The Unfortunates(2)

As the last bubble runs off my body, the water shuts itself off, and in come the moderators. Everyone stands still, eyes glued to the bathroom floor. The urge to cover up is strong, but it’s not worth the whip lashing.

I feel Soyer’s gaze burn holes in my skin as his beady blue eyes scan the room and land on me. I glance up at him as he licks his lips. Gross. My stomach churns and I drop my gaze back to the floor. I can only imagine the sick, vile things that are going through his mind. Luckily for us, we are the Fortunates’ property from birth. No one is allowed to touch us. The punishment for those who break this law is death. Not a bad punishment if you desperately want to leave this shitty existence, anyway.

“Four girls will be chosen. Dress pretty. We’ll be waiting in the room down the hall.” Soyer turns on his heel and leaves.

After his exit, two more moderators bring in colourful dresses and hang them one by one on the hangers on the opposite side of the room. The colours hurt my eyes. I’ve never seen hues so bright. Beneath them, new pairs of cloth shoes are placed.

I glance around. Every girl is eyeing up the ugly, mustard dress. They don’t want to be chosen and the best chance for that to happen is to dress not to impress. I can’t decide what I want to do. If you don’t get chosen before you turn nineteen, they force you into sexual relations with other Unfortunates. The more Unfortunate offspring, the more slaves the Fortunates will have later on. Once you’re pregnant, the daddy is killed, and once you give birth, you get a bullet to the back of the head. If you aren’t serving the Fortunates or birthing a new Unfortunate, you’re as good as dead—unless they have space for you on one of their many large farms or deep in their mines. None of us have parents, and trying to figure out if that’s a good or bad thing hurts my brain.

I stroll across the shower and grab the deep purple dress. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to be chosen anyway, might as well face my fears in a pretty dress. A few of the other girls have the same idea I do and grab the green, pink, and royal blue. Three girls, including the sulky blonde, dive for the ugly mustard dress and I watch the tangled mess of naked bodies and blonde hair as they fight for the dress, trying very hard not to make a peep. Fighting between us is also outlawed. Twenty whip lashings for anyone involved.

To my astonishment, the crying blonde I sleep next to comes out on top, hugging the dress tightly against her. In the poor lighting, I can see hope glisten in her blue eyes, and as she turns, I see her number tattooed on the clean flesh behind her ear.

Thirteen. That’s her name.

Here, we aren’t given names, we’re given numbers. I’m Nine and I have a tattoo of the number behind my ear to prove it.

The majority of us don’t want to get chosen. Instead, we try to put it off as long as we can and pray for change, for freedom. That usually comes in the form of death, which Unfortunates happily welcome. Suicides are a big trend around here. At least seven a week occur, and I don’t know if I should be depressed or happy I don’t have the stomach to hurt myself.

We take our dresses down to the end of the bathroom, where a huge wall-sized mirror shows us our reflections. Clean, skinny, and sad. That’s all I see when I look at myself, or any of the girls here, for that matter. We step into the dresses, pulling them up until they cover our bodies, for the most part. The fabric is sheer... very sheer. You can’t see through it in this light, but I’m sure the sun will light it up once we’re outside, making the beautiful dresses transparent for all to see.

They herd us through the crumbling building, poking us with the hard tips of their guns, like animals. It seems, even draped in the same soft fabric as them, we’re still classes apart.

Beside me, Thirteen stumbles over a rogue floorboard and falls forward. Instinctively, I reach out, curling my fingers around the band of fabric that flows freely from the back of her dress. Her weight tugs my arms. I fall forward too, and we both crumple to the dusty floor.

“Get up!” Soyer yells, his voice gravelly and punishing.

I release her dress and jump to my feet immediately, desperate to avoid the tail of his gun. Thirteen, however, is anxious, and her entire body shakes as sobs rock her, slowing her movements.

“I said get up!” He swings high, bringing his gun over his shoulder before slamming the end of it into her ribs. I flinch as her scream tears through the hall. I have to look away.

Coincidentally, I look straight into the children’s room and I see eyes glisten as they watch us. A young girl, about six or seven, sits up in her bed, her eyes completely fixated on my gown. I know that look—the look of awe. I know it because I’ve been the little girl sitting on the bed watching older girls and boys come and go for years. Now… here I am. I bet I look like a princess. Little does she know these dresses mean the polar opposite of a happy ending. The books they read to the kids here for entertainment are cruel and unrealistic. For us, the Unfortunates, there is no happy ending. There are no men in classy suits made from the finest fabric ready to climb towers and scour the land for us, and the truth is, a lot of us die before we turn fourteen… be it from sickness, murder, or suicide, and those who are ‘lucky’ enough to be bought by a Fortunate will live in constant fear. Those who think out there is better than in here are delirious—they’re in denial. They believe it’s better because it can’t possibly be any worse. Me? The mere thought of being under a Fortunate’s thumb sickens me. Here, we can go days without seeing anyone from Freeport. Out there, every second of our life will be ruled by them—even more so than in here. Out there, they can do whatever they please with us. Rape is uncommon here in the Unfortunate camp… we’re always being watched by someone, but when we officially become someone’s property, they can take from us as they please.