Callie
“Oh, yeah, yeah, oh, do it. Look at this little sweet thing. Keep going—no, you will keep going or my boys will come down there and do it for you. Where do you think you are, sweetheart, the fucking Ritz? No, no, you will do as we say or something bad will happen. Keep. Going.”
I am humiliated—humiliated that all this man has to do is order me to undress and here I am, doing it—but more than that, I am ashamed. I am ashamed that several, maybe even a dozen, men are now watching me. I am ashamed that I know they are watching me and yet I am still getting taking off my clothes. We tell ourselves we will fight until our last breath if anything like this happens. We tell ourselves we will die before we debase ourselves like this. But I know better than most how easily several men can overpower a woman. I know better than most how simple it is for them. I am slight, have always been slight, and short, and so it was easy for the men at the Compound to pin me down as they force-fed me the strange-smelling herb, a hallucinogenic, which was meant to increase your connection with Master. Yes, it was easy for them, and I fought, and I lost. That day I realized that you cannot overpower men. It is a bitter truth to admit, but it is one I, as a slight woman, have to admit. And so you find other ways to survive, one of which is doing what they say until an opening presents itself.
I pull my hoodie over my head, and then my T-shirt, and finally my bra.
“Nice tiddies,” the man groans. That’s how he says it. Tiddies. “Very nice tiddies. Oh, yes, nice and perky. How about a suck on them, eh, boys?”
A round of laughter. A couple of them even clap, as though I am just a part of this man’s comedy routine.
“Now the pants, girl.”
I clear my throat. I hate what I’m about to say. But survival is important. Survival is the most important thing.
“Oh, baby,” I say, cringing internally, hating this woman’s voice, thinking that this woman’s voice is not mine. “Oh, honey. Why don’t I just play with these for you? You don’t want to rush, do you?”
I bring my hands to my breasts and touch them in a suggestive way all the while feeling sick rise in my throat.
“Hear that, lads?” The man laughs, and then coughs. “Hear that? The little girl is up for it! I knew she was a whore!”
“Yeah, but I wanna see that cunt,” another man says. “Why don’t you tell her—tell her to get that cunt out.” The man burps. “Go on. Tell her to get that cunt out.”
I look down at the thorny flower and wish the thorns were knives, enough knives so that I could stab each of these men in the throat, enough knives so I could end this right now. But wishes don’t really care about girls like me. Never have.
“Alright, calm down,” the first man says. “Listen here, sweetheart. I’m goin’ to need you to take off your cargo pants, alright?”
“Maybe if I just—”
My words are cut short when a fire alarm tears through the building, a repeating scree-scree which blots out all other noise.
“What the fuck—”
The speakers cut out, and then:
“How did that start—”
“Get out of here—”
“The girl? Fuck the girl—”
The speakers cut out again, and then I hear, quiet through the reinforced glass but still audible, the sound of raised voices. Men roaring at each other, drunken men unsure about what to do. Men demanding to know what happened. Men accusing each other. Men furious with each other. Men who are still trying to comprehend that a few minutes ago they were looking at a bare-chested young woman and now they’re running for their lives. I am trapped, I am trapped in a burning building, and yet I mutter to myself: “I hope every one of you burns.”
Then it’s time for me to do what I do best: survive. Try to, at least.
I hear the flames eating through the building, hear rafters crumble, hear walls collapse, hear big crashes and bangs which scare me down to my core because the crashes are loud now, loud even through the reinforced glass.
I pace around the room, touching places in the wall and under the bed, searching for levers. I know it’s ridiculous to assume that there would be a lever in the room, but I don’t see what else I can do. But then I’ve gone around the whole room and found nothing. Panic threatens to seize me; I fight it down. I did not panic when I sneaked into the guard’s office and took the keys from his sleeping hands and opened the main door and jogged into the night with nothing but the will to survival in my heart. No, I panicked later, but not then, not in the moment. And I will not panic now. I go to the glass and punch it with my fist, hard, almost as hard as I can. My knuckles crack and my wrist throbs and a dull ache moves up my arm. The glass doesn’t move. I punch it again, again, until both my fists ache, but nothing happens. The glass wobbles slightly, but that’s all.
“Dammit.”
I go to the bed, kneel down, and work at the bolts of the mattress with my fingernails. Nothing. I claw at them. Ow! One of my fingernails snaps. I grit my teeth and take off my belt, a simple black belt with a simple buckle, and bring the buckle to the bolt securing the mattress to the floor. I twist, and the buckle skids along the metal without turning the bolt. I try a different angle, and this time the buckle catches, but though I use all my strength, the bolt will not turn.
I lean back, panting, body aching all over with fear and exhaustion and rage. I was walking from the supermarket to the bus station. Just walking with a bag of groceries wanting to get out of public as quickly as possible, wearing a hoodie even if it is spring, pulled down low over my forehead, one arm around the brown paper bag of groceries, the other at my side, hand near my pocket where I keep my mace. And then—a thick arm around my chest, dragging me back, and some drug being rubbed coarsely into my gums, fingers invading my mouth. Hand clawing uselessly at my pocket. And then blackness.
But that’s life. One second you are walking with groceries, the next you are half-naked in a dank room. That’s my life, anyhow.
I stand up, glancing around. I think about praying. Master would advise that I pray to God and ask for His forgiveness, only God was not God as most people knew Him, but a real man living a few light years away on a space station speaking through Master. He would tell me this fire is His work..
I go to the glass and look down the hallway. The lights cut out as the fire reaches the building’s electrics, dropping me into total blackness. No—not total blackness. There, at the end of the hallway, comes a flickering, licking, spitting light. A moving light. An approaching light. It licks onto the wood in the structure, hissing down the hallway at me. I back against the wall, glancing about. The sprinklers cough into life, spraying water down onto the fire, but the fire continues as untouched. It comes at me like it has a mind, a will, determined to eat through this glass and the walls and destroy me.
This is it. This is how it ends. I claw at the wall, my broken fingernail screaming in agony, or is that the agony of a life ended too soon? But my life must always have been destined to end this way. Not in any mystical sense. It’s just that Callie Pierce has always been running, first running from the realities of Compound life, running into Alice’s arms, and finally running away from everybody. Running from friends and family, from security; the Movement people would say running from God, too. Running, and when you spend your life running like that, eventually something will catch up with you.
As the fire rips down pieces of the walls, tearing down wood, surging ahead despite the too-weak sputtering of the sprinklers, I think about how this fire is not just a fire, but everything I have ever run away from. I am going to pay the price for a life spent in flight.
I remember backing against a wall once before, when I was a girl, when I only knew in a hazy sense that I was not happy with the things around me. I backed into the wall and I clawed at it and I stared at Master’s door as he and Alice were in there. Mom told me I had to come because Master had ordered it. He’d only been convinced to let me wait outside instead of joining them because Mom promised to serve him faithfully. I remember clawing at the wall as I listened to them grunt and groan and curse, and I remember being disgusted because I knew Mom was faking. Knew, even at that young age, she was doing something she did not like and she was doing it for me. I wanted to claw through the wall, through the world, and fall into the hole and stand up dusting myself off in a new place, a safe place, a place that made sense. I was in flight then: flight from my mind, my senses, reality. I just hadn’t started running. That’s all.
Here it is, I say to myself, as the fire gets closer. Here it is. Here is Master. Here is the Movement. Here is the Compound. Here is my life, a monster of flame, flickering toward me, preparing to finally stop my fleeing.