Cauchemar Camp

Chapter 2

One at a time, indeed. As the people in front of me walk, backs covered in dirt and all the things I don't want to think about being on me as well, they're picked off like fish at the market.

The upstairs part of the boat, that I imagined being a restaurant with a dance floor made of marble and ice sculptures filled with shrimp is actually just a boring old slave ship. Men pick out the boys and women pick out the girls, separating them into different groups that look absolutely the same. Which is hard, considering how many different types of people they managed to take.

The older ones, the ones that managed to sleep through the crying and not throw up at the first smell of fesses, are arranged into a group in the back.

It's impressive, really, how quickly they unshackle hands just to lock them up again in a different chain. I bite my tongue to stop myself from how they got so good at it. I was never the type to ask the math teacher to redo an equation, much less ask a slave runner how they mastered their craft.

The woman who picks me looks more like an art teacher. The stick that turns her stringy hair into a bun makes me want to look for the american, see if he's made it. I don't do that, too.

The tear that slips out when I see that Wide Eyes is put in the same group as me, right behind me, can't be stopped. Neither can the ache my heart feels, hurting just enough to remind me that at least relief is still a feeling that lives in me. I was beginning to worry that fear would get lonely, slowly eating away at my insides to keep itself alive with all the energy it needs to keep up with it's use.

They aren't as fast putting the bags over our heads. Their arms adjust slowly, their fingers aren't as skilled at tying loose knots as they are at locking tight handcuffs. I still keep my head down, though, hoping to every god I never bothered believing in that she'd do the same, even if it's just so I can look into my sister's eyes again. She stuck to me the entire time, looking at me every time the door opened and light was let in, might as well be smart and do as I do. Even if we look around the same age.

It takes them a while, and maybe its the Olympic spirit still in me, but I imagine all the encouraging cheers I could give them when I hear other groups being moved off the boats. Four total, not a bad performance if they were going for a small photo in a sport's magazine instead of a place on the podium. I repeat that over in my head a couple times, a joke I could tell my family if I ever saw them again. If they ever saw me again, really. Considering they're all together and I'm the only one here, I made sure of that before giving into the bombshock. Made sure I saw them all disappear into the stadium exit, heads turned staring right at me before passing out, too tired to fight. Or maybe just too stupid.

The pull at my hands set me in motion, trying to keep my pace even and slow at the same time. Not wanting to step on anyone's heels, or trip, or trip someone else. Not when they're watching. Not when the product of my last stupid moment is still fresh, still so vivid in my memory this might just be a dream.

Hope is the last to die, right?

The most surprising part about England is how familiar it all is. From the cold wind that hits my hands every so often to the train we're forced onto. Even the sickening speed at which we go, all standing up instead of sitting down, reminds me of the family trip. It was years ago, sure, before the nation closed itself off as quickly as it had once spread out. But still, I remember, and that, perhaps, is the worst part.

That is, until we leave the train, walk until my feet bleed in my sneakers and the bags, which had just started to feel suffocating, were removed. Missing an old family vacation is nothing compared to seeing the treadmill that fills the giant metallic tubes in the old factory. Or seeing the sitting people, their hands going into the tubes through the holes on it's sides, doing something, I don't know what, inside.