The Unfortunates
By Skyla Madi
The Unfortunates
Copyright © 2014 by Skyla Madi. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2014
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1500602772
ISBN-10: 1500602779
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Preface
We are the Unfortunates, the offspring of the poor and good for nothing slaves. How did the world get this way? They say the people in the before time were always fighting—always creating the next big weapon to wipe out their enemies. Eventually, someone succeeded and almost wiped out the entire human race. Almost. It is said four strangers made friends by the explosions started their own society underground and even managed to bring people from all over the place. From there, they began to rebuild society.
In the beginning, they worked together and did what they had to to survive. But they quickly grew selfish—they felt the need to be treated like kings for ‘saving humanity.’ The four founders became stuck in the train of thought that everyone has survived because of them. They began dictating and demanding more from their people and soon, they created the four main houses—Miller, Sario, Milano, and Knowle, and selected a handful of their finest friends, deeming themselves ‘the Fortunates’ and the rest ‘the Unfortunates.’ Naturally, the Unfortunates were forced into slavery, never given the chance of love or freedom, and from that moment, the separation of the two social classes was formed.
Chapter One
Nine
The sun is up now, filtering through the cracks in the boarded windows. I lie awake on the hard mattress. I didn’t sleep. How could I? Today I’ll be taken from here and put into someone’s home as a slave. Happy eighteenth birthday to me.
I sit up and glance around the grimy room. At least forty beds litter the floor, each filled with more kids my age. I wonder how many of them turn eighteen today, like me? I see the girl next to me, crying silently into her pillow. I guess it’s her birthday, too. I heard stories about kids in the ‘before-time’ and how they looked forward to their birthdays because they’d be spoiled with gifts and gain another year towards freedom.
Not us.
With every year that passes, we grow more and more anxious—more uncomfortable. Unlike the kids in the before time, when our eighteenth birthday comes around, we’re sold to the Fortunates as slaves. The Fortunates run this world, and it’s been that way since before I was born. I grew up with the people in this room. They should be family; instead, they’re strangers. No one wants to get attached to someone who might be here one day, but gone the next. I guess it doesn’t help that the moderators keep us separated most of the time.
A loud siren blares throughout the room, signalling the eighteen-year-olds to line up for the selection, and today that includes me. I ignore the nervous bile that threatens my throat as I swing my legs off the side of my bed and into a pair of black cloth shoes. My big toe sticks out of the top and I cringe. The moderators aren’t going to like that.
Beside me, the crying girl shakily slips into her own shoes and her blonde, tear-soaked locks stick to the side of her face as a result. I give her a small smile, but she’s too distraught to care.
I straighten my grey, long-sleeved night dress and follow the lead of two boys in front of me as they line up against the wall.
“I hear they need more girls, so we should be okay for a few more days—maybe even months.”
Dread slivers through my stomach. The last thing I need is a higher increase of girl slaves. There aren’t a lot of girls in this room as it is. Usually, around spring, the Fortunates throw more parties and require the pretty faces of female slaves. I glance around at the faces that peer from their beds at us as we line the wall. I was one of them last month. What I wouldn’t give to be back in that position… if I had anything to give. It’s cruel to room sixteen and seventeen-year-olds with us. Every few months they watch as a fresh batch of eighteen-year-olds leave the room for the last time. Absolute cruelty.
The siren stops and we all stand quietly, keeping our eyes fixated on the back of the head in front of us. I can hear the big, heavy boots of the moderators as they enter the room and I don’t dare look past the short, curly-haired boy in front of me. The moderators scare the hell out of me, from their shaved heads and long, buttoned up trench coats down to their big, black boots.
“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.”
If the fear in the room was minimal two seconds ago, now it’s blasting on maximum, my own immeasurable fear adding to it.
“There is no requirement…” He pauses and my skin erupts with goosebumps as my heart pounds in my ears, spilling blood through my veins at a rapid pace. I’m terrified, more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life, and I wish he wouldn’t drag it on. “There is no requirement for boys in this selection.”
There’s that nervous bile again, edging its way closer to the opening of my mouth. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down. Behind me, the blonde girl whimpers and takes deep breaths as she fights to keep her composure. The thirteen girls, including me, shuffle up the wall to form a tighter line as the boys march back to their beds. I’m able to see the moderator now and I allow myself a quick glance. It’s Soyer, the worst moderator of them all. He’s mean, arrogant, and dangerous. His wide shoulders rival the span of the door frame and are almost as thick, too.
“Well, well, girls…” he says, smiling down at us like the Cheshire cat, exposing his perfect, white teeth. “Get in the shower.”
Without a peep, and in a single file, we walk from the room, down the dilapidated hallway, and into the bathroom. The door is shut behind us and we’re left alone. Six girls start crying, including the blonde that sleeps in the bed next to me. The rest of us pull off our night dresses and turn on the showers. To be caught crying isn’t worth the beating.
There are no walls to separate our naked bodies. It’s just one big open space. The water is freezing cold for the first twenty seconds before turning to a semi-warm temperature. Showers are my equivalent of heaven. We aren’t allowed a regular one. Once a week is the shower privilege around here and I plan to make the most of this one. I walk to the small table in the middle of the shower room where a few bottles of soap sit. I lather my body in the cherry scented soap and then pour some into my hand. I run the soap through the knotty tangles of my long hair, separating them as I go, and carefully, without slipping, I make my way back to my shower, letting the warmish water wash away the bubbles and temporarily, my reality.
As the last bubble runs off my body, the water shut
s itself off, and in come the moderators. Everyone stands still, eyes glued to the bathroom floor. The urge to cover up is strong, but it’s not worth the whip lashing.
I feel Soyer’s gaze burn holes in my skin as his beady blue eyes scan the room and land on me. I glance up at him as he licks his lips. Gross. My stomach churns and I drop my gaze back to the floor. I can only imagine the sick, vile things that are going through his mind. Luckily for us, we are the Fortunates’ property from birth. No one is allowed to touch us. The punishment for those who break this law is death. Not a bad punishment if you desperately want to leave this shitty existence, anyway.
“Four girls will be chosen. Dress pretty. We’ll be waiting in the room down the hall.” Soyer turns on his heel and leaves.
After his exit, two more moderators bring in colourful dresses and hang them one by one on the hangers on the opposite side of the room. The colours hurt my eyes. I’ve never seen hues so bright. Beneath them, new pairs of cloth shoes are placed.
I glance around. Every girl is eyeing up the ugly, mustard dress. They don’t want to be chosen and the best chance for that to happen is to dress not to impress. I can’t decide what I want to do. If you don’t get chosen before you turn nineteen, they force you into sexual relations with other Unfortunates. The more Unfortunate offspring, the more slaves the Fortunates will have later on. Once you’re pregnant, the daddy is killed, and once you give birth, you get a bullet to the back of the head. If you aren’t serving the Fortunates or birthing a new Unfortunate, you’re as good as dead—unless they have space for you on one of their many large farms or deep in their mines. None of us have parents, and trying to figure out if that’s a good or bad thing hurts my brain.
I stroll across the shower and grab the deep purple dress. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to be chosen anyway, might as well face my fears in a pretty dress. A few of the other girls have the same idea I do and grab the green, pink, and royal blue. Three girls, including the sulky blonde, dive for the ugly mustard dress and I watch the tangled mess of naked bodies and blonde hair as they fight for the dress, trying very hard not to make a peep. Fighting between us is also outlawed. Twenty whip lashings for anyone involved.
To my astonishment, the crying blonde I sleep next to comes out on top, hugging the dress tightly against her. In the poor lighting, I can see hope glisten in her blue eyes, and as she turns, I see her number tattooed on the clean flesh behind her ear.
Thirteen. That’s her name.
Here, we aren’t given names, we’re given numbers. I’m Nine and I have a tattoo of the number behind my ear to prove it.
The majority of us don’t want to get chosen. Instead, we try to put it off as long as we can and pray for change, for freedom. That usually comes in the form of death, which Unfortunates happily welcome. Suicides are a big trend around here. At least seven a week occur, and I don’t know if I should be depressed or happy I don’t have the stomach to hurt myself.
We take our dresses down to the end of the bathroom, where a huge wall-sized mirror shows us our reflections. Clean, skinny, and sad. That’s all I see when I look at myself, or any of the girls here, for that matter. We step into the dresses, pulling them up until they cover our bodies, for the most part. The fabric is sheer... very sheer. You can’t see through it in this light, but I’m sure the sun will light it up once we’re outside, making the beautiful dresses transparent for all to see.
They herd us through the crumbling building, poking us with the hard tips of their guns, like animals. It seems, even draped in the same soft fabric as them, we’re still classes apart.
Beside me, Thirteen stumbles over a rogue floorboard and falls forward. Instinctively, I reach out, curling my fingers around the band of fabric that flows freely from the back of her dress. Her weight tugs my arms. I fall forward too, and we both crumple to the dusty floor.
“Get up!” Soyer yells, his voice gravelly and punishing.
I release her dress and jump to my feet immediately, desperate to avoid the tail of his gun. Thirteen, however, is anxious, and her entire body shakes as sobs rock her, slowing her movements.
“I said get up!” He swings high, bringing his gun over his shoulder before slamming the end of it into her ribs. I flinch as her scream tears through the hall. I have to look away.
Coincidentally, I look straight into the children’s room and I see eyes glisten as they watch us. A young girl, about six or seven, sits up in her bed, her eyes completely fixated on my gown. I know that look—the look of awe. I know it because I’ve been the little girl sitting on the bed watching older girls and boys come and go for years. Now… here I am. I bet I look like a princess. Little does she know these dresses mean the polar opposite of a happy ending. The books they read to the kids here for entertainment are cruel and unrealistic. For us, the Unfortunates, there is no happy ending. There are no men in classy suits made from the finest fabric ready to climb towers and scour the land for us, and the truth is, a lot of us die before we turn fourteen… be it from sickness, murder, or suicide, and those who are ‘lucky’ enough to be bought by a Fortunate will live in constant fear. Those who think out there is better than in here are delirious—they’re in denial. They believe it’s better because it can’t possibly be any worse. Me? The mere thought of being under a Fortunate’s thumb sickens me. Here, we can go days without seeing anyone from Freeport. Out there, every second of our life will be ruled by them—even more so than in here. Out there, they can do whatever they please with us. Rape is uncommon here in the Unfortunate camp… we’re always being watched by someone, but when we officially become someone’s property, they can take from us as they please.
“Move!” Soyer demands as he shoves me hard with his gun, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grit my teeth as I take one last glance at the little girl, and sadly, I silently pray that she dies soon. Death is the nicest thing you can wish on someone in my world… it’s like telling them you hope they have a good day—just a little positive reinforcement to get them through the morning.
The moderators march us downstairs—stairs that threaten to break as they creak under the soles of my new sandals—and usher us through an empty lobby before pushing us out into the bright morning sun. And boy, is bright an understatement. The sun is blazing today, like its only purpose is to burn the dresses from our bodies. In front of us, a cart is towed behind two chestnut horses. Everything about the horses scream ‘Fortunate property.’ They are well brushed, their coats glossy and short. They’re well fed, evident by their bloated bellies, and their hooves are clean, adorned with the shiny, silver horse shoes that curl like vines up their strong legs.
One by one we’re crammed into the cart, and Soyer climbs on top to steer the horses. With a jolt, we rock against each other, our shoulders grazing as the horses carry us toward the ten foot concrete gate. I look back over my shoulder and suddenly the looming dilapidated manor looks less like hell and more like home. I’m going to miss it. I’ll miss hiding in corners as the moderators swept through the halls looking for trouble. I’ll miss not talking to anyone, but sharing friendly and comforting glances. I’ll miss my daily routine—waking up, eating breakfast, going to class, sitting outside under the large oak tree, and finally dinner and bed. It’s the unfamiliarity that scares me, and although class has taught me all of the things I need to know, I still feel like a chicken without a head. From the age of fifteen, we are forced to take a class, a class that teaches us how to behave, how to obey, and how to submit. We are taught the ins and outs of our civilization and all of the rules that separate our two social classes. It’s simple, really. The Fortunates are the rulers and the Unfortunates, us, are the everything in between. We cook for them, clean for them, get them off—you name it, we do it.
The gates begin to pull open with a loud clank and creak. I inch forward in my seat, eager to see the wide world—eager to see if the grass is greener on the other side. In here, the grass is a pale green and only exists in random
patches of spiky blades, but out there, I’m sure it’s a vast wonderland of beautiful greenery. Inch by inch the gates expose the world to me. I see the bright green grass, looking more like clouds than blades, and I want to lay in them, to feel them on my skin. Excitement bubbles in my chest and I even contemplate diving from the cart just to feel them on my feet. I quickly glance at the other girls to see if they’re as eager as me… they’re not. All of them have their sad, grey eyes on the rotted floor of the cart and Thirteen clenches her ribs beside me, sniffling still.
“Why aren’t you looking?” I whisper to her. “Look at the grass.”
She shakes her head and mumbles back, “I don’t care for grass.”
She doesn’t care for grass? That’s because she hasn’t seen real grass. “If you just look up an inch you’ll see—”
“Why are you so happy, Nine?” Seven snaps at me.
I glance at her. She looks so little and sickly in her bright green dress. Her long, red locks curl around her breasts and she swats a thick lock out of her face. “We’re being sold today. There are a lot more important things to worry about than grass.”
My eyes narrow. Sure, this is a bad situation. This sucks, I know it does, I’m experiencing it too, but it’s not all bad. When you’re racking up losses, count your wins too because they make the losses seem less intimidating.
“We haven’t been sold yet, might as well enjoy the last few minutes of freedom,” I tell her. “The grass is worth a second of your time.”
She folds her stick thin arms over her chest. “We’ll see how much you like the grass when your Fortunate forces you to eat a mouthful of it while he rapes you from behind.”
I open my mouth, ready to expel a witty retort, but I snap it shut instead. These girls aren’t my enemy. It’s not their fault they’re broken. Most of them already are by the time they leave here. I wouldn’t say I’m broken… I’ve always had hope. I can’t put it into words… but I know I see the world in a way that is all my own. One night, a little while ago when I was lying awake alone in bed, I decided I didn’t want to be an Unfortunate for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be a Fortunate, either. I want to be human and I want to be equal with every other human—and animal. That’s that. These girls are broken because they see their life laid out for them, like robes on the end of their beds. Not me. With every second that passes, I have the feeling something great is going to happen to me. This is not my purpose, I tell myself over and over. The thought lingers on my shoulder like a repetitive parrot, echoing the same words. I go back to looking at the grass and make mental notes of all of the different shades, promising to come back and touch each and every single one.