Scribbles

30283

I was walking through a field. It was a beautiful day; the sky was clear, with a slight breeze. My feet were bare and I could feel the cool, damp grass. A deep purple dress hung loosely off my shoulders, swishing satisfyingly around my legs as I ambled. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care. I just kept walking. On and on- no reason to stop. I was free.

Then I woke up.

The sound of the gong resonated through the walls, shaking the building. I groaned and threw off my thin blanket. Climbing down the ladder of my bunk, I began hastily pulling on work clothes, the same as every other girl in the room. I longed for the purple dress of my dreams as the itchy material bit at my skin. I just finished lacing up my heavy work boots when the gong stopped. Instantaneously, fifty pairs of boots shuffled to a stop. Everyone stood perfectly still next to their bunks. One could hear the eerie creak of the door clearly as the Inspector came clipping in. Following behind her were five assistants, each holding 10 folders. One folder per girl, each containing the days work tasks, along with identity papers and the check point forms. Exactly like yesterday. Exactly like every day I had been trapped in the Correctional Facility for Deviant Females.

I reached out and grasped my folder. The thick paper was worn thin from use, a mark of my long stay. On the top left corner the numbers 30283 were printed. My identification code. It was on all of my clothes, on my bunk, and tattooed on each of my limbs, my torso, and along my hair line. The reason why sends a chill up my spine. 

Standing very still, we waited for the rest of the folders to be passed out. The Inspector's foot steps stopped, and after a moment so did the assistants'. Without moving my head, I leaned forward slightly and looked after them. We weren't allowed to move at that stage in the attendance portion of the morning, but I take great relief in watching what comes next. My little daily act of rebellion. At the very end of the hall, past the last twenty odd girls, was a huge, heavy barn door. Every morning after the folders were handed out, the Inspector would stand directly in front of the big door, facing the worn, brown planks. She would stand stiffly, as if daring us to doubt her. To hate her. All fifty of us would wait with baited breath as the five assistants strained against the weight of the door.

With a metallic squeal, the door would slide open. The Inspector would shriek out a command and all fifty of us girls would pivot in place. One could feel the room exhale at the sight of the sky, gray as it may be. A collective shiver would ripple through the ranks as the brisk, smokey draft of air rushed past us. With a yell, we began marching towards our day of occupation.