Just a number

Chapter 1: Claudine

I'm a 13. One of the lowest numbers you can be and it's not even my fault! About 150 years ago, people gave up on the whole prospect of finding a true love(or a soulmate) so, in desperate attempts to keep the population from rapidly declining until we reach a population of zero, the government decided to install a numerical system. Everyone was automatically set to one. If you married another person, your numbers would add up and you'd both have your societal numbers changed and so would your children. So what's so significant about the numbers? Oh yes. They dictate the amount of income you're allowed to get and most lower numbers, like me, are frowned upon.

My class, 11-20, can get a maximum of 10k per year, per job. So, most of us have 3 or more jobs. It's quite rare for one of us to marry someone with a higher number, say a 60, as they'll try to marry someone in the same range or higher. Along with being snobby, the higher classes are greedy, always trying to get a higher number so, most of them have side pieces (which tend to be lower classes). Luckily I've never been a side piece, or a girlfriend if I'm honest, I haven't even been in a situationship!

They tell me, I'm 18, I'm at the highest peak of my life, still young, but not too young. But, to be honest, I'm waiting for that special someone, I don't really care about their class number or anything like that. I mean, I guess it would be nice if that special someone was in a slightly higher class-
"CLAUDINE!"
"Yes, father."
"Why haven't you brought MY BEER." He growls.
"We umm... don't have enough. Don't have enough money to get some m-more."
"I-I'm sorry we've, we've run out." I stutter.
"And why is that, Claudine." He speaks in a frighteningly calm tone.
"I needed a couple bucks. For an umm, for new stockings for my shift at the club."
I say trembling, praying he won't ask to see them.

The truth is, Clara, one of my five siblings, needed a new schoolbook and when I told her no, she said okay and walked away sniffling. I knew she was holding back her tears so she wouldn't seem weak in front of me. The next day, at her school, I gave the science textbook, on the states of matter, to her teacher, Mrs Lern, and told her to tell Clara that they had a spare, not wanting Clara to feel bad for wasting money we so scarcely had.

Heavy footsteps came at an excruciatingly slow pace from the far end of the corridor, we live in a ghetto, one-story house in a sketchy area that the police turn a blind eye to. No one cares what happens within a household, especially not one of a lower class. Although, not everyone's household's like mine, my friends, Lena and Nora, have a loving family and a slightly nicer style of living since their numbers are 21 and 23. Whilst, Daisy and Greta's numbers are 9 and 10 so they barely see their parents as Daisy's work 4 jobs each and Greta's 5.

The footsteps halt and I see a large figure filling up most of the door frame. My father has a wide figure, muscles cowering back under thick layers of skin. On his face, he has a beard twisting and falling into itself due to 6 years of neglect. He has dark green eyes, like my siblings although theirs are kind and innocent and don't, spew hatred wherever he goes(which isn't far as he hasn't left the house since mummy's funeral).

Mummy died when I was about 12, we couldn't afford her medical bills and she died over a while but I think, she faded almost immediately and I felt as if there was nothing left of her on that hospital bed but a carcass, one that appeared like my mother on the outside but didn't carry the same caring warmth she always had. After that, Dad became my father. The only connection between us was, and still is, only through blood. He stopped working all of a sudden and the family's weight and financial burdens fell on 12-year-old me. I was the one who had to drop out of school early. I was the one who had to pay the bills to keep us from being evicted. I was the one who constantly had panic attacks and anxiety so bad I would throw up. Whilst he sat on the couch all day, drinking beer without sparing a glance at his grieving children.

On bad nights, when the memories of her were raw, he would take his rage out on us. We were the punching bags, the trash that needed to be disposed of, our sole purpose was to take away his emotional pain by being inflicted with physical pain.

Over the years, he started forgetting our names so, whenever he called one of us, I would go. I would take all the beatings, the lashings, the cuts, the bruises, the grazings, anything if it meant my siblings would stay safe. They would see me go into my father's room and little bubbles would form at the crevices of their eyes. "Don't worry about me, go to sleep, I can't tell you a story tonight but maybe tomorrow." I used to say, partially to believe the words myself and to relieve them of any worry. They would nod and sometimes tug at my worn-down shirt but even then they knew, nothing could keep me away from his wrath.

My dad—correction my father—peered down at me from the doorway expectantly. I knew today was one of those days. Hanging my head, I brush past him, heading for the dreaded room at the end of the corridor. As I step inside, he follows suit and slams the door closed. The rim of the doorway, has small marks, indents and moon-shaped craters from the times I tried to run out and clawed at the door. It was worthless. All it did, was act as a catalyst to his temper. Those nights I left with the same fingers I used to scratch helplessly, bent and curved in unnatural shapes. Some of them still haven't healed properly including, my middle finger after, I made the mistake of flipping him off with it once.

The lock clicked but I almost couldn't hear it. I feel outside of my own body staring at the soulless body standing in the Stygian-coloured room. Then I felt it, a cold sting against the side of my face. And another. Again and again, I felt my cheek burn and I fought the instinct to protect myself. He stopped for a moment, looking at his work. His fingers curled inwards and I shut my eyes as a coppery taste filled my mouth. Suddenly, I felt my feet being swept from under me, and my head banged on the cold stone floor. My hand shakily rose to wear my head was, and a warm, viscous liquid flushed out oozing between my fingers, and embedding under my nails.

I clamped my eyes shut, pretending to be unconscious, he usually lost interest when I did this, not having any motive if he couldn't revel in the fear that flashed across my face with every punch or kick. I could feel his beady eyes on me and smelt his odour as he pushed himself down so that he was in my face. I sensed his obnoxious breath over my cheeks but soon his presence was gone after one last kick to my ribs.

Half an hour later, my father was sleeping, my head spun as I got up a bit too quickly, I hobbled to the kitchen to get a rag to clean the floor when I caught a set of eyes peering at me—crap.  "Hey Cleo, what're you doing up this late?" I tell her as I crouch down to her level.
"I-I.You're bleeding, Deeni." Shit—I forgot to wipe myself up.
"It's only a little bit, Cleo. I just dropped a bottle at the bar earlier. It was too high, silly me."
I tap my head and wince as the pain resurges momentarily.
"Here," I set down my rag. "Why don't I heat you up some milk?" She slowly nods still staring at the crown of my head. Heading over to the stove, I try to turn on the gas. Nothing happens. Shoot.
"Cleo, I forgot, the gas went on holiday, is it okay if you drink your milk cold?"
"Yeah, I prefer my milk cold anyway."
"Let me tuck you back in."

She leads the way to the room we all share. My three brothers, Claus, Clayton(or Clay as everyone calls him) and Clif are sharing one bunk bed on the left, whilst Clara sleeps on the top bunk of the fading pink one on the right. I tucked Cleo in, pulling the thin sheet over her small frame, and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. Her eyes flicker until they close and I leave the room after I hear her soft snoring.

Returning back to the kitchen, I grab the rag and slowly open my father's bedroom, careful not to wake him up, and lower myself so I can clean the blood off of the floor. Some of it's dry and harder to get rid of but, the rest comes off easily. When I'm done, I go l to our communal bathroom and slowly dab at the gash on my head. I wash my hair in the sink. I can shower at the cafe if I get there early enough, the owner, Lucy, lives upstairs and lets me use her shower whenever I need to.

When I'm finished cleaning myself up, I go back to my single bed, a few years ago, we decided that I'd have the single bed so I could creep out when my shift starts as to not wake up the others. Before I go to sleep, I check the time, 01:13, I should be able to get about 4 hours of sleep if I want to take a shower. Who am I kidding, my insomnia's not going to let me do that. So I lie there until I have to get up for work.