Céala

1. Name Day: Now

There are five of us in this room, under the harsh fluorescent lights and sitting in uncomfortable plastic orange chairs. The air smells of something sterile - bleach, maybe - and the tattoo of my barcode on my wrist seems to wriggle and itch under my skin. The ink is a branding, a way for those in charge to know I have been beaten into submission, that I’ve bowed to their rules. It gives my assigned number, age, sector, and blood type when scanned. The ink has settled low beneath my epidermis making removal of the tattoo impossible. Not that I haven't tried. Bleach. Sandpaper. Fire, even. The site remains largely unchanged and still completely scannable.
My auburn hair is braided into two plaits, one down either side of my head. It's getting longer now, the ends of it reaching my mid-back with ease. I remember being told once that it looked like fire; just orange enough to miss the red mark but red enough not to look like a carrot.
The group before mine is finishing, I can hear the slow shuffle of rejected girls; the ones who weren’t chosen, the ones who will climb back into the big black van and ride silently to their boarding house. Only four girls will walk into the room where I now sit, one has been assigned.
My head is bowed, but my dark green eyes scan what I can of the room. Two girls sit to my left, one to my right and one behind me. The girl to my right hasn’t stopped moving since we’ve sat down: her leg bounces, her foot ticks, her fingers drum. She looks as though she isn’t older than thirteen, but I know she must be older. In order to be assigned, you have to at least be sixteen.
The metal door on the far wall scrapes open and four girls walk through. They walk in a single line, as we are instructed to do, hands clasped in front of them and eyes trained on the floor. A spark of anger flares in my chest and my fist clenches before I remember myself and smooth out my fingers. ‘Mustn't cause a scene’, Madame Bradbury's nasal voice floats through my brain as I work to keep my expression neutral. The memory of Madame wrapping her crop across my knuckles flashes through my mind and I spare a glance down at my hand. My fingers are slender and pale aside from the angry red lines that run across the middle. The scars didn't take long to appear there. Madame Bradbury is not a tolerant woman.
The returning women all look so… Sad. Disappointed, even. They will still be assigned, even if they weren’t this go around. Most of them have a few more years to be appealing enough to the faceless man who will pick them out of a line up; of going through the Name Day Ceremony once every three months until they are chosen. If they aren't chosen by their twenty-first year, they'll be assigned to a boarding house and given a group of girls to look after. 
“Up,” the armed guard commands those of us sitting. One of the returning girls jumps at his tone and receives a sharp pinch and a glare from the girl behind her. The metal mouthpiece in his shiny helmet distorts his voice ever so slightly, but the instruction is clear enough. “Against the wall,” he speaks again, waving his gun as he speaks, his voice bored. The returning girls take the seats we were just in as our backs press against the cement of the wall and we wait for further instruction. The pit in my stomach grows until I am certain everyone in the room can see the gaping hole in my abdomen. My palms itch to hold my middle together, keeping all of my organs in place. They begin to sweat and my heart feels as if it is about to beat out of my chest. I take a deep breath. This is it, my Name Day. I should have been through this before, I'm almost too old to be assigned. Madame Bradbury always had a reason why I could not go to the House of Ceremonies, there was always another excuse. This year, however, because of my age, she had no choice. I will no longer be an anonymous number if I’m chosen; I will have a name, a place in society, a new identity.

We are led by a different guard into an even smaller, brighter room. The room is all white, save for a floor to ceiling mirror on the opposite wall, and we five are left staring at ourselves. Five girls, all relatively similar in looks - all blonde or red haired, all similar builds and facial features; all similar backgrounds. My braids look nearing painful and my wide green eyes take in everything they can. I look paler than usual under these extreme lights, and I idly wonder if that will lessen my chances of being chosen. I feel frightened and unsure and I begin to worry my bottom lip with my teeth. Involuntarily, my mind reminds me of my first day in the Pink House, when I first met Madame Bradbury.

My reflection stares back at me as I come back to the present. Name Day. I am not in the Pink House anymore - I am in the House of Ceremonies, awaiting my fate. The room is silent, save for the sound of the five of us breathing. We all know how this works, unofficially, at least. The man for our sector has filled out a survey for what he wants in his “Partner” and we all fit those parameters. He’ll walk up on the other side of the mirror and pick one of us out, based on which one of us he likes the look of the best and whoever he picks will leave the House of Ceremonies with him and will be Bound as his Partner. The word Partner, although it meant “equals” in the Before, no longer has the same connotation. In the after, it means being assigned to a man to keep society running, to keep populating Peluquin, to keep up appearances.
A buzzer sounds, echoing in the small space and a speaker crackles in the ceiling.
“Turn to your left,” a voice instructs. We follow the order, shifting our bodies in line. “Face the wall,” the same voice says. My nose almost touches the slick white tile of the wall when I turn and my breath collects on the surface. I inhale slowly and close my eyes for a brief moment, concentrating on staying upright and not vomiting down the pristineness of it. “To your right,” the voice tells us, and we shift again. Invisible eyes study my body as an electric current runs along my skin. I am exposed, being scrutinized this way. Every part of me is being picked apart, analyzed, scored. “Face forward,” the speaker hums. We are back where we started, staring into the mirror, where our potential Partner waits.

The room goes silent, the static of the speaker now fully gone, and we are again left to our own thoughts. The gaping hole is back in my abdomen and I clench my fists to keep my fingers in place. The sickness hasn't entirely gone, either.
A hidden door hisses open, and a guard walks through.
“77342,” his robotic voice calls. Bile rises in my throat as my stomach threatens again to empty. I take a tentative step forward, dropping my eyes. My worn brown shoes look dirty against the gleaming floor and I am suddenly embarrassed to be seen as I am. Jealous eyes pierce my skin from behind me as I make my way to the guard. I don’t look back at the girls left behind, I don’t want to see the disappointment and hatred and pity that is sure to be in their eyes. The guard lets me pass, but not before I feel the zap of his taser lick just out of reach of my skin. It’s a warning to behave, to remember my lessons and that this is not yet set in stone. I am not yet Bound.