Touched

Three, The Grand Ballroom

'a death chosen by people who chose to be the monsters they are written as'

Selena's grip on my wrist is taught and I know it's unintentional, despite having to stop any kind of kindness I have a feeling that her tense shoulders and unnatural strength are the reason.

I am taken aback by how anxious she is, I feel the beginning of a bond stretching between us, but I can't ignore the nagging feeling that I do not know if she actually feels anything.

She leads me out of our bathroom, despite the sparse grandeur of it, and cold tiles that lined the walls and floor it had a warm feeling to it. That warmth that clung to my skin drops away the second we step out, the corridor is cold, and a chill runs up my spine at the smell.

Bleach. Blood. Death?

It's dark as she leads me forward, her heels click as we walk and my feed grate against the worn bricks on the floor, I can't guess when this place was built but it was clearly a long while ago. I can only assume that they saw no reason for giving me fancy shoes, to match my dress but I would have appreciated the extra protection regardless.

As we turn out of the hallway, and into the large room that I was previously attack in, I see all the previously huddled men and women lined up in pairs at the bottom of the stairs. They are all adorned in various fancy dresses and suits, I can feel the anxiety hang heavy in the air.

My handshakes in Selena's and I force down my pathetic reaction to cling back at her hand as she pulls it away from me as I am stopped at the end of the line. Flickering my eyes over to her, I notice how tense her jaw is, curls pushed messily behind her ear as if it was causing her strife.

It seems almost wasteful to put everyone is such glamorous clothing before they die, they're all in some stage of distress, crying or shaking or so pale they looks like they have already died. A painful pang hit my stomach and I keep my eyes away from them and Selena, trying to squash the rise of emotions back down.

Fighting for freedom, for myself, has never been something I am good at, always wanting to avoid the confrontation that comes with it, I was always resigned to unhappiness. Choosing to cuss people out in my head, to save my anger and frustration for moving palettes of product that would come in once a week, and I would throw all the boxes at the wall they needed to be on.

Sometimes I would push it all down, everything, until I couldn't feel it poking at me during the day or attempting to raise its head when I finally stopped moving at the end of the day. I could good at ignoring what I felt, good at being placid and agreeable.

When I was younger, I developed a rebellious streak, and bless my Mum for not throttling me for it, our life was hectic enough without me losing my marbles.

There's something akin to unavoidable doom to what is happening down here, and even if I wanted to fight it seems like a waste of energy. Energy I don't really have, this people have the ability to rip us all apart before we can blink. Even if I had the energy it would be a waste.

Hearing the loud dragging of the metal door at the top of the stairs makes my stomach drop, perhaps to fall out the wound. The suit he is wearing is dark, the shirt matching the dark blue colour adorned over the jacket and pants, his black hair is gelled to the side and down past his ears.

If I had to take a guess, I would say he finds the crowd of us revolting, the grimace on his face gives it away. He sweeps us all up the stairs, like lambs being led to the slaughter, my feet are cold and aching as I ascend the metal steps, the grates used for grip digging into them.