The President's Daughter

10

I wake up to a stinging eye but I don't remember what happened... Oh that's right, Casey hit me. I slowly throw myself over the side of the mattress. I stand up and stretch. Casey will be waiting for me in the training room and if I'm late I know he will punish me.

I walk down the halls, the fume of fresh paint fill my nose. Well, at least they are starting to fix this place up.

I walk into the training room and find Casey, working on a punching bag. There are no sleeves on his shirt. My guess is he pulled them off himself. Sweat shines on his body and his damp hair flicks to the side every time he kicks. I stand next to him, my arms folded behind my back. He stops as soon as he notices me.

"Your late." he says as he kicks the bag again, "and you look terrible."

"Sorry but I don't have a clock or mirror in my room." I reply. He grabs a towel and wipes down his face then throws it over his shoulder.

"Were not going to do bag work today. We are going to focus on noticing things and balance." I blink my eyes at him, "Wait. You were serious?" I ask in bewilderment.

"Dead serious." he says as he stares down on me, sweat from his hair falls down on my face. Gross. I wipe off the sweat and wait for him to begin.

"with out looking, tell me the color of my shoes." I stare at him like he's crazy.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I ask bitterly and annoyed.

"just answer the question." he says even more annoyed.

"I don't know." I reply as I look at his feet. His bare feet.

"Your not even wearing shoes!" I exclaim.

"but you didn't know that because you weren't paying attention. Let's try this again."

He made me notice everything. From how many people are wearing wedding rings to whether they are left or right footed. It is the hardest thing I will ever have to do.

"You have terrible balance." says Casey as I stand infront of a tight rope. And by a tight rope I mean a piece of rope tyed to two objects.

"Once you make it across you can go eat."

"by eat you mean drink," I mumble under my breath at the thought of the 'food' they served yesterday. I also think about how Casey gave me the bread. How I still have half of it. I get on the tight rope with out complaining. One step is all it takes for me to fall. I wish there was mats.

As I leave the training, well after lunch, I smell the paint fumes again. Remembering what Casey said, I follow the stench. It leads me down a hallway the I've never notices. I can see where the wet paint is. It isn't applied evenly, making it noticeable. The hallway is dark but I can see fairly clearly. I wonder what they were trying to cover? I look closer, until I see at the top a spot they missed. I squint my eyes to get a better look. It looks like a blue round corner. Maybe there was design here. Maybe its just graffiti. I don't know what it is and the fumes begin to give me a headache, so I turn to leave. Until I hear banging. I turn around and follow the sound. I turn a corner to see a door blocked by two men. One of them catches my eye.

"what are you doing down here? This is a private hall." he says harshly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." my thoughts are cut off by the sound of the banging going on behind the door.

"who's in there?" I ask as I peer around the guard.

"a war prisoner. Now get out of here." he yells. I do as I'm told with out giving it a second thought. I bolt. I run straight back to my room so I can finish the rest of my bread.

I turn the corner to my room when I see Mr. Collins messing with the door.

"Mr. Collins, what are you doing?" I ask. He spins around to see me. "ms. Reed. I heard about Casey breaking your door, I came to see if I could fix it." he says as he turns back to his work.

I walk past him, deciding I'll just eat later when he calls after me.

"Braydon, aren't you supposed to meet Casey in the camouflage room?" he asks.

"he didn't mention it to me." I say.

"well he's been waiting for some time. The camouflage room is down this hall on your left. Best get going." I don't hesitate to run. I know that if I'm as late as he says then Casey must be livid.

I push open the door and see Casey standing there talking to someone, a chair between them.

"where the hell have you been?" exclaims Casey.

"I didn't know we were supposed to meet here. You forgot to tell me." I say, pointing my finger at him.

"whatever. Are you ready?" he asks. I stare at him, my eyebrows knit together.

"Ready for what?" I ask a little skeptically.

"to get remade." states the guy behind Casey.

"remade?" I ask.

"your the presidents daughter, and if your going to fight with us you need a disguise. No one can know that your still alive. Its whats keeping the enemy at bay, thinking your dead." explains Casey.

"what do you plan to do?" I ask, panic rising up in me.

"today, we're just going to color and cut your hair." my eyes widen and I grip my hair in my hands. My long dirty blonde locks wrap around my fingers.

"but... It's my moms..." I say. And it is. It's just like my moms. It's the same length and color and style. It makes me look like her.

"it's just hair and it's for your safety." says Casey calmly, like he's trying not to spook me.

"but..." I grip my hair tighter. "no." I whisper as tears form in my eyes.

"you don't have a say in the matter." Casey takes my hand and seats my in the chair. It happens so fast. The second I let go of my beautiful hair is the second half of it falls to the dusty floor. I hold in my breath as I watch the transformation. The change from dirty blonde hair, that fell to the middle of my back, to jet black hair that hangs a little longer than shoulder length. I'm in shock as I stare at myself. No words can describe how I feel.

"the hair dye isn't permanent. It'll come out soap, water and a good scrub." says the man who do this to me. I can't take my eyes of the mirror, my reflection.

"I want to be alone." I whisper. They leave with out giving me a second thought. The door closes behind them. The room is dark. The only light is that is shining from the few light bulbs on the mirror.

I look at my feet, where my past lies. I bend down and pick up a clump of hair that lays on my feet. I bring it up to me and look at it. The way my mothers hair lied on my feet, when I was holding her after she was shot comes to mind. I bring my knees to my at stomach, rest my head on my arms and cry, the golden hair stuck in my grasp.