The Unfortunate Trilogy

NINE

The sun is up, filtering through the cracks in the boarded windows, its golden rays making the dust shimmer and dance. I lie on my hard mattress and stare at the dilapidated ceiling. I didn't sleep. How could I? Today is the day I'll be taken from this hell and forced to live out my days in another—happy eighteenth birthday to me.

Blowing air from my lips, I sit up and glance around the grimy, dimly lit room. At least forty bumpy mattresses litter the floor, each one cradling the tired body of another eighteen-year-old Unfortunate.

I heard stories about kids in the before time. A birthday was an exciting event they pencilled into their calendar every year. Birthdays were something they celebrated, something they sang about. At these celebrations, they danced, received gifts, and ate sweets. It was a milestone that commemorated their growth into adulthood.

Into freedom.

My soul longed for a time long past, for a celebration, dancing, and sweets.

As the gap between an Unfortunate's birth and their eighteenth birthday closes, we grow more anxious. It's a day we pray never comes. To us, our eighteenth birthday doesn't equate to freedom. It means servitude. It means death. Overnight, we become tradable goods. Livestock. Disposables.

A sniffle to my left pulls my attention, and I turn my head. A blonde girl in the bed beside me cries silently into her shabby pillow, her body shaking like the walls of this prison at the height of a summer storm. I guess it's her birthday, too. A heavy pang of sorrow slams into my chest, and I catch my dry lower lip between my teeth. I reach out to touch her. My fingers graze her filthy bed sheet when a loud siren blares, vibrating the room. I flinch and clasp my ears, squeezing my eyes shut as nervous bile threatens to climb my throat.

The siren ends, and my pulse kicks into overdrive. I lower my hands, swing my legs off the side of my mattress, and slide my feet into a pair of black cloth shoes. My big toe peeks through a hole at the top.

Beside me, the crying girl slips into her shoes and lifts herself to her feet. Shaking like a leaf, she turns and bends to make her bed. I don't understand why since she won't be coming back to it. Surely she knows that?

I stand up, catching her attention. She peers at me through her messy blonde locks, and I offer her a small smile. She averts her watery gaze.

Swallowing hard, I smooth my palms down my grey, long-sleeved nightdress and step away from my mattress. I follow the lead of two boys who line up against the far wall by the entrance to our sleeping quarters.

"I hear they need girls, so we should be okay for a few more days. Maybe even months," one of the boys' whispers.

Dread slithers through my stomach. The last thing I need is an increased need for female Unfortunates. There aren't a lot of girls in this room as it is.

The sounds of big, heavy boots thump down the hall, getting closer. I keep my gaze fixated on the back of the brunette head in front of me, not daring to make eye contact as the moderators enter the room. They scare the hell out of me. From their shaved heads and long, buttoned-up trench coats down to their big, black boots, they make my hair stand on its ends.

Moderators were half Fortunate, half Unfortunate, and although birth control was compulsory for all Unfortunates, sometimes things happened. It wasn't right to treat the offspring like Fortunates, and it wasn't right to treat them like Unfortunates, either, so they created a medium. With moderators around, Fortunates no longer had to slum in Unfortunate camps or workstations.

"Listen up!" a deep, cold voice calls from the front of the room. "Before you shower for the selection, an announcement is to be made. There is no requirement..." He pauses, and my skin erupts with goosebumps. My heart pounds in my ears, spilling blood through my veins quicker than usual. "For males in this selection."

There's a whimper behind me. My vision wavers, and I press my hand to my stomach. There's that nervous bile again, edging its way closer to the opening of my mouth. I swallow hard, but it doesn't help. As the boys return to bed, we shuffle along the wall to form a tighter line.

Exhaling, I glance at the moderator at the front of the room. I recognise Soyer immediately. He cradles his monstrous rifle in his big hands and puffs his broad chest like a proud beast.

"Well, well, girls," he croons, grinning at us, exposing his crooked teeth. "Get in the shower and wash your filthy bodies. You've got a party to attend."

We stroll from the room, down a dark and decrepit hallway, and into the bathroom. The Moderators close the door behind us, and I let out a rush of air. I rub my trembling fingers against my clammy palms, balling my fists. Six girls burst into tears, including the blonde who sleeps in the bed next to me. The rest of us pull off our slate grey nightdresses and turn on the showers without a peep. To be caught crying isn't worth the beating.

The spattering jets of water that shoot from the shower head are as cold as ice and as sharp as knives. I stand under it anyway, not wanting to waste a second. I let it blast over me, cleaning away the dust and grime of the last week. Breathing heavily, I swipe the cold water from my face and walk to the small brass table in the middle of the shower room, where a few bars of clean, pink soap sit. I take a bar and rub the cherry-scented soap all over my body, lathering my pale skin in bubbles. I enjoy the way it slides. I rub it in the palm of my hands until enough bubbles build, then I sit the bar down and push my fingers through the knotty tangles of my long hair, separating thick strands as I go. Somehow, the sweet-smelling soap gets in my eyes. I hiss and squint and carefully make my way back to my shower. I shove my face into the ice water, washing away the burn, the bubbles, and, temporarily, my reality.

As the last bubble runs off my body, the water is shut off, and in storm the moderators, their boots leaving dirty marks on the tiles. I still, my gaze glued to the bathroom floor. The urge to cover up is strong, but it's not worth the whipping I'd get as punishment. So, we let them ogle us and run their hungry gaze over our breasts and between our legs.

For the most part, moderators are harmless. We are the property of the Fortunates from birth. No one else can touch us, and the punishment for those who break this law is death.

"Four of you will be chosen today, so dress pretty," Soyer announces, drumming his fingers against his rifle.

Two more moderators enter. One carries a stack of raggedy towels, and the other cradles various colourful gowns. I squint. I've never seen hues so bright or fabrics so long their hems almost kiss the floor. I take my towel as the moderator hands it to me, and I dry off, not taking my eyes off the gowns for a second. The moderator hangs the dresses on the opposite side of the room, and beneath them, he places new pairs of cloth shoes. Then they leave us alone in the bathroom.

No one makes a sound. No one moves, not even a twitch.

I glance at the thirteen glistening girls in the room. They eye the mustard-coloured gown as if it's the key to not being chosen in today's selection.

I startle as three girls, including the sulky blonde, rush across the tiles and dive at the mustard gown. As they fight for the dress, I watch the tangled mess of naked hunger pang frames and blonde hair. It's brilliant, I suppose, to choose the ugliest dress, but don't they know the consequences if we aren't chosen? If we're not selected before we turn nineteen, we'll be forced into sexual relations with other Unfortunates to produce more offspring for the Fortunates. If we don't serve a Fortunate or birth a new Unfortunate, we're as good as dead.