Escaping death

Chapter 2

"You ready?" She asks, her calming voice reminds me of the ocean- its soothing sounds. The waves crashing rock hard against the shores, so deadly yet charming. 

I pull on my blue cotton dress- the best I've got- and arrange my hair. To be truefully honest, I don't really care for such things. If looks can actually save your life, far more people would be roaming the streets now. 

But Mother- her thinking is... well, one that most mothers have. I gulp down a glass of water and turn to the reflection in the mirror. Hand to the mirror, its cold to the touch. I look into my black eyes. Empty, soul-less, then I think of how hard I am thinking, how many secrets I am keeping. 

"Goodbye." I say to myself. My voice is surprisingly quiet and soft. It will probably be the last time I can see myself.

"Goodbye Mum, Dad." I hug them as watch as the drops of salt race down their liver-spotted necks. I blink back tears. Be strong, I tell myself.

Silence for five whole seconds before the peace is destroyed.

"NO!" I yelp. "NO! No! No! Save me!" I scream, and only watch as the silhouette of my loving parents fade into the morning light as the Canotholians ply me away and rob me of my life.

 They load me into a small vehicle, I am held down by restrains. "Ain't got enough strength, huh, girl?" I stare him down with my piercing blacks. A side smile flashes on my face- I can't help myself-      as they turn away silently.

I am strong. I must be. Most people see me, my figure, a tiny hunched girl, quiet, strange, maybe? But these people do not know me. A mask is what I need, a mask is what hides everything about me. When you grow up in a country this corrupt, this dangerous, you learn to keep all your emotions and personal thoughts inside.  Because if you do need, you are going to get wounded very, very easily.

Which is also why I am trying to keep the tears from spilling.

Bumpy, bumpy road keeps me stuck in the crueal, heartless world, reality keeps me from dreaming of when I shall be seventeen. The truck stops to a screeching halt, my ears hurt as the sound of friction screams into my ears. They load me off hastily, and hand me over to some guy in actual proper uniform. A pass on his pocket reads Official Cantholian. 

I smile at the guy, hopefully making him twitch. I want him to know I am brave, I want to be the one who is not afraid of death. He cuffs me and leads me into a glass building as I turn and watch the truck ramble away- probably off to ruin someone else's birthday.

"Classy." My mouth feels dry.

"President's quarters,  what were you thinking? It's not your jail cell." The guy rolls his eyes, somehow, childishly.

"Hmm, now what?"

"Now you sit and wait." Second time today, can't the people be any more rough?

He pushes and forces me into a tight chair. I squirm, with the metal still digging into my wrists.

"Number 04567," booms a voice over an intercom.

"Get up." He ushers me into a really fancy room. 

Silk curtains droop over the tall ceilings. The walls are painted a dark shade of blood red, death bells ring in my head. "Welcome-" The bearded old man waves a hand, poised comfortably in his purple chiffon throne. 

He throws his head back and all I can see is his perfectly tailored suit.