Back When the Lights Shined

Chapter Fifteen

The night passes without me getting even a wink of sleep, which is already torture enough. The next morning (at least, what I believe to be morning), I stand in the center of my cell for nearly an hour, waiting. Finally, two men come down to fetch me. They lead me out of my cell and up the stairwell. I emerge from the cellar and into the light. The show has begun.

            It’s all being broadcasted on an enormous jumbo screen standing in the center of each town square in Circum. That means there are at least four in Central City, and who knows how many in the others. Cameras built into the walls are filming me even now. Ten more cameras being held by cameramen with large microphones are focusing in on me. Nothing filmed will be censored. All my tears, pain, and agony will be broadcasted live all day.

            I’m led into a large, empty room. The floor has been covered in blue, rubber- feeling sheets. I look up and see the president and his daughter watching from a balcony above us. In front of me are two other men. One holds a whip, and the other, a club.

            In the corner is one of the camera crews. A newscaster stands in front of the camera, explaining what’s happening. I stand there, watching. The newscaster motions for someone standing by to approach her. Then, Sarai enters.

            Once I see her, the anger burns inside of me. I’m disgusted by her now, and I can’t seem to hold it in any longer. This woman betrayed not just me, but every one of the rebels. Every one of us trusted her, but she let us down. We had a chance, finally. But she ruined it for us.

            “Traitor,” I scream at her. Both she and the newscaster turn to me. Sarai isn’t fazed by me at all. “We trusted you! You ruined everything!” The men are fighting to hold be back. I didn’t even realize how hard I was fighting to get to her, but the men are really struggling to keep me from her.

            “Just whip her! That ought to shut her up,” one of the men says. My eyes widen. Before I can even try to brace myself, I feel the crack of the whip on my back. It leaves a long gash on my back. The men lift the back of my shirt, exposing my back to the whip. The whip lashes onto my back again, causing an even more excruciating pain. The other men let go, allowing me to drop into the fetal position.

            The horrific lashes continue. Over, and over, and over, I feel to awful crack of the leather. Each one leaves a gash. It feels like it’s lasted forever, but in reality, it’s only been twenty minutes when they stop. In twenty minutes, my back is bleeding horribly from the uncountable amount of whips I endured.

            Still in the fetal position, I block my face from the cameras. I want to spare everyone from seeing my pained expression. Especially Ashton. Of all people, he is the one I still feel the need to protect. He can’t see me in pain. As unbelievably painful it is, I can’t show the hurt to anyone.

            “Alright, he said not to kill her. Just make her wish she was dead. Save some of the stuff we’ve got for the next few days. We need a show, then, too,” says the man with the club.

            I look up at him, studying him. I learn to hate every aspect of him. He has brown, wavy hair that hangs just below his shoulders. He has pulled it back into a low ponytail, keeping it out of his face. His eyes are a cold green color. He is much larger than me, and very muscular. A slight mustache rests upon his upper lip. On his navy uniform, I can see a small, white nametag. Jean Beaulieu.

            I learn to hate that name.

            “Alright. How long are we going on with this,” one asks.