When they released me out of that room, I found the Industry was a big, industrial factory warehouse. The Industry must've bought it, or maybe the warehouse was abandoned before. There were about a hundred people in the Industry, and they were all unique. Many had green hair, like the Joker's. Some used the slit mouth smile, like the Joker, or Jeff the Killer. Others might wear masks, or have plastic surgery done to change the color of their skin. Other's wore tattoed eyebrows, or had one to many fingers. Some even had plastic wrinkles, or wore liquid latex all of the time. One thing you did not see, however, was piercings. No one wore piercings at the Industry. No one. Not one soul.
I decided I needed to be different-- I needed to stand out, if I were to suceed in the Industry. I had high hopes to climb to the top of the Industry and be the most sucessful. It couldn't be too hard, could it? I felt pretty headstrong at that point. Little did I know, the Industry didn't like arrogant people. They ripped them to shreads until they were sadistic killers-- or dead.
I wondered where to start. Should I get my name first, or create my general image first? Who should I consult to help me? I spend about three days alone in an alleyway wondering this. I was silent for these three days, never speaking a word. I almost went insane. And when I finally did speak-- it felt unnatural. The syllabels on my tongue felt like a burden. Sputtering out random pieces of laughter and parts of words, it was very difficult to communicate at all after those three days. It felt-- odd. I eventually decided on a name when I strolled past a local tattoo and piercing shop one day. Pierce. And with that, came the name of my story, as well.
Pierce was an interesting name to create an image with. I wondered if I should get a myraid of piercings. I, somehow, decided against it. Mainly because I had no money to buy any with. So I kept walking, alone, on the streets. That's when something interesting happened.
I had saw my picture, on the sign. It was a missing childrens report. I was only seventeen then, but I was surprised anyone cared. I carefully studied that picture of me, and wondered where they had gotten it. My mother, most likely. It seemed it had been taken before I joined the Industry. That's when people began pointing and shouting.
"It's her!"
"Dial the number!"
I bolted. As fast as possible I ran. I kept running until I was alone, in a farmers cornfield. I picked pieces of gravel, dirt and blood out of my knotty hair. I began to braid it in two, looking up to the afternoon sun. It felt so peaceful, alone in the country. I regretted growing up in the city. The city was a burden for the strong. The city was too busy, too conventional, too overused.
Later that day, when the sun had dissapeared and the moon had taken it's place, I wondered if the Industry was looking for me as well. I was a ways away from the warehouse in which the Industry rested. Nah, they wouldn't be looking for one of its mere initiates. Would they? Could they possibly think that I had ran off, telling people off about them and their crime, threatening their existance? No, that wasn't possible. I pushed that thought out of my mind.
Early the next morning, when it was still dark out, I exited the cornfield. I hadn't an idea where I was going at all, just that I was going. The Industry might as well be looking for me, possibly checking up as me? They would find me, I was sure. So, my lost soul decided to head back to the city for the Industry to find me.
And sure enough, they did. They picked me up in a dark Caravan and sent me back to the warehouse. They had a tracking device implanted in my upper arm to make sure they'd never lose me again. The people in the car I had never seen before, they were plain, business looking people dressed in suits. I supposed their job was to make sure the initiates would never get lost. Or maybe they were the higher ranking people, by their suits? But they were all men, no woman. Surely the Industry wasn't sexist to woman? Surely woman could get into the higher ranks. Right?
When I got back to the Industry, they shoved me in a dog cage with a single towel. I sighed. I guess this was my punishment for getting myself lost. It was freezing in the room with all of the cages, and I looked through the bars to all of the rest of the cages. Many people were in cages, few were empty. Some were crying, but others were completely silent and unmoving. "Why are we silent?" I asked, out of curiousity. No answer. A few minutes later, I was lead out of my cage and beaten. I had a backflash of my mother beating me every day I was late for school, and salty water dripped out of my eyes into my mouth. I was shoved back in my cage, to cry, feeling alone, shortly after. That's the point when I began to wonder if joining the Industry was a mistake..
