Number Thirteen
Page 3
I know what she’s telling me.
It’s no use.
The 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.
It’s no use.
The 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.
