wrap the bandage without moving my branded arm, for it stings horribly, and without tilting my whirling head too much. Eventually, I sit down on the lip of the tub, knowing if I stay standing I’m going to collapse. Poor Whil did very well to sit motionless while I bandaged his head all of those times. But even his head wound wasn’t this deep. At least I have the chance to keep this clean and avoid infection.

I slip into the clean clothes, revelling at the feeling of soft, clean fabric against my skin. The clothes consist of a pair of white underpants, a plain white sports bra, a white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

White! Why is everything white? Isn’t white meant to be the colour of purity? How can they use innocent white and yet promote murder and rape at the same time?

Scoffing, I leave my bloody clothes in a pile in the bathroom. The lunatics who run this place can have the pleasure of washing them and seeing what they put Whil and me through. A horrible pang shoots through my heart each time I think of Whil. Has he been branded? Has he been introduced to his new “family”? I leave the bathroom quietly and go back to bedroom three, where I fall face first onto the bed and begin to cry.

The tears come thick and heavy and hot. I can’t control them. I thought I would be out of tears by now, but the thought of the horrible branding man hovering over me is fresh in my mind. My body has never endured such excruciating pain. Not to mention, the idea of Whil surrounded by women hankering for his attention sends ripples of both anger and sadness through my heart. Why couldn’t Warden just leave us together? Even Seiger could see that would have been easiest!

Isobelle doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t try to comfort me either. She just lets me cry into my pillow until the cushion is wet with tears. After ten minutes of bawling, the tears do run dry, and I lie sniffling. I must look like hell. I’m almost glad Whil isn’t here to see my downfall.

Lying on my belly, I bury my head into the pillows and gather the blankets around me like a soft, cushiony fort. I’m so physically and mentally worn out that my eyes slide closed and I’m just about to fall asleep when the loudspeaker in the top corner of our room starts blaring.

“Breakfast is ready. Miss Warden will be coming to talk to those living in Facility One in twenty minutes. Be assembled in the common room.”

Isobelle snorts. “Chin up, Freya. Don’t let ‘em see you been crying.”

I groan and sit up. Is it really breakfast? I forgot Seiger had captured us just last night. It feels so long ago. Drying my eyes and taking a stabilising breath, I try to put on a brave face.

Getting out of bed, Isobelle and I walk to the door and open it. A delicious array of scents wafts through the air and my eyes land on the marble kitchen counter. A feast sits waiting for us prisoners. There is a complete smorgasbord of foods: scrambled eggs in a metal pan, bacon and sausages piled high on a plate, sourdough toast slotted in a metal rack. There are glass jugs brimming with orange, apple, and tropical juice with drinking cups stacked beside them. The dishes stretch up the whole table and plates, knives and forks are set in front of each chair. Most of my fellow prisoners are sitting down already and have started eating. Isobelle and I head towards the end of the table and sit down at the only two empty seats. There is an auburn-haired woman with the face of an angel, who can only be a few years older than me, between Isobelle and me, and a man who is probably in his late twenties across from me.

“Hey new girl,” the beautiful woman says. “You’re looking a little beaten up.”

“No joke,” I mutter, helping myself to some toast and scrambled eggs. I fought against Warden, I fought against the branding man, I cried my heart out and now I am ravenous and deprived of energy. And I’m in no mood for playtime with the locals. I shovel food into my mouth, unconcerned by the surprised, almost disgusted looks I receive from those around me.

“Don’t be like that,” the auburn-haired girl says, pouring me a glass of apple juice and pushing it towards me with a kind smile. “I’m Madison. This here is Jacob.”

Ah! So this is the couple Warden was talking about—the ones who weren’t doing their job properly. I stab a rasher of bacon with my fork and look between the pair with growing interest, sure that if they aren’t following Warden’s orders they must be friends, not foes.