14 Voices

Fingers Crossed

                     ~ A Report ~

This is fucking ridiculous. I know we had to hold this stupid Selection shit. But I hated it. We had to be careful. We couldn't do anything that seemed like a weakness.

But when I saw those girls coming through the door I absolutely fucking despised them all. None of them was my baby. None of them are my Soulmate.

My Baby wouldn't trip someone or look down her nose at someone. She wouldn't treat the staff as less than herself.

My Soulmate is a kind and gentle girl with an inner strength.

We didn't get much time with her. But sometimes we got a few of her thoughts. Flashes of what she could see.

I ball my fists in pain and frustration. I'm such a fucking useless Soulmate. I couldn't save her back then. All year we had suffered with her. We wore the bruises her body had.  Every god damn kind of pain she felt, we felt it too.

Then Doc goes and says that we are only feeling a fraction of what she was. But fucking hell! There were weeks when all of us couldn't move out of our rooms!

The last words we heard her say... the pain and sadness that she had felt in the moment.  It was heart shattering for us.

I could see nothing but the blackness surrounding me. The closest thing I will ever have to a friend.

I wished that the dark could speak to my soul like my mates. I struggle to lift my frail and weakened body from the hard and cold stone ground.

Mother had put me into the cellar on my birthday. She hasn't let me out since.

I think I'll live here forever. My body sinking into itself as it eats away at anything it can. Trying to fight and live, while we starve and waste away. But it's to be expected when you haven't eaten in almost a year.

I can feel it. Death in the air.

I'm so tired of dying. Mother's become sadistic. She keeps thinking of new ways to make me suffer.

I can't fight back or I'll risk something more. She doesn't need any more motivation to become more creative.

I can feel the air shift the stale and  putrid air as mother's scent of lily's and roses drifts through.

I hate roses now, even though as a smaller child, I use to love them.

But now I can't look at one without the reminder of what has been done to me. What she has done to me.

She makes her steps quickly, only pausing to turn on the swinging light bulb.

She looks around the room, studying the many tools and weapons she has collected for me.

Presents, she says.

I should be grateful.

She gives me a roof over my head.

She always justifies her actions on being kind and generous. But I've learned by now how untrue that is.

I only beat you because I don't want you to not know how to take a hit.