The doorbell chimes through the hallway, indicating the first of the tourists have arrived. With my piercing headache growing stronger the longer I try to make sense of things in my head, I turn and unhook the heavy satin rope blocking the stairs that lead up to our living quarters, quickly reattaching it and racing up the stairs as loud voices fill the hallway while my father greets the tour group.
At the top of the stairs, I walk through the living room, glancing around at the five outer rooms that surround this central location—my parents’ bedroom, my father’s office, a kitchen, spare bedroom and finally, my room. Standing in the doorway of my room, I stare at the pink blanket draped over my bed and the pink paint covering my walls. I lift my chin in determination, stomp over to my bed and rip the blanket from the top. I do the same with the matching sheets and pillowcases until there’s a large pile of cotton-blend bedding in the corner of my bedroom that resembles a fluffy pink cloud. I hate the color pink, but going by what my mother has told me, and the cotton-candy hue everywhere I look, it’s been my favorite color since I was born.
Throwing myself down on the stripped bed, I stare up at my ceiling and wonder if I have the guts to approach Nolan and ask him some questions. When I cross my arms over my chest I wince when my palms press against the area on my upper arms where he grabbed me when I bumped into him. Unfolding my arms, I hold one out in front of me, tracing the faint red marks that his fingers made against the pale skin of my bicep. My fingers trail down my arm to my wrist, over the bruises that have been there since I woke up two days ago and are just now starting to fade from angry purple to yellow. They’re the exact same size and shape as the marks on my upper arm and I quickly drop my hands to the mattress and take a few deep breaths.
I softly begin to chant the things I’m supposed to believe are true.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison. I love the color pink and my parents would never lie to me. My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison. I love the color pink and my parents would never lie to me.”
I whisper these words over and over until I can’t ignore the exhaustion that overwhelms me and my eyelids grow heavy with sleep, my room filling with shadows as the sun sets in the distance. I let my eyes drift closed and try not to fear the darkness behind my lids.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison…”
Chapter 2
“This hurts me as much as it does you. Just calm down and it will be over soon.”
The voice fills me with rage, but before I can vent my hatred, an excruciating jolt shoots through my body, bowing my back and paralyzing my legs. The pain is so intense that I want to cry, but I will never show that kind of weakness. I focus on the sound of the zapping electricity filling the room, imagining all the ways I’ll get my revenge some day very soon.
Silence suddenly fills the room and my body collapses back down onto the table, tremors shaking through it with the aftereffects of the shock.
“If you’d learn to control your urges, I wouldn’t have to do this to you.”
I stare with hatred at the face leaning over me, wishing there weren’t leather straps holding my arms and legs down so I could wrap my hands around that skinny neck and squeeze and squeeze until the life drained out of those cold, dark eyes.
“I know you hate me, but this is for your own good. You have to stop being so bad.”
I’ve heard these words so many times over the years that they mean nothing to me. I can’t stop the way I am. I can’t stop the way I feel. No matter what’s done to me, nothing will change who I am.
“Will you stop being bad?”
My eyes narrow and I focus every atom of hatred I can at the face above me, unable to speak with the plastic guard in my mouth.
A deep sigh fills the room. “So be it.”
I bite down harder on the plastic in my mouth and refuse to close my eyes as the dial is turned up a notch and humming starts to fill the room. Every time this is done to me, I have to listen to the humming of that damn song. The song from my childhood that always used to calm me down now just fills me with rage.
The crackling and whirring of the rise in power makes the lights flicker above my head and the button is pressed once again. Even though I’m ready for the pain, it still takes my breath away when it zaps through my body. Everything from the top of my head to the tips of my toes ignites in agony like I’m being set on fire from the inside out. My body jerks and convulses, rattling against the metal table beneath me. No matter how hard I try to fight through it, flashes of light flicker behind my eyes until I see nothing but darkness as I collapse back down on the table, my final thoughts of pain, torture, and death. Not my own, though. These thoughts are solely for the people who did this to me.