She woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps on wooden floors, overpowered by the loud cry of a familiar voice and as much as she wanted to look at what's happening outside her cell, she already has an idea on what her eyes would catch.
And she can't face it.
Clutching the piece of thin blanket they gave each of them, which doesn't even help in the cold days at all, she pulls it to cover her face and tried to move as little as possible, while trying to silence the sound outside and the ringing inside her head.
Her hand moves towards her right arm that is still sore from the lifting she's done, though a bit better compared to just upon returning from the morning task. If made possible she wants to clench her heart, for it hurts so much more than the physical pain work has left upon her physique.
Tears start welling in her eyes, but she fights off the sobbing, as much as she wanted to escape it's an impossible feat to start anew being a part of their system. No records of existence, no proof of identity, and anything else that traces back towards you would disappear into ashes upon leaving the doors.
Would you bother trying to change it?
She removed the blanket from the tear-stricken face, still on her side and stared at the gray walls, recalling the monotonous routine playing like a broken record in her head, paper thin clothing not enough to fend off the cold weather, far from being able to sleep. The holidays are near and she's not looking forward to it at all as she won't be able to celebrate it anyways. It's just a forced smile etched on her lips during those days that the public comes with fake gestures of warmth and servitude.
It is not emitting that warmth of fondness or hope, but of being resigned to fate, as everyone turns a blind eye.
Always.
--
The next time she opened her eyes again she's back in isolation, and she realized she'd fell asleep without removing traces of suppressed emotion. She kept a straight face seeing the cameras in every corner, until she sees the pair of hands, unmoving near the entrance towards that room that would have seemed just fake pieces but noticing the left pink tinge of nail polish on the pinky finger, it hits her hard that the noise earlier ended up this way.
Just cold flesh and bones.
She already got used to seeing all that blood and gore, yet she still felt nauseous and almost vomited but it's only gastric juices with her stomach being empty.
Then memories of people she had grew up with and actually paid attention to her flooded her thoughts for some reason. But it only makes her think more of the dead bodies as well. It's supposed to give her purpose, but it only felt like being dragged to another depth.
After all, those two things are different. Eating some random meat is nothing and you won't care about the process before it reaches your table and suit your palate, but would you react the same way if it's your pet?
They were just playing like fools around behind the eyes of the supervisors, sharing dreams and plans if they ever do leave the premise, and the next second the other's gone like a bubble, the only trace being the memories they created. Sooner or later, everyone would go on their own way, no mourning, no tears, no reminiscing, just like any other day.
That's how the cycle of life she had grew up with was painted for everyone to live by and follow.
Clinging by a thread of patience, she breathed deeply to stop herself from crying again. She's already been caught due to the tears before she slept, and she doesn't want to return to the reflection chamber after being placed in regular isolation. Being all alone like this in the iron room is already gnawing in the piece of sanity left.
As the sound of metal scratching the cemented floor filled the room followed by the set of clean uniform thrown her way, she quickly moved to change into it, not inquiring anymore towards the guard assigned in that area, as she won't receive any proper answer anyways.
Just like the others, she hasn't been fondly accepted by most of the guards assigned in that orphanage. For them, they're all nothing but product of the people's money spent by the government thoughtlessly, while those who are working hard and with position can't even get an increase in the minimum salary.
Upon exiting from isolation, another set of locks and chains were attached to her mouth and neck connected to the metal pieces in her wrists. Another thing she noticed was the smell of disinfectant, quite stronger than usual, but again, she didn't dare ask.
Their uniforms are sharp-looking and shows the position they are regarded with, much cleaner than the ones she's wearing that resembles nothing but her sleepwear aside from the patch on the left side of the chest indicating her work as a cleaner.
Uniforms represent their life after all, and to whom they work for. Coal black is for those working closely with civil servants, government officials and municipality workers; Prussian blue for those assisting external organizations, publicists, and representatives in international waters; cobalt green for entrepreneurs and commerce personnel; brick red for industrial and medical facilities; and shades of gray for people with significant names and private offices. Though hers, a shade of flint gray, is quite made with a different meaning in mind.
Rather than the uniforms though, she's more curious on the distinction among the works they do, places they can reach and enter, as well as the mundane things in life they encounter. Curious about that life walked on by those who helps in locking her inside the walls where life ends up as stagnant and repetitive.
Maybe she'll be able to eat sweets without limitations or fear of being caught. Maybe it'll be easier for her to speak up her thoughts and be listened to. Maybe she won't think too much about work while lying on a soft bed.
If she recalls it properly, the city where she currently resides in is known for its manufacturing industries on metallurgy, so she commonly sees scrap materials being brought to and from the factories near the orphanage. When work requires her to move further than the usual graveyard site, all of them are either welcomed with hostility or received with indifference.
Perhaps, the only time the people in that city shows a little bit of acceptance instead of those two usual reactions is when their group do the cleansing and purging needed that will result into materials that they can use for pre-production processes in their businesses. Other than that, for any action deemed unimportant to them, they're useless and an insignificant existence. Like a captured beetle for sports.
"What are you spacing out for? Move!"
Thoughts now cut off, she kept on walking through the well-lit hallway, just being thankful that it's a different path to the one that goes directly to the reflection chamber. After a while though, noticing the familiar paintings of historical events in that city, realization sinks in. She's being brought to the butcher's room.
So much on surviving for another day.
--
"They're being paid to speak concrete plans in public and have those words turn into actualized actions and not just beat around the bush or find an escape goat. Get those to start or I'll make sure to have them beaten and hung in front of that same people who listened to them earlier for every mockery thrown our way. Do you get me? Yes? It's not good enough to just understand, start immediately!"
With the telephone chucked into the dialer, the attention of the guy in high heels and clothes not leaning heavily towards either gender, looked in her way, and she realized he's also wearing make-up, cobalt blue eye liner giving him a cat-look. If she's being honest, she doesn't find it bizarre, and it fits the other so well it deserves to be complimented.
Both noticed that she spaced out for a while that she couldn't catch his words completely, aside from the last line, stating his rant towards incompetence, unfinished work and disturbed plans. Typical day at work.
"Did you live in seclusion to not give any reaction at all? Right, my bad, I forgot you're one of the cleaners who grew up here. Being a purger is lot more fun though and is better compensated. But I like your lot better because you work in silence. Anyways. You're brought here, mind if I ask you?"
Shaking her head in response, she kept her eyes on the floor, gaze unmoving as if about to bore holes through it.
"You might die in the next 24 hours, do you have anything to say?"
Silence is all she gives him. They have been conditioned repeatedly to cower and belittle their selves in front of others that all she can give now is the recognition that she has heard his words- one look, before proceeding again to returning her attention to the floor. They even have carpet to cover it, while she had always laid on tough made-up beds on rough and unfinished cemented ones back in the main quarters.
The privileged would never be able to relate to them, thoughts starting to consume her head like wildfire.
"Interesting indeed. I've met others who either try to fight back for the last time or kill themselves before I even continue with my words, seldom do I encounter easily subdued ones, though for some reason, it doesn't seem that way with you at the same time. Are you simply minding your manners in hopes of not offending me or you're just that uncaring about your life?"
It would have been so much easier if it was as simple as that, but all those pent-up train of thoughts and emotions felt like water pushing the dike to break anytime soon. Keeping a straight face and staying calm in front of him is already an internal battle to not tip over.
"Never mind, you would not answer anyways. They probably brought you to the butcher's room without explaining anything, come over here and read this contract."
Though it is called that way, the butcher's room does not refer to the words used literally, but a mere representation of what happens or gets discussed in it. For the people working there, it is one of the places they would never wish to seek an encounter with. Get placed in the border area near the patrolling stations, be sold to work in an industry under a slave-owner agreement or be handed over to the government peace officers and get locked up until a parole is given or die in the process – the latter not sounding better than the other two.
"It is indeed unusual, but not new. Some public officials or private individuals taking fancy over some cleaners like you, and as to what was done to them once they leave this premise, that's something quite, not conveyable as what am I but just a middleman carrying the bulk of the business."
Perhaps he is slowly getting irritated by her unresponsiveness, perhaps he would hit her once or twice before she'd be taken away. Either of the two, it still feels surreal but grim as the chance given to a girl treated as a breathing commodity- to be able to explore outside is still equivalent to being tied.
False freedom. Fake paradise. Pretentious chance.
"I'm quite talkative aren't I? But of course, it's one thing needed to ensure longevity, especially for this run-down institution. To be honest, I was quite reluctant at first to send you away as you're one of the top workers here, both in speed and efficiency. Let me rephrase that – you're still valuable to us. You got... unlucky though, as it seems you've also shown a sudden increase in disturbances which are supposed to not appear. Might as well give you away and gain from it than have you wreak havoc. Am I right?"
She does understand their worries, as most who started showing random releases of emotions end up lunatic or even kill their selves. It might be a matter of time for her, with the frequency of her dreams and burst of tears now, thus disposing her in any possible way would be fine with them as the contract does not cover the aftereffects of taking a cleaner in and gaining something in return during the process is a plus too.
Still, she wanted to speak up that to be able to feel, to empathize, sympathize, may it be negative or joyous emotions, fleeting or long-lasting, is still a better turmoil than staying as a blank slate. Much better.