Page 3 of Summer

“Permission must be asked before one is to leave,” the women around me echoed. Their voices were somber, their eyes downcast. None of them dared to look at the woman as she shivered on the ground, which bloomed red with blood around her.

“What are the consequences for breaking rule twelve?” Nikili continued. His small mouth smacked, the corners collecting saliva.

“Lashing,” echoed the group, their voices deadpan and flat.

Nikili turned to the woman. One of his legs wrapped around her hair, jerking her up onto her feet. She screamed as she tried to stand, her mangled legs collapsing under her. He turned her so her back faced us, then began to lash her with one of his barbed legs.

One. Two. Three.

Each strike elicited a little gasp from her, which grew in pitch and fervor.

Seven. Eight.

She was screaming now, a raw keening that echoed off the dilapidated walls. Her legs twisted under her; her dress painted with long lines of blood.

Fifteen. Sixteen.

Her cries stopped, little more than a gurgle now.

Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

She convulsed, her muscles tight, her head arched back.

Thirty.

Nikili let her hair go, her body crumpled at his feet, unmoving.

He turned to us, his large eyes brimming with excitement. Streaks of saliva ran down either side of his mouth, turned red by the spray of her blood. He was coated with it, his blue coat now a dark red.

That night I lay in my naked bed, knees pulled to my chest, thinking.

“You okay?” whispered one of my roommates. She was a short blonde named Jenny, at least five years younger than me. She’d been at Protegre since she was a few years old, raised to be sold when she was old enough at 24.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I think so.”

“I liked her,” Jenny said softly. I could barely make out her shape through the darkness of the room. Her eyes gleamed in the light that filtered from the window, illuminating the tear tracks down her face.

“She a friend?” I asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Not quite.”

“Does it happen often?” I asked. I didn’t know if I was asking about the escape, or the lashings, or both.

“Most know better,” Jenny said. “But every so often, one tries to run. They never make it.”

My dream of escape evaporated, leaving me reeling for days. I moved in a fog, which is more akin to what they expected of the women at Protegre. I earned a pillow, a blanket, some soap. When my fog finally lifted, I was left with a cold reality.

Escaping from Protegre was impossible.

But what came after Protegre wasn’t so secure. If I played my part, if I turned into the perfect human bride, my time to auction would come faster. And once I was free from these walls I could escape, once and for all.

So, I fell into line.

One year became two, became three.

And now I sit, rubbing my tracker, knowing that it will be removed tomorrow.

Because tomorrow, I’m going to auction.