The President's Daughter

C h a p t e r 1

C h a p t e r    1

She must have fallen asleep after a while, because the next thing she remembered was hearing the back of the van open, and light flooding through the fabric of the sack on her head, though she still could see nothing other than the small fibers knitted together. Someone dragged her up over their shoulder, and started to walk, in deep conversation with someone else, but she couldn’t hear what they were talking about, just muffled and detached sounds. As soon as she was out of the van she started struggling, kicking and hitting everything she could reach with her hands and feet tied together and a gag in her mouth.

It did nothing though, and the person just carried on walking and talking as if she wasn’t attempting to bite his shoulder through the cloth of the sack and the gag.

But then, as quickly as it had come, the light faded, and she was once again in the dark. The steps carried on, as did the voices. Tired, she sagged, and let them carry her to wherever they were going.

She heard the creaking of a door, and then she was dumped on a hard surface. She felt something inside of her crack, and a sharp pain shot through her shoulder and upper back. She tried to cry out but choked on the gag, which was a piece of cloth shoved into her mouth. Her eyes stated to water slightly, but she held back any real tears. She didn’t want to cry. Maybe they’d leave her alone if she was quiet.  She’d tried everything else it seemed.

And then suddenly the sack was ripped off her head, and she saw that she was in a room, concrete walls, and a concrete, but slightly dusty floor. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling. They were poor, then, or maybe they just couldn’t be bothered to make the room look nice, though even her fathers’ prison cells were better than this. They had day- lights, which were cheap, barley more expensive than light bulbs. It was funny, when, in summer, instead of being drawn to single lights, moths were drawn to rooms; the light produced by daylights were given off  the walls, and the moths would always try and get in. Though she always felt sorry when one of the servants came with an electro-racket and killed in in a single press of a button, just because it was annoying them. She felt sad that they shouldn’t even think twice before killing an animal.

She looked around the room once more, saw a shadow in the doorway and looked up. In-front of her was a man, of about fifty, unshaven, and clothed in cheap cotton from what looked like the Citizen plantations in the east. He was smoking a cigar, and, among all this madness, all that she could say, once he pulled the cloth out of her mouth, and she had finished throwing up on the floor, was “You’re not allowed to smoke. It’s illegal. Father stopped that over thirteen years ago!”

He ignored her though, except for a chuckle, and unbound her hands and feet, saying nothing as he did so.  He slowly stood up, and she would have too, but she was too weak, and her legs felt like jelly. Still, the man offered her a hand

“Alfredo.” He said. “And I know who you are.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then was brave enough to glare, and spit on the dusty floor beside his foot, though she had never done it before, and her aim was terrible, most of it just dribbled out her mouth.  It didn’t help that she was parched, and that her mouth and throat were dry as sandpaper.

All the same, he didn’t take kindly to the gesture, and smacked her hard around the face.

“Watch yourself, girl. You have no power or status here. I was nice because I thought you would return the favor until we explained ourselves, that you were not like your father. That’s what our spies told us. I see now that I was wrong. Next time I shall not take so kindly to such things.”

And with that he left her there, in the dimly lit room, with the light bulb flickering above her head, and a thick iron door in the way of her escape, in the way of freedom.

They came back a while later, but this time, Alfredo said nothing to her, just took her by the wrist, and pulled her up. She stumbled, and wiped blood off of a graze on her knee before following on behind him. She glared at everyone that looked at her, didn’t bother to try and hide her limp, and sung the national anthem under her breath just to try and get them annoyed. Usually she wouldn’t have dared, but for some reason here it was different, she felt knew, stronger, but a thousand times more vulnerable at the same time.

They walked down corridors, past tens of people, and all the curious stares she met with a level glare, though they barley ever looked away. They finally reached a door, which Alfredo punched in a pin to, and it clicked open. Inside was a steal table, bolted to the floor, and chairs, the same. It was nicer than the cell though, and didn’t smell like piss, blood or vomit. There was a man, sitting one side of the table, and he gestured with his hand for her to take a seat, but she ignored him, and sat on the floor in the corner, hugging her knees and glaring.

‘May Kingsley.’

‘Yes.’ She replied. Not a question, but a proud confirmation, it was almost confrontational, but there was a sort of defensive tone to her voice, although she was not sure why.

The man sighed. ‘I’m sorry we had to meet in this way. But it is all for a just cause. In time you will understand, child. Our spies tell us you are not like your father, or the rest of The Government. You show understanding, are kind, yet strong. And dedicated. And once you know of the atrocities committed by your father and his men, you will understand.’

‘I d-don’t understand. A-and I don’t care. You can d-do w-what you want t-to me, I’ll never betray th-the government. Just t-tell me why I’m h-here, as if I don’t a-already know, and g-get this o-over with.’

The man sighed. ‘My name is Francis, I'm head of The Opposition.'