Number Thirteen
Page 6
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Three girls stand, their faces a mass of fear and confusion.
“Stand to the left,” he orders them.
They shuffle to the left, heads down.
“Numbers Six, Two and Eight, stand.”
They do the same as the girls before.
We go through this until we’re all in a group. I’m in the group with four, which isn’t necessarily a good thing, because it gives a bigger chance of screwing things up. I have Number Twelve, Seven, and Three with me.
Now we’re paired off in groups, a guard walks in front of us all, his hands clasped together as he studies us. Then he turns and walks to the front of the room, lifting some sort of talking device into his hand and pressing a button.
“They’re all grouped off, sir. Take a look, decide which you want for what task, or if there are any changes that need to be made.”
I listen intently, trying to hear whoever is on the other line, but I can’t. The guard lowers the little device, and then nods at another man. Suddenly, a bright fog light is flicked on, burning right into our eyes. I squint and press my hands over my face, trying to block out the blinding light. I hear a door slam, but I can’t see anything. If I open my eyes, all it does is burn.
“They’re grouped off, Master,” I hear the guard say. “Assign them their duties.”
Heavy footsteps fall and alert us that someone else is nearing closer, and I know right away it’s the so-called “Master William.” I don’t know what he looks like, and it’s clear we’re not supposed to, for whatever reason. That’s what the lights are for. As he nears closer, I can hear his ragged breathing. I shiver, and not in a good way. I squint my eyes, tilting my hand just enough to see his silhouette. It’s hard to make out what he really looks like, but I can see he’s tall, and quite broad. I notice a good outline of his body, and it’s clear he’s extremely muscular, like an athlete.
From this angle, I think his hair is dark, maybe black? I can’t see a great deal more, except that maybe his skin is olive. He doesn’t seem to be very old, which makes this just that more confusing. He walks up and down, obviously taking us all in. “Face the front.” The guard snarls. I turn, and I can hear the clear shuffling sound of feet as the other girls do the same. I drop my hand, and turn my gaze to the floor, unable to keep my arm in that position.
I hear footsteps come to a stop in front of me, and a hand lashes out and takes my bound hands. I gasp, and stare at the large hand curled around mine. The stranger turns my hands, and runs his fingers over the bumpy scars on my wrist. I don’t remember how I got those scars, because I don’t remember how I got here. It looks as though I’ve tried to slit my wrist. The man’s thumb presses against the big one on my wrist. His grip is tight, full of dominance, as if he could just twist my wrist at any moment and crush it.
Is he deciding I’m damaged goods? Are these scars on my wrist going to make him take me away, like they did Number Six? My eyes burn with tears, and I can’t breathe steadily as I begin to consider all the reasons these silly scars might cause my life to be cut short. I’m damaged goods, he doesn’t want damaged goods. Who would buy slaves only to have them seem crazy? That’s what he’ll think, isn’t it? That I’m crazy?
Suddenly he lets go, and steps back. His footsteps disappear, and I hear the guard speaki goguard sng softly with him. Then the door slams, and the light flicks off. I see big white spots as I blink to try and clear my vision.
I haven’t managed to regain it before the guard speaks. His voice comes out clear, and full of authority. There’s no arguing with his tone, or him, it seems.
“Group one,” he says in a deep, penetrating tone. “You will cook. If you don’t know how, learn. You will be awoken at six a.m. every morning to start breakfast. It is to be served at eight a.m. punctually. Lunch is at twelve p.m. and dinner at six p.m. The kitchen is to be left in good condition at all times.”
“Group two,” he continues, turning his eyes to the second group. “You are responsible for cleaning. You too will be awoken at six a.m. You will begin on the lower part of the house, making sure everything is tidy. You will share the jobs between you, to make sure it all gets done.”
He swings his eyes to the next group.
“Group three, you will clean up the kitchen once group one has cooked each meal. You will also be responsible for all the laundry in the house, making sure everything is cleaned, ironed and folded in a prompt manner each day. You will also be responsible for cleaning the pool and maintaining the gardens. You also rise and six a.m. and start your duties.”
“Group four,” he says, turning to us and giving us all a long look. “You serve the master. You go to him when he needs you, and help him when he requests. If he doesn’t need you, then you will join the other groups in keeping the property maintained, but the moment he calls, you will attend to him.”
We have to service him? How does he mean? My stomach twists, and I feel sick. I wish I could remember how I’d ended up here, and why it is that I can’t remember a damned thing about my life, including my own name. I can think clearly enough now, but the past is a blur. I know it’s the drugs they’ve given us; they’ve created a drug-induced amnesia. Does that mean they’re going to continue the drugs? Does it mean I’m never going to remember enough to get out of here? What if it’s not the drugs? What if there’s another reason for my memory loss?
“Stand to the left,” he orders them.
They shuffle to the left, heads down.
“Numbers Six, Two and Eight, stand.”
They do the same as the girls before.
We go through this until we’re all in a group. I’m in the group with four, which isn’t necessarily a good thing, because it gives a bigger chance of screwing things up. I have Number Twelve, Seven, and Three with me.
Now we’re paired off in groups, a guard walks in front of us all, his hands clasped together as he studies us. Then he turns and walks to the front of the room, lifting some sort of talking device into his hand and pressing a button.
“They’re all grouped off, sir. Take a look, decide which you want for what task, or if there are any changes that need to be made.”
I listen intently, trying to hear whoever is on the other line, but I can’t. The guard lowers the little device, and then nods at another man. Suddenly, a bright fog light is flicked on, burning right into our eyes. I squint and press my hands over my face, trying to block out the blinding light. I hear a door slam, but I can’t see anything. If I open my eyes, all it does is burn.
“They’re grouped off, Master,” I hear the guard say. “Assign them their duties.”
Heavy footsteps fall and alert us that someone else is nearing closer, and I know right away it’s the so-called “Master William.” I don’t know what he looks like, and it’s clear we’re not supposed to, for whatever reason. That’s what the lights are for. As he nears closer, I can hear his ragged breathing. I shiver, and not in a good way. I squint my eyes, tilting my hand just enough to see his silhouette. It’s hard to make out what he really looks like, but I can see he’s tall, and quite broad. I notice a good outline of his body, and it’s clear he’s extremely muscular, like an athlete.
From this angle, I think his hair is dark, maybe black? I can’t see a great deal more, except that maybe his skin is olive. He doesn’t seem to be very old, which makes this just that more confusing. He walks up and down, obviously taking us all in. “Face the front.” The guard snarls. I turn, and I can hear the clear shuffling sound of feet as the other girls do the same. I drop my hand, and turn my gaze to the floor, unable to keep my arm in that position.
I hear footsteps come to a stop in front of me, and a hand lashes out and takes my bound hands. I gasp, and stare at the large hand curled around mine. The stranger turns my hands, and runs his fingers over the bumpy scars on my wrist. I don’t remember how I got those scars, because I don’t remember how I got here. It looks as though I’ve tried to slit my wrist. The man’s thumb presses against the big one on my wrist. His grip is tight, full of dominance, as if he could just twist my wrist at any moment and crush it.
Is he deciding I’m damaged goods? Are these scars on my wrist going to make him take me away, like they did Number Six? My eyes burn with tears, and I can’t breathe steadily as I begin to consider all the reasons these silly scars might cause my life to be cut short. I’m damaged goods, he doesn’t want damaged goods. Who would buy slaves only to have them seem crazy? That’s what he’ll think, isn’t it? That I’m crazy?
Suddenly he lets go, and steps back. His footsteps disappear, and I hear the guard speaki goguard sng softly with him. Then the door slams, and the light flicks off. I see big white spots as I blink to try and clear my vision.
I haven’t managed to regain it before the guard speaks. His voice comes out clear, and full of authority. There’s no arguing with his tone, or him, it seems.
“Group one,” he says in a deep, penetrating tone. “You will cook. If you don’t know how, learn. You will be awoken at six a.m. every morning to start breakfast. It is to be served at eight a.m. punctually. Lunch is at twelve p.m. and dinner at six p.m. The kitchen is to be left in good condition at all times.”
“Group two,” he continues, turning his eyes to the second group. “You are responsible for cleaning. You too will be awoken at six a.m. You will begin on the lower part of the house, making sure everything is tidy. You will share the jobs between you, to make sure it all gets done.”
He swings his eyes to the next group.
“Group three, you will clean up the kitchen once group one has cooked each meal. You will also be responsible for all the laundry in the house, making sure everything is cleaned, ironed and folded in a prompt manner each day. You will also be responsible for cleaning the pool and maintaining the gardens. You also rise and six a.m. and start your duties.”
“Group four,” he says, turning to us and giving us all a long look. “You serve the master. You go to him when he needs you, and help him when he requests. If he doesn’t need you, then you will join the other groups in keeping the property maintained, but the moment he calls, you will attend to him.”
We have to service him? How does he mean? My stomach twists, and I feel sick. I wish I could remember how I’d ended up here, and why it is that I can’t remember a damned thing about my life, including my own name. I can think clearly enough now, but the past is a blur. I know it’s the drugs they’ve given us; they’ve created a drug-induced amnesia. Does that mean they’re going to continue the drugs? Does it mean I’m never going to remember enough to get out of here? What if it’s not the drugs? What if there’s another reason for my memory loss?
