The Hands of Death

Chapter 3

The soup would not be my downfall.
      I had gone through so much, endured too much, to be at the mercy of a mere bowl of lukewarm slosh whipped up by the kitchens. I rolled my eyes despite the situation.
      I wonder what was in it today—probably whatever vermin that was running around Food Preparations: mice, spiders, anything they could scrounge up. At least I hadn't been assigned there. I don't think I could stomach seeing what exactly went into what I was shoving in my mouth.
     It was late. If I was going to risk going outside, now would be the time. I stood up, shaking. Yes, no. Ugh, I don't know.
     I clasped the doorknob, letting in the shafts of moonlight that broke through the clouds. It was quiet, I'm pretty sure everyone heard the creaking of my door, but I hoped not.
     The doors were never oiled. 'Rust equals noise,' the Minutes had said, 'Noise equals disobedience and disobedience is rewarded with punishment.'
     There it was, in all its glory. But wait, no, it would be too easy. Something was up. I peeked my head around the door, begging that no one would be there.
     My heart froze in my chest when I saw the back of a guard. It's okay, it's okay, he had turned around the corner, off to try and catch another unfortunate soul disregarding the rules. Fool. Just like me.
     I crouched behind the door—the more of me concealed, the better. My hand fumbled around for the bowl, I could feel the ice-cold air embrace my skin as if welcoming me to the darkness of the night. At last my fingers grasped the chilled rim of the the bowl. I carefully pulled it towards me, paying close attention to make sure that not one drop was spilt. Wouldn't want to leave any evidence. One drop was enough.
       I breathed a sigh of relief, I had made it. The soup was in my possession. As quietly as I had opened it, my hands slowly drew the door back towards me.
       Not slowly enough.
A foot wedged itself between the door.
      Crap.
It was a leather boot, with a gold buckle, definitely a guard. I didn't lift my head up, you could never look them in the eye. That would mean you were equals. And that's not the way it is around here.
      "Shit," I breathed.
       A low, deep, chuckle erupted from the figure above me. "47," A man's voice growled, "Care to explain why you might be opening your door at this unearthly hour?"
      I hesitated, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
      "Look at me 47."
There it was again. My number. It dehumanitized us until we were nothing more than simple digits.
      My eyes met his, surprised when they were not filled with the same harsh light as the Minutes usually possessed. Rather, there was a flicker of something other than cruelty. It disappeared before I had time to analyse it.
      My self control threw itself out the window, or should I say door?
      "Why? So it would be easier for you to spit on my face? Because I'm so below you. But hold on, am I even worthy of your unwanted saliva that you have ever so kindly graced me with?"
      Sarcasm was dripping from my voice, but I instantly regretted it as soon as the sentence was out of my mouth. I turned my head, expecting to feel the sharp sting of his hand on my face. It never came.
     "Maybe this is why you're punished so often. You forget your place, and can't contain your tongue." This time, it was his voice that was threatening, "I trust this won't happen again."
     "As you will it. I'm sorry."
     "It's the feeling of being restrained that makes freedom so enticing. But don't get too carried away that you forget the reason you're behind bars."
     "Thank you for your words of wisdom, sir. I am incredibly grateful."
     "Emira." Everything went quiet. His whisper pounded in my head. My name. He said my name. He knows my name.
     "Sir?" My voice was croaky, the sharp intake of my breath causing it to come out rushed and uneven.
      "Please stay out of trouble." The concern in his voice was unmistakable.
       I nodded, frightened of upsetting him.
He stared at me for a while, before gently shutting the door, taking my fear with him.
      I picked up my forgotten soup, pressing it to my lips and swallowing the tasteless mixture. It was cold, but my heart was warm.