I ran. I just ran. There was no time for thinking. Just running.
My heart pounded in my chest, The Indicator thumping against the back of my sweaty neck. Beads of liquid dripped down my face. My muscles were tense, aching. The soles of my shoes slapped the pavement harshy, the impact killing my feet.
I can hear The Indicator wailing, echoing in the blurred scenery that surrounded me in a cloud of blindness. I catch miniscule glances of people around me, some of them gasping without sound, but not many, for two reasons:
1.) I was too fast to see the others.
2.) I tried this stunt probably once every two weeks.
I continued running at this too-high terminal velocity, sprinting, pushing my body to extreme limits. My side-stitch burned furiously, and my lungs were about ready to burst. I empowered myself, however poorly, to keep going. The Edge was in sight, looming closer and closer. The Keepers were coming closer too, nearer and nearer, because they were bigger than me, so that for every step I took, they took two. I heard them behind me, thunking on the ground, shouting uncomprehendable words at me. They were trying to keep me in, they were trying to keep me from The Edge. It was their job, hence the name--Keepers.
I could smell the rusting iron of The Edge, the towering gate that trapped me. I was so close, and The Keepers were so close, and I was going to make it, and I believed this, and I could almost reach The Edge, and I could almost touch it, and I could escape, and I was going to make it, yes, finally, I could do it, and then the rush was over.
I felt the violent hand yank me back my the collar of my shirt, The Indicator becoming shut off in the fist. I suddenly experienced the repercussion of the running. My body ached relentlessly, and it even felt difficult to breathe. My body was going to cave in. I was about ready to collapse into Keeper #1's arms, but I didn't, because even though I was bisexual, I wasn't desperate. Regardless, I just wanted to stop breathing and stop moving, because this exhaustion was too uncomfortable to bear. My eyes were drooping, my vision blurred.
"Again, Ginger?" The gruff voice of Keeper #2 spoke, and through the film that seemingly covered my eyes, I could see him shaking his head.
The Keepers wore pure black uniforms, with shirts that went to their elbows, long pants, and combat boots. They had each had a leather belt, containing numerous instruments that would be used if necessary to prevent someone from reaching The Edge. They were large and burly, rippling with muscles and sharp features. Often times, they wore sunglasses over their eyes. They were probably worried about petrifying people with their stares.
"Don't....call....Ginger." I spoke shattered sentences. It was too tiring. I couldn't handle it. But I hated being called Ginger. Like, yeah, I got it, I have red hair. Yes, I understand, I have red freckles to match it. And yeah, mom, I understand that I need a haircut, because my shaggy hair makes me look too gingery, and makes it more conspicuous than usual. But screw all of that. My name was not Ginger. You don't see me walking around, calling people Brownies because they're brunette. So don't do it to me. It was probably one of the things that aggravated me most, besides not being able to escape The Keepers.
The Keeper scoffed and continued on with the regular procedure, pulling out a metal device with a handle and a scanner. He yanked up the sleeve of my shirt without mercy, which made a new sort of pain ring through my body. Keeper #1 held me in my place, making it impossible for me to move, which I didn't want to do anyways. I was regaining myself, feeling slightly better after getting a normal flow of oxygen to my head. Keeper #2 held the device up to my left shoulder, and the scanner glowed red as a thin, horizontal line extended from it, over my Code--a tattoo of various dots, horizontal and vertical lines, and some large black triangles that started at my left shoulder, trailing up to the bottom of my neck.
There was a short beep from the scanner, and Keeper #2 read off:
"Marcus Rye. 15 years old. Forza Compound. 57th attempt."
57. 57 times I had tried to leave Forza. 57 times I had failed. A small groan escaped my mouth, and I closed my eyes, disappointed with myself.
"That's a lot, bud. Not many are as determined as you--or, rather, as stupid," Keeper #1 said, still relentlessly strong. I knew what was coming next. I tensed my jaw, and braced myself as Keeper #2 pulled out another black instrument that looked like a gun. He popped out a canister inside of it, and shook it. He then put it back in his tool belt, and pulled out another clear one, filled with a dark blue liquid, and popped it in the spot where the old one had been. The first Keeper pulled down the neck of my shirt, and I felt the cold metal of The Indicator, now against my back.
Keeper #2 put the tiny tip of the ink gun at the bottom of my neck, next to another vertical line. The metal was warm. I knew it was coming, here it was, coming on fast. He pressed a red button on the side of the ink gun, and suddenly the metal tip was furiously hot, blazing rapidly onto my neck, squeezing the dark blue ink into the wound. My stomach ached with twistedness. And then, slowly, he lifted the ink gun away, and the left the permanent mark there to throb.
I turned my neck at an awkward angle so that I could observe the new mark and the old ones, wondering what kind of linear artwork it would paint.
Three triangles--three members of my family.
Fifteen dots--fifteen years of age.
Five sets of three horizontal lines--for every three years that I had been in Forza Compound.
And, lastly, 56--no, make that 57--57 vertical lines--57 attempts to leave.
57 attempts to defy.
57 attempts, seemingly to fail.
