Cauchemar Camp

Chapter 1

To my sister, who listened to my nightmare. (the book dedication you've always wanted)

They don't tell you about the smell in history class. The ammonia, the bleach, the death. It pours out of us, every tear and jump seems to make it worse, make it impossible to get used to.

"Don't want you to feel bad for the slaves, might make you see them as actual people" My sister's voice echoes in my head. I can almost see her, cheeks red, eyes wide, in the middle of another "burn it all down" rant after a failed exam.

I ignore the pair of eyes that stare at my tugged lips. If I look, she'll ask. If she asks, I'll have to answer and if I answer her eyes might look a little too similar to the blue shade my sister always prided herself on. Like she had any part in it's creation, like she wasn't just born with them out of pure genetic luck.

Somehow, in the middle of the sea of bodies aboard the ship's dungeon, two boys still manage to talk about sports.

"Did you see who won the volley finals?"

"China."

"No way, I think they're all a little too short for that."

A strangled, throaty sound slips out of someone, I don't know who, they're too far into the room for me to see them. For a second I'm sure that all of our anger has been wrapped up and shoved into that girl's mouth just for her to spit it back out again. I don't see how else someone could direct so much distain at someone that doesn't hold the key that locks us all in here.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting" That boy's american, he could be canadian, with that no accent type of accent, but I'm sure he's not.

Too loud, at least they seem to think so. His water ration has to have been reduced at least twice by now, but that doesn't seem to stop him from yapping on and on about who was at what game and who got what medals.

As if his country's sports teams being better than others' would make it possible to get him out of here, to get him back to his family, back to watching the games, back to whatever cozy hotel he was in before.

It might have been the same hotel as me. If I squint enough, look far enough into the darkness, I could imagine myself seeing just about anyone of them in the hotel hallways, running after their parents or their children. Or maybe in the lobby, complaining to the staff about bed arrangements or dancing for a phone. The restaurant buffet is as good a place as any to have spotted them, the blonde next to me might just be an exact match to the one sneaking in an extra scoop of ice cream when her mom wasn't watching.

My stomach grumbles in protest, no thinking of food then.

"Keep forgetting that there are other people in the world or that we're all packed up in here?" The shout almost makes my head hurt, something I would've thought was impossible after sharing a room with my family for three weeks. This girl is in my line of sight, her skin a couple shades too dark to be my sister's, but her cheeks holding the same colouring nonetheless.

A loud bang echoes through the room.

No one speaks after that.

————

They don't have to tell me we've arrived. I know it as soon as the noise upstairs gets louder, as the footsteps on the staircase keep coming, sounding like an army instead of the usual lowly workers charged with feeding and body removal. The key turns too slowly, the door opens too widely and their faces are too happy.

If they're happy, then that must mean I'm not.

I start standing before they say anything, my back curved so my head doesn't hit the ceiling. The phone stuck between my jeans and my hips shifts, my heart stops. I see myself through their eyes, chest rising and falling too quickly for someone who's only had one meal in what must have been a two day trip, eyes too alert for a girl who has been awoken every time she almost managed to fall asleep, wether by the smell or the crying or the hugging from Wide Eyes.

Instead, I tighten my stomach, keep my head down, wait for the chains on my hands, the ones that tie me to the others, to be pulled and keep going.

"You worry too much" My mother says as I tell her about a group project, I can't remember which one so it must not have been important, where I'm the only one pulling their weight. Still, her mouth is tight as she looks down at my head where it lays on her lap, I did, after all, get my anxiety from her.

"One at time, that's it." is repeated over and over as I get to the door. When I pass by the man, I keep my head down so he doesn't see how my nose wrinkles and my eyes roll at the smell of tea and bad breath.

The floorboard beneath me is steady, nothing like the creaky, old, mouldy one i was on throughout the trip. Nothing like the one in the room, one kilogram away from giving out. I tell myself that's why I was always a little glad when they came with the white sheet and left with a wrapped body. Not because of the water and the food, not because it was one less cry to listen to, to be cried. Because the floor surely would have given out if 11 people hadn't been taken.

It makes it slightly easier to stand straight, even with my head down, if I believe that. My back still protests with every step I take up the stairs and towards the light.

Author's Note: This is a new story and a work in progress, so I'd love to hear your opinions, insights, feedback. Anything is welcome! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.