Escaping Elysia

Chapter 4 - Test Subject #354 (cont.)

These hallways are unfamiliar to me, so I follow silently beside Nadya. We enter the cafeteria and several people look up at us then look away again quickly. The girl from the showers is already at a table, and she smiles at me. It's not a comforting smile.

We're the last ones here so we end up at the back of the breakfast line. As we wait I notice Nadya fiddling with the tube attached to her metal stand.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"Hmm?" She doesn't turn to face me, but gazes straight ahead instead.

"That." I gesture to the stand.

"Oh, my IV?" She fiddles with the tube some more. "It makes me better."

I take in her sickly disposition again. Maybe these people are test subjects for a medication, helping to find a cure. If that's the case, then what am I doing here?

At the front of the line, Nadya punches the number on her bracelet, 118, into one of the machines. I do the same and the machine spits out a foil wrapped tray. When I pick it up, it's warm. On the top, in large, black lettering, is my own number. 354.

In my history class we learned about the horrific way humans used to raise cattle before slaughtering them for meat, and I'm reminded of that now. I feel like one cow in a herd, branded and being prepared for slaughter. The only difference is that, instead of having the number burned into my skin, it's clamped around my wrist.

Nadya sits down across from two boys, who look to be a little older than me, maybe 19 or 20. The one on the left brightens, his dark deep-set eyes twinkling, and says hello when she takes her seat. The other glares at me.

He has thick, black eyebrows, a wide nose, and a long thin scar on his forehead. A bruise graces his left cheekbone. If it weren't for his scowl, I might consider him handsome. I hesitate to sit down. He obviously doesn't want me there. But where else could I sit? I feel eyes on me, more with every second I continue to stand. The eyes make the decision for me and I sit down.

Nadya doesn't introduce me, just peels back the tinfoil on her plate. I tear off my own, and wrinkle my nose. The food smells stale. I poke the small piece of bread. It's hard. There's a scoop of something mushy and green, and a light brown brick that might be chicken with a white, goopy substance spread over the top.

"I can't eat this," I say, pushing the tray away. The boy with the thick eyebrows scoffs, and when I look up he's still glaring at me. What's his problem?

"It's good," the first boy says. The cafeteria lighting is harsh on his complexion, a beige color with warm yellow undertones. He slides the tray back in front of me. "Try it." He's combed his straight, black hair neatly to the side and his thin lips almost disappear beneath a smile that no longer reaches his eyes. He glances at something behind me. I turn around and a few yards away a guard leans against the wall. "You have to," the boy says, his voice low. I tilt my head.

"They make each meal with the exact number of calories you're supposed to be eating, and the right proportion of nutrients. You have to eat it. All of it." I look at everyone's meals and see he's right. Some people have more food overall, some have more of the green substance and less meat. Some don't even have any bread.

I saw off a small bite of the chicken brick, and am glad to find that it's bland. It's similar to what I would imagine chewing on a towel is like, but I'd prefer that to chewing on rancid meat. I'm not so lucky with the green substance, which is so bitter it causes me to scrunch up my face.

The smiling boy laughs at my expression. "I'm Weston by the way."

"Evita," I say, and return the smile. At least he isn't glaring or ignoring me.

The other boy grumbles, and Weston elbows him. "So, they put you in with Nadya?" he asks. I nod. "That's good. She hasn't had a roommate for awhile, since we don't get many new girls in here. She could really use the company." He looks at her, but she makes no move to confirm what he's said. Her eyes are unfocused, and she's barely touched her food. He and the dark haired boy exchange a look, then Weston nods.

"How's your stomach?" he asks Nadya, putting his arm around her. She shakes her head and he sighs. The dark haired boy watches Nadya, and I'm surprised by the change in his features. The scowl is gone, replaced with concern. I was right, he is handsome.

Nadya makes a face and clutches her stomach. "Is she okay?" I ask.

The boy's head snaps toward me. "Stay out of it. Do you think we don't get the news in here?" he says.

"Dale." Weston gives him a look. "Knock it off."

"Why?" Dale says, louder, and glares at me again. A few people at the tables around us turn to look, and I see a guard start walking over. "She killed Trenton. Everyone in here knows it, and I don't know why you're being so nice to her. She's a murderer." Sweat glistens at his hair line. A drop runs down the rich, olive toned skin on his face and into the dark stubble covering his jaw. His eyes burn into me, and my cheeks heat up.

A murderer. It is the term I've avoided thinking since the shooting, but it's true. I murdered Trenton. If you'd have asked me a week ago if I was capable of that, I would have laughed in your face. Now I know I am.

He must have been their friend. This explains why everyone keeps looking at me, why that girl pushed me in the showers.

"Dale, keep your voice down," Weston warns. His eyes flick to the guard again. Dale scoffs, but stops talking. The guard watches for a moment before turning away. Dale squeezes his fist, and I catch a glimpse of his number. 117. Only one before Nadya.

They don't understand. Trenton was going to shoot people, innocent people. I had to stop him. It was the right thing to do. I want to shout this at the boy, Dale, at everyone in the room who thinks their glances go unnoticed. But I don't. I look silently at my plate for the rest of the meal, and force myself to swallow every bite.

The sharp alarm that woke us rings again and people stand and throw their trays into the compost slots spaced along the back wall. Guards are stationed at each one, peering at people's trays as they dump them in. I notice that Nadya still has food on her tray, and we're almost to the scrutinizing eyes of the guards. Isn't she worried about getting in trouble?

However, before we can reach them a commotion a few slots down catches our attention. It's Dale, arguing with a guard. I'm too far away to hear the words they're exchanging, but I can see that there's still part of a roll on Dale's tray and he's shaking his head. The meaning is clear.

The guard, a short, muscular man, yells something and gestures at Dale's tray. Dale makes no move to eat the roll.

The guard turns his back on Dale for a moment and calls to the other guards, "117." It would be the perfect time to slip the uneaten food into the compost, but Dale continues to just stand there.

The other guards swarm him. Other people bolt out of the way, but stay close enough to watch. One guard, Brandt, takes the tray out of Dale's hand and another shoves him to the ground. They pin him down, and when Dale continues to struggle Brandt kicks him in the ribs. I gasp. I want to look away but I can't.

One guard tries to force the bread inside Dale's mouth but he turns his head away. They circle his body, holding him down, until it's impossible for him to struggle any more. Brandt pinches his nose, forcing him to open his mouth, and they shove the bread inside.

Once he swallows Brandt kicks him one last time, in the face. He yelps, the only time he's shown any pain since it all started, and blood pours from his nose. I cringe. They leave him and usher the onlookers out of the cafeteria, like nothing happened.

In the midst of everything, Nadya quietly slips her tray of uneaten food into the compost slot. I am the only one who notices.

***

Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to vote if you liked this chapter :).