The Unfortunates(3)

“Move!” Soyer demands as he shoves me hard with his gun, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grit my teeth as I take one last glance at the little girl, and sadly, I silently pray that she dies soon. Death is the nicest thing you can wish on someone in my world… it’s like telling them you hope they have a good day—just a little positive reinforcement to get them through the morning.

The moderators march us downstairs—stairs that threaten to break as they creak under the soles of my new sandals—and usher us through an empty lobby before pushing us out into the bright morning sun. And boy, is bright an understatement. The sun is blazing today, like its only purpose is to burn the dresses from our bodies. In front of us, a cart is towed behind two chestnut horses. Everything about the horses scream ‘Fortunate property.’ They are well brushed, their coats glossy and short. They’re well fed, evident by their bloated bellies, and their hooves are clean, adorned with the shiny, silver horse shoes that curl like vines up their strong legs.

One by one we’re crammed into the cart, and Soyer climbs on top to steer the horses. With a jolt, we rock against each other, our shoulders grazing as the horses carry us toward the ten foot concrete gate. I look back over my shoulder and suddenly the looming dilapidated manor looks less like hell and more like home. I’m going to miss it. I’ll miss hiding in corners as the moderators swept through the halls looking for trouble. I’ll miss not talking to anyone, but sharing friendly and comforting glances. I’ll miss my daily routine—waking up, eating breakfast, going to class, sitting outside under the large oak tree, and finally dinner and bed. It’s the unfamiliarity that scares me, and although class has taught me all of the things I need to know, I still feel like a chicken without a head. From the age of fifteen, we are forced to take a class, a class that teaches us how to behave, how to obey, and how to submit. We are taught the ins and outs of our civilization and all of the rules that separate our two social classes. It’s simple, really. The Fortunates are the rulers and the Unfortunates, us, are the everything in between. We cook for them, clean for them, get them off—you name it, we do it.

The gates begin to pull open with a loud clank and creak. I inch forward in my seat, eager to see the wide world—eager to see if the grass is greener on the other side. In here, the grass is a pale green and only exists in random patches of spiky blades, but out there, I’m sure it’s a vast wonderland of beautiful greenery. Inch by inch the gates expose the world to me. I see the bright green grass, looking more like clouds than blades, and I want to lay in them, to feel them on my skin. Excitement bubbles in my chest and I even contemplate diving from the cart just to feel them on my feet. I quickly glance at the other girls to see if they’re as eager as me… they’re not. All of them have their sad, grey eyes on the rotted floor of the cart and Thirteen clenches her ribs beside me, sniffling still.

“Why aren’t you looking?” I whisper to her. “Look at the grass.”

She shakes her head and mumbles back, “I don’t care for grass.”

She doesn’t care for grass? That’s because she hasn’t seen real grass. “If you just look up an inch you’ll see—”

“Why are you so happy, Nine?” Seven snaps at me.

I glance at her. She looks so little and sickly in her bright green dress. Her long, red locks curl around her breasts and she swats a thick lock out of her face. “We’re being sold today. There are a lot more important things to worry about than grass.”

My eyes narrow. Sure, this is a bad situation. This sucks, I know it does, I’m experiencing it too, but it’s not all bad. When you’re racking up losses, count your wins too because they make the losses seem less intimidating.

“We haven’t been sold yet, might as well enjoy the last few minutes of freedom,” I tell her. “The grass is worth a second of your time.”

She folds her stick thin arms over her chest. “We’ll see how much you like the grass when your Fortunate forces you to eat a mouthful of it while he rapes you from behind.”

I open my mouth, ready to expel a witty retort, but I snap it shut instead. These girls aren’t my enemy. It’s not their fault they’re broken. Most of them already are by the time they leave here. I wouldn’t say I’m broken… I’ve always had hope. I can’t put it into words… but I know I see the world in a way that is all my own. One night, a little while ago when I was lying awake alone in bed, I decided I didn’t want to be an Unfortunate for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be a Fortunate, either. I want to be human and I want to be equal with every other human—and animal. That’s that. These girls are broken because they see their life laid out for them, like robes on the end of their beds. Not me. With every second that passes, I have the feeling something great is going to happen to me. This is not my purpose, I tell myself over and over. The thought lingers on my shoulder like a repetitive parrot, echoing the same words. I go back to looking at the grass and make mental notes of all of the different shades, promising to come back and touch each and every single one.