Rogue

8

~Alyssa~

I grit my teeth and dig my fingernails into the ground as the whip bites into my back, actually cutting through this time. I can tell because I can feel liquid running down it, my clothing sticking to my skin. The whip is raised once more, the small spikes ready to slash up my skin again. I manage not to make a sound, which is a relief. And a record. This is the twentieth lash. I can usually only go about ten without whimpering or something and making things worse for myself.

   I am supposed to be paying for what I have done. I'm supposed to be thinking about the two soldiers I killed, and I'm supposed to be thinking of violence against the enemy. What they don't know, though, is that in my head, they are considered the enemy.

   I don't know how long I've been here, but this is one of the only things that's been happening to me since I stabbed the soldier in the eye and the other men caught up with me. I don't know how many of the others, if there are any more at all, are here. I don't know if they're being punished just as badly, if they're whipped and beaten daily, or if they're in the same spot they were in before we had to run: shackled to the wall, no words spoken as the soldiers walk around them, guns loaded and aiming to kill if need be.

   I'm not sure who's in the worse position, but both are pretty bleak.

   The whip suddenly changes direction and lashes straight across my face, catching me off guard and knocking me down. It strikes me again and again as I lie on my back, knowing that it's covered in dirt. The handle comes down and strikes me across the face, surprising me. It's slammed into my cheek multiple times. The soldier looks down on me for a moment, then lands a good, solid kick into my ribs. Pain shoots all the way through my upper body, but I pay as little attention to it as possible. I don't want to screw this up for myself.

   The soldier's boot comes down again, kicking me in the mouth this time. I can feel some type of liquid running down my chin, but I don't want to see what it is. I just keep my eyes trained on the soldier, who keeps his eyes on me in return. They're cold, calculating. Dead.

   I look away.

   Something about those steely blue eyes makes me want to look back, though. They look familiar. It feels like I've seen them somewhere else, a million years ago in another life. Sometime before I was captured and half of my memories were erased.

   And suddenly, something comes to me.

   The Sick had begun yet another raid in Ignisville, the city next to ours. We learned of this because of  a call from my cousin Sylvia over our holographic projector. We didn't see her in the shot. What we did see was much worse.

   People were fleeing and screaming high-pitched shrieks, running all over the cracked streets and concrete sidewalks. Suddenly, gunfire filled my ears as people began to fall, blood splattering everywhere. Bodies hit the ground, either covered in blood or charred beyond recognition. The screams intensified, and even more people began to run.

   Suddenly, there was a huge blast that even shook the projector, making it glitch for a few moments. Finally, it cleared up, and everything was deadly silent. By this time, we had all been bracing ourselves, hoping for some sign of human life. Something that would show that someone was alright. That a whole city hadn't just been eradicated.

   My father fell to his knees, watching the screen in despair. My mother covered her mouth in shock and horror. None of us ever pulled our eyes away from the screen as ashes began to rain down outside of the window, looking like snow that was completely helpless against the fire.

   We heard a small, sharp intake of breath from the other side of the screen, and I felt warmth pouring down my face as we heard her still breathing. But then we heard a knocking on the door, sounding more and more like the person on the other side was trying to break down the door with every swing.

   And then they finally did.

   I bit my lip as the door audibly splintered and swung open. Sylvia gasped and made a move, but loud footsteps triggered her hesitation. Our entire family held our breaths.

   And the projector shook once again as the roar of gunfire opened up in the room, sending a rain of bullets into the walls, through the glass, and into the floor.

   I turned away from the screen then, not wanting to see anything more. I heard a thud and breathed shakily, knowing that it was too heavy of a thud to be just a stack of books or the projector falling. It held so much more than just pages or technology. Or it had held much more than that.

   I made myself turn back to the screen and look. The first thing I noticed was that everything was still on fire. I recalled a lesson that my father had taught me long before, in a Latin lesson. The term ignis meant fire. The city of fire was burning to the ground.

   And then I saw the horrifying sight that was not there before. The one that I had been missing for the past several seconds.

   Sylvia was lying on the floor, the table almost covering her. She was on her left side, facing the projector. What I could see of her face was completely slathered in blood. It was matted into her hair, running down her face from what must've been at least fifty bullets. But the thing that haunted me the most was the sight of her lifeless, steely blue eyes staring right back at me.

   I look back up at the soldier, who still stares down at me, daring me to make a move. His eyes are focused on me, and he barely seems to blink.

   It's almost robotic.

   Suddenly, I realize something. Throughout the entire memory, I never saw a Sick person, either a citizen or a soldier, on the street. I never saw the one that shot my cousin multiple times until she died. I have no idea what they look like. I only saw a little of what they're capable of.

   Is that what the soldiers are doing for us? Are we the last human survivors, and that's why they punish us for killing others, for speaking? Maybe the Sick are near us, closer than we think, and that's why the soldiers do what they do.

   Maybe they're just trying to protect us from dying.

   Maybe my brain is siding with the people who killed so many helpless others and thinking that they're my allies.

   Maybe I don't need to try to escape them or kill any others.

   Maybe the best thing for me to do is stay right where I am. It definitely beats dying at the hands of the Sick. Not by much, but it is better.

   I open my mouth, ready to speak and say the thing that I never thought that I would. "I have thought about the actions that I have taken, and I admit that they were wrong."

   The soldier standing over me looks a little taken aback by what I have said. Then he raises the whip over his head again. "Alright. I will accept that. However, you have not yet fully paid for the actions that you have taken. Therefore, your punishment will ensue." The whip is lashed across my face once again. "You have received one quarter of your punishment for one soldier. Now you only have one and three quarters' punishment to go." The whip comes down again.

   By the time this punishment is over, I'll probably change my mind.

   I'll probably rather be in the hands of the Sick. At least they'll kill me faster.

   I say none of this out loud. Instead, I grit my teeth again as the whip keeps coming down, slashing through my skin. It's searing, but I take it.

   At this point, taking it is the only thing I can do.