Céala

3. Chosen: Now

The guard keeps his taser just out of reach as he directs me where to go once we are out of the mirrored room. The hallway is long and the same blinding white as the room we just came from. There are no doors decorating the walls, at least not that I can see, and bulbous black security cameras adorn the ceiling.
“To your left,” the guard directs from behind me. I’m confused for a moment and I stutter; there is nothing but white tile along the wall. The guard shoves me to the side and my nose meets the wall. He swipes a key card along an invisible sensor and the wall opens up to a holding room.
The room is a shocking juxtaposition to everything I’m used to. Warm tones radiate in it, and against my will I am put slightly at ease. That must be the point of a room like this, like a prisoner on death row's last meal. We learned that in school - prisoners on death row getting to order whatever they want for their final meal before they’re killed. Madame Auden said that the government in the Before was weak and that’s why they tolerated such a request. Here and now, you can get shot for making eye contact with the wrong person.
A large, dark wood table sits in the middle, taking up most of the space. A vase of flowers is centered on it, and an electric kettle hisses as it heats the water for tea. The room has no windows or decorations aside from the flowers on the table, but it is still more inviting than anything I’ve seen in the past fourteen years.  I sit on the wooden bench seat when the guard puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.
There isn’t a clock, so I can’t be sure how long I wait, just me and the guard at my back, until the wall slides open again. We’d been sitting here in silence. My eyes even dropped shut a few times and I all together forgot the guard was even in the room at one point. Guards are funny that way; you know they’re there because they always are, but somehow they become a part of the background, a non threatening piece of scenery. Until they attack.
A woman who looks to be in her thirties enters the room, dressed in a high-necked black smock. There are brass buttons running from the very top seam to her black heeled shoes, covering as much of her body as possible. Her skin is dark and flawless and her eyes are a piercing green. Her hair is shaved close to her head, but what is there is a beautiful abyss of black. I meet her eyes before realizing my mistake and quickly lower them to the table.
“Let me look at you,” she says. Her voice is husky and rich, but not overly warm or friendly. I stand and she crooks a finger under my chin, raising my eyes to hers once more.  She gives me a tight lipped smile and smooths down her perfectly unwrinkled frock.
“By now I assume you know you were chosen,” She says, sitting. Again, I follow her lead and sit back down. Her voice is melodic and calm, and it puts me at ease against my better judgement. I wonder if that’s why she was given this position, if she was assigned purely based on her hypnotic sound. She is enchanting to look at and I wonder if she chose this position or if she simply was never selected to be a Partner.
It strikes me then that although it appears she has power, the government would never allow that to happen. This woman is just as much a prisoner as I am - her imprisonment just looks different than mine.
I clear my throat.
“Yes ma’am.” My throat is dry, so it comes out as more of a scraping sound.
“Right, well. You’ll need to bathe and change before you’re presented,” She says, giving me a once over again. She motions for the guard, who opens the door to the room, revealing a young woman who couldn’t be older than twelve. She has a dress and shoes in her arms and she keeps her head bowed as she walks into the room. She lays the dress flat on the table and places the shoes on the bench beside me before walking backwards out of the room. She never raises her eyes or looks at me, and never turns her back to the woman in front of me.
The kettle on the table whistles and steam flies out of the spout. The woman takes the kettle and produces two tea cups from the cupboard below the table. I’ve always liked tea, when I was able to have it. It was always a treat, a reward, in the Pink House. If I had minded my manners and completed my assigned tasks, Madame Bradbury would allow me a small cup every week.
“Good.” She nods. “You may call me Madame Trucel; I will be your docent until your Binding Ceremony, at which point you will be lawfully Named and united with your Partner. Understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say.  I finish the tea in my cup and set it carefully on the dark surface of the table.  My hands find their way to my lap, as they’ve been trained to do, one covering the other. I lower my eyes to them and notice how rough they look, how the years of chores and work have worn on them and I am again ashamed of my appearance.
Madame Trucel stands, and I follow suit, keeping my hands clasped and my head lowered. She takes a key card from the pocket of her jumpsuit and swipes at the sensor across from where the guard stands, and the door whooshes open.
“Pick up your ceremony dress and follow me,” she says, and I do as I'm told. The dress is the same dark grey as the country's flag, with long sleeves, a high neckline, and a skirt that I already know will fall to my ankles. It does, however, have very beautiful beading along the cuffs and neckline. This is a Ceremony dress, so it can be a bit embellished. Although, unfortunately, I won’t get to keep it.  The shoes are flat and black, nothing out of the ordinary government issue; they will cover the tops of my feet and wrap around my ankles. They have two silver buttons on the side each, with a leather loop to go around them in order to secure the shoe.
The guard follows behind us, his thick soled boots taking surprisingly quiet steps. I am led down another long hallway, almost identical to the one before, and am brought to the room at the very end.