The Hands of Death

Chapter 4

MASON

The door clicked shut leaving her behind. It wasn't supposed to be this complicated. I was supposed to punish her. But her eyes, her eyes pulled me in and I couldn't get out.
Snap out of it, Mason. You're a Minute. She's a second. Below you. It was almost funny that I had to tell myself.
"Mason!" A stern voice came from the shadows, cutting through my thoughts.
"Is 47 getting on your nerves? That's not the first time today she's been out of place. Stupid girl can't control herself."
I frowned internally. 47. It didn't feel right hearing someone else say it. The fact that it had come from my mouth makes me sick. But hearing someone say it as though it meant nothing, like she meant nothing, took me by surprise.
The Minute reminded me that he was still there, "Do I need to take care of it?"
"I've got it under control, she won't disobey us again."
"She better not," his voice became deathly silent, "There are ways to dispose of matters, should they become a problem."
I swallowed and nodded, "I'll keep you updated on the situation."
He turned and walked away, picking up speed as he saw another door open.
I felt a pang of guilt, and it hit me like a wall. I prayed that whoever was the victim would make it out alive, they had already lost enough.

EMIRA

I barely got any sleep that night. Days passed, but I couldn't forget it—the mercy of a Minute. He knew my name. Name, not number.
That was something I couldn't wrap my head around, no matter how much time I spent questioning it. Only Rowan knew my name, it just didn't make sense. But then again, nothing did around here.

~~~

47. 47. 47. It was like an endless cycle that I couldn't break out of: '47, snap out of it', '47, get back to work', '47, 10 lashings.' And so it went on.
This is stupid. I'm making such a big deal out of it. He was probably drunk, and not thinking straight. I laughed—the mercy of a Minute, indeed. He couldn't have been that nice if he was sober, or in his right mind. I bet he hasn't even given me a second thought. I'd be lucky if that were true.
"Pay attention, 47." This time it was my voice, mocking itself.
      My back was killing me, no doubt it was infected, probably spilling fluids onto my already filthy clothing. Great. I wasn't looking forward to doing my laundry, but that was nothing new. And I had just done it yesterday, that meant I'd have to wait another couple of days.
Piss was dripping down my legs, the stupid bastards weren't letting me use the toilet. Oh, I mean the Relieving Facilities. They tried to make it sound better by dressing it up with a fancy name but that didn't change the fact that it was literally just a set of ditches in the ground with it even a wall or sheet to give the illusion of privacy. Nup, just a hole. Modesty didn't exist in the village. If you felt the need to hide your body, it implied that you'd given yourself a sense of self worth, of importance. And that wasn't acceptable.
Yes, ironic isn't it? Even the toilets get a name. Not us though. Heavens no. What a point they've made- a hole in the ground which people shit in, is more worthy of a name than us. Point taken.
The sun was burning my skin, making my head throb. I tried to ignore the dirty looks I was getting. Ooh, punishment. Let's all stare at the poor victim, shall we. You'd think that my fellow seconds would have respect for each other, or at least some shred of understanding. But alas, the feeling wasn't mutual. Instead, they seemed to gain pleasure from watching people get hurt.
Who could blame them though really? Living in a place like this; it was the only entertainment they got.
And we were brought up to turn against one another.