Cauchemar Camp

Chapter 4

There's a drain in the next room.

There are showers too, and cold water that smells too much like dirt to be safe to shower in. Still transparent, so I guess it's cleaner than us. Doesn't explain the brown rust that surrounds the drain, too dark to be concrete, too light to be mould. Smells too metallic to be anything that wasn't once running through veins.

"Clothes off, under a shower head. Too many of you, so don't be selfish." Even her voice sounds like an art teacher's. Sixth grade, maybe seventh. Tries to be strict but still breaks when she speaks too loudly, still manages to speak through it, sounding clearer than all the others.

I wish I had finished my snake painting in sixth grade, the one that my art teacher (an actual teacher, not someone who plans on working me to death) said had potential. Maybe they would've put it in the library, next to the other outstanding dot paintings.

We're all girls, a small comfort, but still, it makes my hands a little steadier as I reach for the bottom of my shirt. Beside me, I see her head of blonde curls disappear, only to emerge from the blue fabric. She throws her dress in the conner. I follow her lead. We stand under the cold water together.

I stare at the mirror on the wall, trying not to look at anyone else's reflection. I get it now, why my mom always told me that I needed to get more sun. Why my sister said I needed to wash my hair before it started looking too oily, my brown doesn't allow for as much forgiveness and her blonde. Why my dad always told me not to worry about my looks, there are more important things in life, that sting is more bitter than sweet.

She doesn't give us any soap or a towel before handing over the brown rags. I'm four years old again, not sure which side of my shirt is supposed be out or which leg to put into the pants first.

Good thing they give us neither, just a piece of cloth with three holes in it, no right or wrong side. Just something to cover us. It's more dignity than I was expecting to be granted, so I don't complain. I wish the black haired one, whose voice sounds a little too much like the shout from the boat dungeons, did the same.

"I'm not doing this. I need things, okay. I need underwear, I need actual clothing, not this." Her voice is louder up close, she doesn't care that we're all staring at her, doesn't care that she's naked and being watched. Apparently, she only needs things outside this room.

I look away. I'm not one of them. I'm not here to make it worse for her. Not when I see the art teacher stick her head into the hallway and call someone, not when I see another woman come in, nodding at her. Not when I've had too many classes, watched too many documentaries, listened to too much news to not know what comes next.

I wish Wide Eyes did too, because the gasp she lets out is almost worse than the scream that follows the other girl down the hallway, her feet slapping the floor so hard my own bruises feel it. A door closes. Silence.

The stain on the drain stays exactly the same.

This time, I'm the one that grabs her hand as the new woman points to the door, makes us all line up along the wall before marching us down the empty hall. Up a flight of stairs, then another. The next floor looks exactly the same, how ironic would it be for her to get lost while leading us. We wouldn't be able to run away, would have no where to run away to. Still something to smile about later on.

She opens one of the doors, not lost then. Doesn't say anything, just waits for us to go in before the closing it again.

The sound of the key turning echoes.

It's the first time I've felt something related to safety. First time I look up, take in my surroundings. Not that there is much to take in, just a room filled with girls, no beds except the blankets folded on the floor. Six total. Only five girls. A bucket in the conner, next to the door.