Perfectly Scarred

The Rescue

"Ms. Bennett." I shake her arm lightly, trying to get her attention. Her dead eyes don't move from the television and I don't think it's because she's engrossed in the live debate.

She has that drugged look about her. She looks old; her face is younger than the rest of her body, but less so without her usual blush and concealer, and it's like her neck can barely hold it up.

I look to the chair beside her and I see Mila Cruz. Beautiful Mila Cruz who was trying to help me, she has the same distant look, hair tied back and greasy, as if it hasn't been washed in weeks. I'm afraid to look around any more, but I have to.

I pull myself up to the next row, and I see the guards. Billy, who branded me, August, and the security guard Tony, who all witnessed it.

In the front row are the kids from school, Tasha, Leo, Gabby, and Lara. I watch them in their red gowns, powerless, not at all like the last time I saw them, when they tied me up and stripped me to inspect my brands.

The smell of peppermint in the air makes me queasy, that same smell that came from Dahee.

I'm ashamed of myself for the sense of satisfaction I feel looking at the kids who bullied me not so long ago and took photographs of my brands.

It was that evil act that sealed their fate. I do feel something for Lara, who I grew up with. She lived across the road from me all my life and was a family friend, someone I have memories of playing with as a child, up until the fateful day her mom, Shey Lee, was taken away and branded Failure.

I'm grateful not to see Granddad, any other members of my family, Lisa or George Angelo in this room. None of these people can help me—they can't even see me. I've stayed here too long.

I hear the Whistleblowers' voices in the corridor, telling Jessica they refuse to listen to any more. "She won't know, Jessica. We'll tell her we read it again," says one, while Jessica desperately tries to win their attention back.

She loses the battle, their coffee cups have been drained, the guards start to disperse.

I've run out of time.

The door to this bizarre television recreational room opens and a guard steps in.

I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the television, trying to mimic the others. My heart is pounding from the effort of climbing up onto the spare armchair, the sweat rolls from my temple and down my back, I'm not sure if I imagine it, but I think I feel it drip past my waist, tickling. Is the injection wearing off?

I can't test my legs to see, but I feel the beginning of pins and needles in my thighs. I'm out of breath from the effort it took to sit here and I hope they can't see my chest heaving up and down beneath the red gown.

I try to control my breathing and what I imagine is the wild look in my eyes, a stark contrast to the others, who are like couch potato zombies.

What has Dahee done to them? How long have they been here, and what does she intend to do with them?

The guard gasps suddenly, perhaps seeing me, and she runs from the room.

"Stacey!" she calls down the corridor, keeping the door open with her body so that I still can't move.

I quickly take a risk and wipe the rolling sweat from my brow, that single movement a danger. She returns with another guard. They're whispering, heads close together.