CHARLOTTE
My fingers are bloody, but that's nothing new.
I grab my hangnail with my teeth and rip, the pain barely registering in my mind. There's a slight metallic taste as I remove my finger from my mouth and flip to the next page in my book, eager to see what happens next.
Not that I don't already know.
I've read this book too many times to count.
My chest expands as my lungs fill with oxygen, and I hold the breath for a long minute before letting out a silent exhale. I squint to read the printed words, my reading light losing charge and growing dim. I tap the side, hoping it'll brighten, but it doesn't work.
Frowning, I bring the book closer to my face instead. This is better.
I work my way through three more paragraphs before realizing I haven't digested a single word. Damn. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes as I return to the top of the page.
It's impossible to read when all I can focus on are the rats scampering within the walls and the stomping feet above my head.
My dad's guests have heavy footfalls. It's terrifying having people in our home, but it would look suspicious if my dad never welcomed guests.
He works with these men, and it's been a while since they last saw my mom. It's not often that ordinary men get to look at a female, and it's considered rude of my dad to keep her hidden. I think that's bullshit.
Mom was lucky to have been purchased back when women were scarce but still relatively attainable. Dad had good timing, and he bought her only months before the Seekers took over the auctions and prices for women skyrocketed.
Now females, at least young ones, are practically nonexistent. Whenever one is unlucky enough to be born, they're taken immediately from the hospital to a facility. They'll never know their parents, and they'll be forced to live there until they're of age to be sold.
Mom's adamant there are many children like me, born at home and hidden without the Seekers' knowledge, but I'm not so sure about that.
Things have gotten especially bad in the past twenty years. The price of women is so high, men are often forced to pool their money together to afford one. Just last week I saw a news segment on a woman who'd been sold to a group of twenty-seven men.
The horror is unimaginable, and it makes me wish my parents had handed me over when I was born and things were better. Now, I risk being sold to many instead of just one.
A particularly large bang has me jumping in my chair, my blood running cold until I hear the unmistakable sound of Dad's laughter filtering down through the floorboards.
My hideaway doesn't do much to block out noise. It's both a blessing and a curse. I can hear everything happening outside my small, underground hole, but that means so can everybody outside it.
We've padded the floor and walls with cheap carpet to help prevent any noises from seeping out, and I've made a chair out of pillows so it's not too uncomfortable.
Turning to the left, I deflate as I peer at the numbers on my small digital clock. It'll probably be a few more hours before Dad's guests leave. My back is already hurting, and I stretch it out before returning to my book. I've reached a steamy scene, and I contemplate masturbating to pass the time.
I just about died of embarrassment when I found the worn romance novels lining my shelf only days after my twentieth birthday. They must be a good hundred years old, probably written shortly before the female decline began. No books, especially romance ones, have been published since then.
