My Eyes Deceive Me

Drowning in the Deepest of Sorrows

Stumbling as I speed through the dark woods, my legs routinely clear fallen branches and my face intuitively avoids the outstretched hands of trees. Pushing against the force of the wind, always strongest during this time of year, I grit my teeth as the debris of the forest floor graze the arches of my bare feet. I haven't been able to trade for shoes yet. They cost two meal days, and I haven't got that kind of perseverance like 521. She can avoid food for weeks at a time, this is exceptionally true since she works in the Master's houses and not in fields like 168 or in the factories like me. My sight grows blurry from exhaustion, causing the bark and the leaves to merge across my vision. I can still here the tolls, even though they’re softened by the heavy wind. I see brick and mortar, and pick up my pace through the town buildings into the center cobblestone circle. Since I can’t hear anything besides my erratic heartbeat right now, I glance at the clock tower to assess my arrival time. The larger of the two arrows is inches away from twelve. I'm safe. My gaze shifts to the surrounding throng. Not all the Loyals are here yet, but the ones I am searching the scarce crowd of young girls I see signing to one another, something about fruit, a luxury to slaves. 168 is probably talking about begging for an apple today, which costs a night shift and can solely be requested on one's feeding day. I guess it's not my feeding day after all if she's preparing to put in an exchange today. I want to groan at this, but I stomp my heel down instead, which makes me feel like a child, and I feel my cheeks pinch from an amused grin at my own behavior. They notice my movement and meet my stare. The tall one, 168, jogs over steadily, as if she didn’t sprint hundreds of yards from the Loyals quarters to the town center like everyone else. The other girl, 521, struggles, hobbling toward me - she must have tripped during the run - and signs at me to tell 168 to slow down, and I chuckle at the dynamic. I try to stifle the laugh with my hand, though, as any noise heard by the guards before we greet our Masters is automatically reported - but signing is a certain loop hole that's become common in the past couple decades. 521 shakes her head at me, probably annoyed that I didn't follow through with her silent plea. 168 now by my side, we wait for the frail girl to work out her ankle through her walk.

A tap on my shoulder and the muscular, wiry girl beside me asks me if I had heard of "c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e".

Signing back, I recall it being some kind of plant-based product and that we processed a shipment some months ago that included the substance. A rare order, made special for an Elite banquet.

Waving at us, 521 joins the conversation, questioning the nature of the banquet.

I don't think we were informed any further than that, I say back.

But 521, a house servant, seems to place one of her Masters taking a week-long leave about two months earlier. This had her watching the children of the home, who had discussed their parent's trip to the Elite sector over a board game they demanded 521 supervise.

My head tilts in interest, about to sign for more information, when a horn blows.

The sound grows deafening and my face scrunches at the interruption. My department's trucks are lined up and filled with the rest of my fellow factory workers, about to take off without me. A frantic sign goodbye, I play catch up for a second with one of the drivers before a girl, I think number 250-something offers a hand and yanks me up into the cart. I give her a smile and rest next to her on the metal bench. During the ride, 257 - I find out her number - and I have a debate on which meat is more filling and lasts longer after being cooked, chicken or beef. I say it's beef, and I know I'm right, but she's one of the intellectual-type Loyals, and they're somewhat abrasive about being knowledgeable, so I give up after about three rounds of back and forth. She doubted me for being a psyche-type Loyal, saying that I probably didn't know how to properly prepare chicken and was going off of a bias instead of sticking to the facts. Which is probably true, but I'm still right. My birth giver was an intuition-type, so I'm pretty confident that 257 is more offended that someone disagreed with her than she is concerned about actually being correct.

The automobile creaks to a stop an hour later in front of the aging, wicked-looking structure ten stories high. Monstrous bangs echo out of the open double doors.

The factories are all lined up together along the region’s border, about five miles between each building. A ten-foot-thick stone wall separating the Loyals away in the smoke buildings. The scientists stay busy mixing chemicals in labs. They conduct studies with meta-human experiments, better known as my slave brothers and sisters.

A chorus of rhythmic crunching drops from above; even from the ground you can hear the infamous sound of those metal boot-heels against the pebble roof. Sometimes, I look up and wonder, before I enter my assigned factory for the day, if our Masters were the ones working with the machinery, packaging thousands of items to be shipped off around the state, would there still have to be such a mass of guards patrolling the area? Armed with lethal weapons and pacing back and forth on the barrier wall, they give each young girl stumbling out of a vehicle, every one with tattered clothes and grit-plastered faces, that same weary glare as their hands grip their guns a bit tighter, trigger fingers at the ready. Withe every movement, they’re daring us to step out of line - they can’t wait until they get to blow some holes through our bony chests.

Memories rush into my mind before I can stop them. I shiver and hunch over a bit more, cautions screeching through my nerves. Willing myself to not, my hands grip my shorts, made off-white with ancient blood stains of comrades - the ones that I was allowed to comfort as they bled out from bullets.

We all walk toward the food processing factory in front of us, and the trucks roar off, the drivers probably bored with the absence of a new body in the back. I can’t help but glance up at the uniformed people once more. Never can I shake this feeling; my back seems like one of their largest targets.

I catch the eyes of a young male guard stopped in front of the safety railing at the top, watching. A greedy smirk plays across his sun-burnt face. The ground is a much better view for me.

The girls and I trudge through the doorway in a nameless pattern, myself in the lead, as always.

Blank, distorted noises reverberate against the metal walls into our ears. Someone behind me sighs heavily and my shoulders tense. A look of plea in my eyes as I glance back at the group, begging for a plain day of rule-following, I scan over their faces. Being the factory slave manager, it would on my head if a guard or spy were to be in earshot. A blonde girl, I think one of the 280s, dawns a guilty expression. She's one of the younger ones, new to the program; she probably did it without thinking. Either way though, no one can afford to not think in this life.

Just a few more minutes, I sign. We have to wait for our Masters to greet us, otherwise we shouldn't speak. To honor the speech of our Masters...

Is to earn their praise. Yes, I know, I'm so sorry. Her chin tilts down with this apology.

You're alright. Obey and you'll stay safe.

We all head to our stations, myself being the last to clock in as expected. Everyone else has begun their trek to their masters, two or three to a group, and I wait until the last set of girls exits the space before making my way to Master Helen Marchelli.

Down the well-known path to Master Marchelli's office, I find myself glancing at random equipment, doors, and hallways. Winding along with the interior walls, I travel deep into the belly of this beastly factory when a piercing screech crashes against the steel walls. Almost loud enough to burst my ear drums. I had been climbing a stairwell beside an enormous, trembling, stone cylinder, but I stop as two girls appear into my peripheral from around the backside of the rounded machine. Leaning over the railing, I see one slave girl death gripping the other's shoulder. Her teeth are clenched and tears leave streaks down her oily face. The other girl beckons her to hurry, smacking the side of her face whenever the first girl's eyes start to flutter. Slumped against her partner, the pained slave girl is being half-dragged through the corridor, toward the med bay. I glance lower at the pair and see why she can't walk by herself: the girl is dragging the leftovers of a useless, mangled leg, the limb a mess of torn flesh and bone. As the pair scrambles away, a trail of dark blood and skin pieces highlights their journey. The injured girl was probably part of the newest sets of Loyals, like the blonde in my troop; everybody else has already learned, either first or secondhand, to keep a good distance from the meat grinder, unless you're looking to be traded.

Some minutes later, I stand in a square room occupied with a large metal desk - everything is metal, leather, and smooth stone in the food processing factory, easier to clean - in front of the window, bookcases on three of the four colorless walls, and a couple of pig-hide chairs sharing a small circular table in the center of it all. My back is to the window as I watch the door on the opposite wall. The low buzz of the ceiling's glass lights intensifies by the minute as I wait for my Master to enter. And wait. And wait.

Still waiting.

I begin to grow weary. She doesn’t ever take this long. Most of the time she’s in here before me, waist-deep in unfinished files. My legs have grown heavy, I realize, as I weigh my options. I decide to creep over to the nearest wall, my shoulder against the cold stone, then my back. With my eyes half open, I gaze at the doorknob. I wish I had some kind of psychic power as my main meta-ability like number 521, more controlled of course, then I could know what's gotten Master Marchelli so caught up. I breathe out and rest my head on the wall, shutting my eyes. When did I become so tired? A gurgle shouts to me from my abdomen. Now there's nothing to focus on except for the emptiness in my stomach. My feeding day is tomorrow, if I was correct in my assumption of 168's food plan, and not today. I should try to distract myself until then - think of the present and whatnot. But, thoughts of meat and bread pop into my head, nonetheless. I shake the intrusions out, starting to feel lightheaded. Focus, I tell myself as the sunlight spilling in from the window burns my right cheek and arm; it makes the insides of my eyelids a deep red. Blood-red.

Who was that boy I dreamed of? I know I didn’t recognize him, even though I felt so sure of his identity in that crimson sea. I can't find him in any of my memories. Never would I have forgotten those eyes if I had somehow met him before. Beautiful colors of copper and emerald. Of bark and greenery. Even if he were plain-faced though, ordinary and insignificant, I would never be able to forsake him. I remember everything. No matter how hard I try, not even the slightest thing escapes my mind. Against my will, I remember each moment of my entire life. That's my power - though, I heard a rumor that before the third war, some people were able to do that anyway, so, it's not a considerably special power, if you ask me. Some aspects of this existence I want so strongly to forget - a shudder jumps down my spine as I think again of the malevolent guards walking the fence - but no matter my efforts, I am burdened with memories.

I hear the light tap of footsteps and jump. My eyes burst open and in half a second I am alert and front and center in the room once more. The door swings open and I see the stern face of my…

Oh… no, it’s not her.

A rugged, frowning man hesitantly steps into the room. He has soft stormy irises trapped under heavy lids, eyebrows bushy and of a light gray are knitted together directly above. A stubby, crooked nose points to a pair of pursed, pale lips. A dimple is settled into his chin, covered in a thin layer of white hair. He seems far from young, but I doubt he's reached sixty yet, his skin in too taut. He is squinting as if to analyze me, but he's probably blinded by the sun rays that are cascading into the room and burning my back. A squat man, his hands clasped together, he walks further into the atmosphere, sporting with a slight limp. A small smile appears on his admittedly kind face, replacing the frown, and although lighter patches cluster here and there his skin is a lovely chestnut hue.

My eyes flick back to the door as he shuts it. He is staring at me. He looks as perplexed as I feel behind his grin; his gray eyes flitting across my person.

For a split-second, I can't help but reveal a subtle twitch of my brow and lip, but as soon as I'm able, I replace the sign of distrust with a more proper face of bewilderment. It doesn't do the trick, though.

"I'm sorry, dear. I know you were expecting your Master Marchelli about an hour or so ago," he starts. "I'm her coworker, Master Amore. I work with the agriculture department under Her Elite, Doctor Ingrid Farrow."

I respectfully lower my head at the name of my Elite. Raising it back up, I notice the man's eyes shift away from the ground as he looks at me. I blink in response, still rather puzzled.

"Just, um... I need you to come with me. Your Master is too distraught from the news right now to be able to take you. Let's take a step outside, shall we? Have you ever been in the passenger seat of a car?"