Number Thirteen
Page 21
“Oh, I’m sorry, do that hurt you, honey?” she mocks. “Maybe you should go sit on the master’s lap.”
What? How would she know that? How does she know any of this? Anger swells in my chest as she continues to bait me. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her put you and your group back in that basement. I ignore her taunts, and turn, not making eye contact with the other girls who stand quietly in the corner. They don’t look like they are as mean as her, but they also look smart enough not to try and defend me. I decide on taking the entrée, and begin creating it. They’ve got garlic prawns on a bed of seasoned cous cous. I need to prepare all the prawns, and for twenty to thirty people, that will take a while.
I hear the other girls get to work, and as Number Eleven goes past me, she shoves me hard into the counter. I bite my lip to stop from lashing out, but warmth floods my veins, and my chest puffs out as I try to keep my anger at bay. I fight back my tears and keep preparing. I don’t have time to let her get to me. I can’t let another person create who I am before I know myself.
This isn’t the only time she shoves me. It continues throughout the morning. She shoves at me when she walks past, pushes my bowls off the counter, scattering food onto the floor, and puts her leg out when I go past so she can trip me up. By the time lunch rolls around, I’m at the end of my tether. So when she shoves me, I spin around, knife in hand, and I snarl at her. “Will you just go away? What have I done to you?”
She just laughs. Like I’m a joke.
Maybe I am.
Tears burn in my eyes, and I throw my knife down and run from the kitchen. The guards are after me in less than a second, but I run as hard and fast as I can through the halls. I hear the sounds of alarms being sounded, but I don’t stop. I run, not really knowing where I’m going. I’m so angry that I’m panting, my entire body thrumming. I want to scream. I want to make it all go away. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be this...this...freak.
A tall man with his hand over his face, his eyes as beautiful as a crystal-blue ocean.
I skid to a halt, panting. An image flickers through my mind. I don’t know what or when it was from, but it’s an image. Before I can process it, another one hits me. Harder, more full on.
“Sissy! Play with me,” a small girl cries, her blond pigtails flicking around her face. “We always play when he’s not here. Momma has gone away with him, so now we can sing, and dance.”
I grip my head, crying out as the memory almost burns into my mind. I start running again when I hear the shouts from behind me. Before I know it, I’m at the master’s door. I don’t even know why I ran here, but here I am. I start banging frantically, beside myself. I don’t want to feel like this. I want the answers. He needs to tell me. He needs to explain why he’s stripping me of my rights.
“Open the damned door!” I scream. “Face me, goddammit, you face me!”
The door opens suddenly, and I’m tugged in before I get even a glance at him. God damn him. He spins me around, and presses my back against his chest. He presses a hand over my eyes for a moment, until he can take a blindfold, place it over my eyes, then quickly secure it. I start running my mouth off before he has even finished tying the last kn sg t’tot.
“What’s wrong with you?” I scream. “Why am I here? Why won’t you tell me? It’s not fair. You can’t just take someone and not tell them why. She’s bullying me, telling me I’m a freak, that I’m fucked up, that I’m weak. Why does she know about me, but I don’t? It’s not your goddamned right to keep this away from me. I don’t want to be here. Let me go.”
He turns me around, and on wobbly legs, I go. I open my mouth to speak again, only to feel his hands come up and cup my face. I feel the warmth of his palms radiating through my cheeks. My body tingles all over, and I can’t quite understand why I would feel this way around him. I hate him. He strokes his fingers gently under my eyes, and I realize I’m crying so much it’s soaked through the blindfold and is starting to run down my cheeks.
Maybe they’re right; maybe I am weak.
“Master,” I hear a guard shout, rushing into the room. I hear something crash to the ground, and Master William tenses behind me.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Leave.”
“Yes sir.”
I hear the door close, and then I feel Master William begin walking us toward something. He sits me down onto a couch, surprisingly not on his lap. He sits beside me; I know because the couch moves when he settles himself.
“Number Eleven was bullying you.”
It’s not a question; it’s a fact.
“I do something wrong, I get punished. She does something wrong, and she’s not.”
“Wrong, frumusee, she will be punished.”
“You let her bully me. You watched it, you watch everything we do, and you let her do it.”
“Wrong again. I was watching to see how you dealt with it.”
“She could have hurt me,” I snarl, jerking my body further away from his.
“I would have never let her hurt you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper, dropping my head.
“You need to trust me, frumusee.”
“Tell me why we’re different, why they’re calling us freaks.”
“They’re not calling you freaks, Number Eleven is calling you a freak, and she will be dealt with accordingly.”
What? How would she know that? How does she know any of this? Anger swells in my chest as she continues to bait me. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her put you and your group back in that basement. I ignore her taunts, and turn, not making eye contact with the other girls who stand quietly in the corner. They don’t look like they are as mean as her, but they also look smart enough not to try and defend me. I decide on taking the entrée, and begin creating it. They’ve got garlic prawns on a bed of seasoned cous cous. I need to prepare all the prawns, and for twenty to thirty people, that will take a while.
I hear the other girls get to work, and as Number Eleven goes past me, she shoves me hard into the counter. I bite my lip to stop from lashing out, but warmth floods my veins, and my chest puffs out as I try to keep my anger at bay. I fight back my tears and keep preparing. I don’t have time to let her get to me. I can’t let another person create who I am before I know myself.
This isn’t the only time she shoves me. It continues throughout the morning. She shoves at me when she walks past, pushes my bowls off the counter, scattering food onto the floor, and puts her leg out when I go past so she can trip me up. By the time lunch rolls around, I’m at the end of my tether. So when she shoves me, I spin around, knife in hand, and I snarl at her. “Will you just go away? What have I done to you?”
She just laughs. Like I’m a joke.
Maybe I am.
Tears burn in my eyes, and I throw my knife down and run from the kitchen. The guards are after me in less than a second, but I run as hard and fast as I can through the halls. I hear the sounds of alarms being sounded, but I don’t stop. I run, not really knowing where I’m going. I’m so angry that I’m panting, my entire body thrumming. I want to scream. I want to make it all go away. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be this...this...freak.
A tall man with his hand over his face, his eyes as beautiful as a crystal-blue ocean.
I skid to a halt, panting. An image flickers through my mind. I don’t know what or when it was from, but it’s an image. Before I can process it, another one hits me. Harder, more full on.
“Sissy! Play with me,” a small girl cries, her blond pigtails flicking around her face. “We always play when he’s not here. Momma has gone away with him, so now we can sing, and dance.”
I grip my head, crying out as the memory almost burns into my mind. I start running again when I hear the shouts from behind me. Before I know it, I’m at the master’s door. I don’t even know why I ran here, but here I am. I start banging frantically, beside myself. I don’t want to feel like this. I want the answers. He needs to tell me. He needs to explain why he’s stripping me of my rights.
“Open the damned door!” I scream. “Face me, goddammit, you face me!”
The door opens suddenly, and I’m tugged in before I get even a glance at him. God damn him. He spins me around, and presses my back against his chest. He presses a hand over my eyes for a moment, until he can take a blindfold, place it over my eyes, then quickly secure it. I start running my mouth off before he has even finished tying the last kn sg t’tot.
“What’s wrong with you?” I scream. “Why am I here? Why won’t you tell me? It’s not fair. You can’t just take someone and not tell them why. She’s bullying me, telling me I’m a freak, that I’m fucked up, that I’m weak. Why does she know about me, but I don’t? It’s not your goddamned right to keep this away from me. I don’t want to be here. Let me go.”
He turns me around, and on wobbly legs, I go. I open my mouth to speak again, only to feel his hands come up and cup my face. I feel the warmth of his palms radiating through my cheeks. My body tingles all over, and I can’t quite understand why I would feel this way around him. I hate him. He strokes his fingers gently under my eyes, and I realize I’m crying so much it’s soaked through the blindfold and is starting to run down my cheeks.
Maybe they’re right; maybe I am weak.
“Master,” I hear a guard shout, rushing into the room. I hear something crash to the ground, and Master William tenses behind me.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Leave.”
“Yes sir.”
I hear the door close, and then I feel Master William begin walking us toward something. He sits me down onto a couch, surprisingly not on his lap. He sits beside me; I know because the couch moves when he settles himself.
“Number Eleven was bullying you.”
It’s not a question; it’s a fact.
“I do something wrong, I get punished. She does something wrong, and she’s not.”
“Wrong, frumusee, she will be punished.”
“You let her bully me. You watched it, you watch everything we do, and you let her do it.”
“Wrong again. I was watching to see how you dealt with it.”
“She could have hurt me,” I snarl, jerking my body further away from his.
“I would have never let her hurt you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper, dropping my head.
“You need to trust me, frumusee.”
“Tell me why we’re different, why they’re calling us freaks.”
“They’re not calling you freaks, Number Eleven is calling you a freak, and she will be dealt with accordingly.”
