Trigon

ONE

WHERE DOES THE INDIVIDUAL GO when they feel the world has turned its back on them?
That's the question of the century.
My answer?
Well. No one listens to me anyway.

Today looks a normal day.
The concrete walls are still gray, a fight broke out in the cafeteria at dinner last night, and my eyes see nothing but my own reflection in the mirror.
In it I look like sorrow dipped in pain, but compared to everything else I blend in.

The girls Illegal Child Facility ward smells like cheap perfume and smelly socks and shoes blended together this morning, which wouldn't be a problem if I weren't so annoyed by it. I gag at it more than I ever have.
Soon I've got my gray jumpsuit on, its long sleeves rolled up to my elbows and its zipper zipped up to my chest, showing my neck and part of my black tank. Its number on my back and left side of my chest, defines me as #3514; the three thousandth, five hundred and fourteenth slave that's ever been raised in this hell hole.
My shoes are sneakers, with white toes, laces, and soles, and the rest is black.
Since I've been letting my hair grow out since I turned fourteen, my wavy chestnut brown hair now reaches my waist. The ends are frayed, but that's the best I've been able to do for a while. My brown eyes are tired from the lack of sleep, and the faint freckles across my nose are hard to see through anything and everything.
I think I'm a bit pale today, but I'm alright.

At breakfast I hear my friends call me from our table.
I feel the heap of fatigue sitting on my weak shoulders, so I decide sitting is probably the best option.
"Good morning sunshine." Carolyn tells me as I stumble into a seat.
Carolyn Guinne has been my friend for ages. Her lavender-dyed hair only comes to her shoulders, but it's filled with other vibrant highlights from the present and past. Her blue eyes stand out with her hair today, and her normally pale skin is a lot paler than mine, even if I'm hung over or not. Her number imprinted on her jumper is #4257. I call her Caro sometimes.
"Yeah, morning Mel." Rome smiles. He puts a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.
Romeo Fisnet is Rome's full name. We call him Rome for fun, just like they call me Mel or Mella for fun. He's got blonde hair and he likes to spike it up with gel, and his dark blue eyes could mesmerize people sometimes.
He fusses at me a bit here and there, but he only wants the best for me since we've been so close for so long. His number is #3289.
"Mornin'. What's new?" I ask, yawning fiercely. Gwen looks up at me from her book where she sits, next to Rome and across from me.
Gwendolyn Rose Plier, #3529 has been my friend from the start. We love each other like sisters. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, and her green eyes look at me like a sister would when she's fussing at her little sister. She wears a white tee over her chest where her jumper should be, but it stays tied upon her waist as always.
"You good?" Gwen asks, setting her book on her lap with her bookmark in its crease.
"Yeah... I'm just a little tired." I mumble, rubbing my sore eyes.
"Are you going to be alright?" she asks again.
"Yeah..." Rome adds, his brows raised as he looks at me from across the table. "Do you need to go back to bed? I'll cover for you." He adds just before Mitchell comes our way. I shake my head in reply. I'll be fine.
"Hey, what's up?" Mitchell asks, jumping over the table to plop down in the seat to my right. "Anything new?"
"Nothing too mind-blowing." Caro updates him.
"Oh, really?" he utters. "Well, that's grand." I have to smirk at his sarcastic enthusiasm.
Mitchell's last name is Doogan. He's #3242. He's got his short hair dyed black and smoothed back, and he's got at least two piercings on each ear. He wears his jumper like Gwen does, tied at his waist while he wears his tank and a dog tag above it. He's always showing off his tanned and big muscles, and he always uses them on girls.
He's the baddest boy of ICF, and I love him that way.
"Mit." Gwen smiles, her hands gripping her book. "Really?"
"Um, yes. The last time something decent happened in this group was when Mel found a knife in her locker."
"You're so sick!" Gwen laughs, closing her book. Most of our gang smokes cigarettes that we pick up through Mitchell himself.
"That was pretty fun." I smirk. He puts on a look of sarcastic stun.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa! You're joining him?" I laugh at them both as he smacks my back with his left hand. Gwen scrunches her eyebrows.
I see a few girls down on the end of the table looking at me through a blur, and then I see their looks of disgust.
I don't think anyone in the cafeteria is very fond of us, and they sure as hell don't want to mess with us.
Especially #3490 and #3472. I hate them as much as they hate me, and by hate I mean utterly despise.
Calling someone only by our numbers is considered an insult here. It's like being a thing -a number- and not a person. Cussing is bonus. #3490 is named Berenice, and #3472 is named Isabell.
I remember the time when I was eleven Bernice was being rude and tried to get me to walk into the boys ward naked.
When her hand just barely moved towards my zipper, I grasped a handful of her ugly blonde hair and her skull flung into the closest wall with a smack. Her little friends ran when her body went limp immediately after hitting the wall. I was punished greatly of course, but I was proud. Even Gwen was complimenting me.
In the middle of my thoughts our friend Danny comes by and sits next to Gwen, putting an arm around her and setting two plastic bowls of cereal in front of them as he leans in to kiss her. I know poor Danny Lee's story, and it isn't a great one. He has to stay in ICF for his entire life. His parents died in an accident when he was a toddler, and he was the only child at the time.
We all know he's not illegal, but I know wearing the uniform and just being here makes him feel like he is.
His gray jumper, stained black from work, is marked as #3198, and his black hair is smooth and it trails into a little bun. And we all know Gwen and Danny have been dating for years. We are Danny's only version of family. And with Gwen by his side, he seems fine with the life he's got. But, that's just how it seems. None of us really know how he feels.
Gwen and Danny both smile at each other after their kiss, their foreheads touching.
"So, anymore new stuff Mel?" Mitchell whispers, looking behind him so no one knows what we're taking about.
"No." I say back, looking up. I laugh at him. "But if you find some let me know."
"Well, well, I'll just continue my search." I laugh at him again, standing up to get some breakfast. I punch his arm as he plays with his dog tag, and he laughs back at me.
I walk up to the long line at the cafeteria, and I pull out ten dollars from my pocket. I put all of it back but two, and I buy myself a jug of milk and a plastic box of cereal. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror on the way back to the table, and I run my fingers through the left side of my chestnut brown hair.
To be honest, I'm fine with myself and how I look, I just hate the life I've been given.
There's no one to blame but the government on that one.
I, am a number. Not a person. 
I do everyone's chores, no one does mine. Don't ever expect an award, because awards don't exist here.
I am a thing. Everyone here is a thing. We are all used.
I head back to our table as I think. If my parents never had me, they wouldn't have lost me. They know the law: only two children per household – due to overpopulation.
But still, a facility holding thousands of poor and unfortunate children is absurd. We deserve a life with our families, if we have one to come home to.
From the pictures I've seen of my parents, they look sad that they had to let me go. I read from my files that they tried to hide me in the basement. And another thing, my parents look like the last people who would break a law.
They're good. A genuine good. It's the kind that beautiful people possess, the kind that is only beautiful to those who notice it. My parents were all good until I came.
So why did they let me come?
I walk past the entrance to the boys' ward and I head to the right -the direction of our table- which is just in between the two wards diagonal from the bathroom. I make my way past the bathroom, leaving behind the stench of cheap deodorant and used tampons combined. It's like the girls here are trying to hide the bad stench by adding more stench to it.
This is how it's like on every floor -except for the faculty floors. You move up a floor for every step you take. Like now, I'm on step twelve. I heard the steps used to be called grades, until "New America" was founded -including the "glorious" dictatorship.
According to the old system -I learned this in American History- I'd be what they call a sophomore in high school.
I remember today's Monday. I have to go to my classes. Of course the government has to educate us, if we're going to become responsible and get a job when we're of age to leave, we have to learn how.
I sit down at our table, and I open the plastic serving of cereal. 
Anyway I run my fingers through my soft, chestnut brown hair, and I use the hair-tie on my wrist to put my hair up in a ponytail. I use my fingers to eat my cereal, and after I've gotten situated Mit takes my milk and starts to shake it for me. I listen in to everyone's conversation, and they're all talking about last night's fight.
I smile at Mit when he opens my milk for me, and he hands it to me.
"Hey, I don't have a whole lot of money on me." Mit mumbles to me. "Can I borrow a dollar?"
"For the vending machine?" I ask. He nods, and I can't resist. I pull out one thin piece of green paper from my pocket
"Ah, thanks! You're the best." He smiles, almost hopping up from his seat. No doubt he'll be getting something sweet.
"No problem." I smile back. "You owe me one though!" I call back to him, and he doesn't look too happy about that part. Caro laughs a little.
"What did he do?" she asks. I tell her about the dollar. She laughs again afterwards, and by the time my story's over Mit is back at the table with an energy drink instead of a dollar.
"Bon apatite." I smirk at him when he twists the cap off, and he scoffs at me. Rome laughs at the both of us.