𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 | 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

🌹 The World As We Know It

Author's Note: Two drafts - both without dates but likely 2005-2007 - were merged to create this piece. It's very short but set in a futuristic post-apocalyptic America - Louisiana to be exact. Sort of dystopian, if you will. I really loved writing the character of Cyra so I may write more of her in future stories. We'll see. I hope y'all enjoy it all the same <3

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I spit the blood out of my mouth almost as soon as his fist connected to my jaw. One thing was to be said about these soldiers - they certainly didn't care about whether or not you were female or male when it came to corporal punishment. Then again, they didn't care about much anyhow. They must've missed that old adage of "southern hospitality". None could be found in this wasteland.

But the days of kindness from strangers and the like were long since past. And had been for the past 200 years. They were only stories now to be found in the classics from authors like Cassandra Clare, Leigh Bardugo, Stephenie Meyer, or Suzanne Collins.

A woman in her late 20's stepped up to me then. She wore camouflage military garb like the others but the way she held herself told me she was the one in charge here. Her hair was pinned up under her cap and her gray eyes were hard as flint as she glared down at me, still on my knees in the mud.

"'Ello, jild. Welcome to Baton Rouge. Les go!" she barked out this last to the men waiting behind her, her accent so thick it was almost indiscernible.

The men pulled me roughly to my feet before shoving me into a line of 7 others who had been captured as well. The one who stood ahead of me, a dark-haired man with an emerald gaze, turned to eye me curiously so I shot him a glare that clearly conveyed "leave-me-alone" to which he only grinned. Rolling my eyes, I turned my own face away from him and watched the line move ever so slowly up to the imposing black gate that loomed up before us all.

After what felt like hours but what must have been mere minutes, the others had been let into the gate and the man ahead of me stood just in front of the guards.

"Name and number!" the burly man ordered briskly, his voice gruff.

The man wavered slightly under the dark and empty stare of the red-faced soldier blocking his path but squared his shoulders and returned, "Duncan O'Keefe, 71775."

The guard shared a glance with his comrade and the two nodded in unison before they opened the gate to admit him. This was the standard procedure for prisoners here in this outpost. Everyone was allowed their name but were to be identified by a number. The official story was that it was "easier" for the ones in charge to remember. But we all knew it was for the sake of anonymity. Labeling us with a number was easier on their conscience so they could sleep at night. Better to think of as just a number in a sea of thousands once we were sent to the gas chambers than an actual person with a life, with family waiting on us somewhere.

Once it was my turn, the man repeated to me the same thing.

Swallowing hard, a strand of dark hair falling free of the bun I always wore it in, I answered, "Cyra Hart, 51819."

The two guards waved me through then, shuffling feet from behind telling me there was still a long line of us to go. Standing off to my right was the man from earlier, Duncan. He smiled at me warmly as I fell into step beside him, the both of us being pushed along by more soldiers on the other side.

"You know, if you're interested, I know this great place we could go-" he flirted and I cut him off with a scoff.

"Yeah, I can totally see them letting us go for a 30-minute coffee date," I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at his naivety.

He leaned in closer to me then, whispering in my ear as one of the soldiers neared, "I never said anything about coffee."

There was a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes that told me he was telling the truth. And he definitely had something besides coffee on his mind. I arched an eyebrow, watching closely as he peered over his shoulder every so often before finally, I got the hint. There was a hole in the barbed-wire fence, just barely visible above the mounds of snow blanketing the ground.

I turned back to him with a smile then, "I think we finally found something we can agree on, Mr. O'Keefe."

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