My fists slam into the ancient and rotting punching bag so many times they begin to lose feeling, the constant sound from each ruthless strike long since faded from my mind. Consuming the empty space, is my heavy, rapid breathing and hammering heart, loud enough to block out the grunts and wails of the boys around me. My knuckles have begun to shred before my eyes, but I hardly register the slowly leaking blood at all, not when it’s allowing me to push those haunting throughs far, far away.
Besides, you have to get over the fear of blood around here, which has always been my biggest struggle. I’ve stitched up more guys than you could imagine, just idiots being reckless. Talk about exposure therapy. You wouldn’t believe how many guys hurt themselves while training. Typically during a cock measuring contest. At least I can sew myself back up, though. Most of my wounds have been treated by myself alone, even the long slice that cuts from my neck to my collarbone.
A sharp snap drags my attention from the punching bag for a moment, my eyes flying up in time to see a young boy, his limbs gangly and frail, shrieking over his arm, which upon further inspection, appears to be hanging in the very wrong direction. Cringing slightly, I distract myself with the room we’re all currently jammed into like a full pack of sardines.
This room is the biggest in the school, large enough for up to 300 inmates to be using it at once, though with the increase of poverty and starvation, the numbers of the compound have greatly exceeded the number of people who could comfortably be held here.
From the left side of the room to most of the center, there are rows of elevated cement sparring platforms, absent of barriers to hold you in. They claim it's to prepare us for the real world. On the right, cracked wooden blocks and figures are set up for the vast array of long distance throwing weapons, all of which being displayed on tall metal racks along the walls. Knives, axes, bows, you name it. I have a good handle on most of them, but I’ve never really enjoyed the bows. Too finicky. The back of the room is set up with weights and rows of splitting punching bags hanging in uniform lines of black, crackled leather. Nothing is in good shape, it’s a wonder anything even works. I haven’t seen them change a single thing since I’ve been here, not even the knives which have become no better than kitchenware.
Most of the guys in here I know. They’re all veterans, people who know that the only way you’ll survive here is by tormenting your body long past its limit more times than is most definitely healthy. It’s not enough to attend the daily trainings, but you have to be diligent about practicing on your own before and after, too.
Wiping the accumulated sweat off of my brow, I take a few deep breaths, bringing my body back to the tranquility I favor. I’ve found that being calm is far more threatening than blowing up. People see it as a confidence that ought not to be messed with, and if you appear unbothered even as blood gushes from various parts of your body, people are far more likely to leave you alone. Call it a defense mechanism, but it works.
⭒ ⭒ ⭒
If one has ever experienced a stampede, they would find many similarities in how these giants barrel their way to the dining hall. I don’t think the Mother herself could stop them on their warpath to breakfast. But often, I can’t understand why they’re so eager to receive their morning dosage of torture. Glancing around at what they have served for us today reminds me of precisely that.
I find my place at the back of the line, and peer around hesitantly, attempting to prepare myself for whatever the “Cook” has in store for us. I lost all hope for a half decent meal here years ago. Calling what he makes food seems like a disgrace to the art of cooking. Perhaps sludge would be a better way to describe his concoctions. And it seems that today is no exception.
Just ahead of me are Carter and Reed, standing close enough that their hands brush together every once in a while. The two are never far from one another. Most consider them conjoined twins, but I know it’s more than that. The guys here must be even dumber than I’d thought if they don’t realize that those two make any excuse they can to sneak off with one another. I mean seriously, how many times can two guys sneak away to restock closets and not be fucking?
As we approach the counter, the smell hits me like a blow to the face. It’s absolutely revolting. I stand on my toes to get a better look at what we’re in for, but nearly throw up at the sight. Yes. Sludge is the perfect word for how I would describe that shit. I’m in the middle of debating leaving the line here and now when Reed and Carter approach the noose. Too late. If I leave now, the Cook will see me and refuse me food for a week. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not, seeing what I’m to expect.
They each step forward and grab one of the stained trays on the table beside them before handing it over to the Cook. Slopping a heaping spoonful of whatever substance he’s created onto their trays, I cringe as a dollop of that brown and green goo splatters all over Carter’s already stained shirt. He frowns, but nods his thanks to the Cook before quickly finding a place to sit, Reed less than a step behind.
Taking in a deep breath, I finally make my way to the Cook's scowling face. The squat man grunts as I hold my tray out, his singular eye narrowing as I inspect the goo bubbling in the disgusting pot he’s used since I first arrived here a decade ago. I don’t know what’s more horrifying to look at, the goop that looks like it’ll actually kill me, or the empty eye socket the Cook does nothing to cover.
Cringing slightly as a particularly large boil bursts and oozes all over the table, I suck in a sharp breath. At least it’ll be warm today. But when I look back up, I realize my mistake.
“No food for you today, girl,” he hisses, a filthy sneer taking control of his features before snatching the pot and throwing it in the sink to his left, muck flying up the already food caked walls. I balk at him as he does so, but I know there is no persuading him. My grimace cost me my breakfast, and will likely result in me going hungry for the rest of the day, if not the week. The man knows how to hold a grudge, I’ll give him that.
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Dropping my tray on the table, I roll my eyes and stride to where the boys are now attempting to force the slop into their bodies. From the look on their, and everyone else's, faces, I quickly realize how lucky I was to have been denied the substance. It truly does look horrible. At least I’m not hungry anymore, though. My stomach stopped grumbling the moment I spotted that boil burst like a bad case of bacne.
The dining hall is quite large, but not nearly big enough to hold the overpopulated numbers of the compound, with ceilings roughly ten feet high, and ghost white walls littered with a few small windows. Tables and chairs are laid out in uniform lines, each holding ten people per table. The number of tables is laughable compared to the amount of people here, roughly 200 seats short, leaving most on the ground as they force slop into their bodies. Other than the seating, the room is empty. Devoid of any decoration, any light, any happiness in the skeleton building, just as the remainder of the rooms here.
The entire compound is an abomination, in all honesty. There’s blood caked on every surface of every room, there’s no heating or cooling, which makes the summers unbearable and the winters a deathtrap, and the food here is nothing more than sludge, barely keeping us alive. Truly accentuating that prisoner's notion.
My eyebrows puckered, I have to plug my nose from the smell of whatever that is, “That literally looks like a booger stew,” I try not to gag.
Carter's eyes shoot to mine, and I have to feel a little bad at the way his cheeks bulge, “Not. Helping.” He gasps in air, doing his best to avoid the overwhelming scent.
I have to look away after a few moments, even the sight of people gagging that goop down makes my stomach queasy. Eric is definitely fighting that battle. He keeps taking deep breaths before consuming each bite of the sticky, greenish sludge, chasing even the smallest spoonfuls with half a glass of water. Whether that’s to force the slop down or to chase the taste, I don’t know. Probably both.
Looking around the room, I see similar reactions. One boy is trying to mix his goop with his water, turning the muck into silty liquid. Personally, that seems like a shit option, but hey, if it works. Another is plugging his nose and closing his eyes as he ladles the substance down his throat. I even spot a couple of guys sprinting to the bathroom, covering their mouths as they bolt through the doors. But the one who nearly makes me break out laughing is the kid who sat himself by a window, doing his best to toss as much of the lumpy ooze over his shoulder as possible. Seems like he’s making good progress. From where I sit, his bowl looks about halfway empty.
I guess the boys around him are finding it quite amusing too, since there’s now a crowd openly watching the kid as he continues his mission, most of their shoulders shaking in silent laughter. He must be stupid though, seeing that he hasn’t noticed his new fanbase observing his every move.
I watch the boy for so long that I barely have time to notice the figure who is now looming in the shadows behind him. They're hiding him so well I could swear they bend at his will. I recognize him only a moment before he steps into the light, the realization making my skin turn to frost. The General.
That kid is so incredibly screwed. The General actually makes my skin crawl. He appears normal to the eye, but something deep in my soul tells me he’s the biggest threat at this school, maybe even more so than the Warden. There’s something eerily familiar about him, my instincts always urging me to run as far from him as possible anytime I feel him near.
The General is not only terrifying due to his likeness for torture and punishment, but for his appearance as well. His platinum hair that at first glance gives an illusion of nobility, his pale skin radiating in toxicity, his soulless black eyes that glare into your core send shivers throughout me anytime I see him, my body begging me to find an escape. He stands nearly seven feet tall, towering over everyone else here, and worst of all, his movements are eerily serpentine. I swear he slithers around here, always eager to find someone he can discipline.
Horrified, I watch as the boy tosses another spoonful of the substance over his shoulder. But his mark is off, and my breathing hitches as I see it fall in slow motion, splattering all over the General’s shoes and pants. I can practically smell the wrath he's about to brew.
The tall, skeletal figure steps out of the shadows, the wisps of night suspiciously seeming to part for him, almost as if he whispered to them to do so. The General's horrid mouth is twisted in its usual sneer, his gangly limbs sending a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the slender demon that haunts my dreams as he leans forward, hovering over the boy's shoulder, drawing the attention of every other person at the table, each going stiff backed and still as death. Not even daring to breathe. But the kid doesn’t notice. He’s still looking into his bowl, likely planning his next evasive maneuver without realizing his recent miss out the window.
“You ruined my best pants,” the General growls, making the blue eyed boy jump, spilling the rest of his bowl in his lap, “And I guess you just ruined your only pair, too,” he barks, “You pathetic idiot!” I think you could hear a mouse squeak with how silent the room has fallen. Gods help the poor kid.
When the boy doesn’t respond, the General takes a step closer. The kid looks up at him, a tear hugging the corner of his eye as he opens his wobbling mouth, “I-I…I didn’t mean to,” he barely sputters out.
I suck in a breath as the General lunges for him, grasping his curly beige hair in one of his inescapable hands. The boy begins to plead, to beg for mercy. And when he realizes he’ll find none, he desperately calls out to the rest of us for help.
The General begins to drag him out of the room, his pathway a direct trail to imminent demise. We all know to avoid the General at all costs. He has a wicked temper and is known for punishing kids for the smallest of reasons, often without grounds at all, but simply because he feels like it. He once gave a boy thirty lashings for sneezing while he was lecturing us. Brutal bastard. No wonder he’s the Warden's most favorite Dog, the one she entrusts to carry out the discipline for the school.
We rarely see her. Not even once a year. Now that I think about it, I don't believe I’ve seen her more than two times in my entire time being here, and that was only ever in passing by her office. But I’m not complaining. That goblin is absolutely terrifying. She seems like she’s quite old, her skin a constant prune, but no matter how decrepit and withered she may appear, I know that it is not a house cat lurking under her skin.
The General continues his death march, still fisting the boy's hair as he kicks and screams his way out of the hall. I can practically feel the agony of the boy rippling through the room. We don’t have another choice than to watch helplessly as the General finally thrusts the kid out of the room, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle my teeth. But it’s not until a few minutes later that we stop hearing the screaming.
The room stays silent for only a moment, then continues on as if nothing happened. It’s always wild to me how fast people move on here. As if we didn’t just see the last of the boy I don’t even know the name of. I wonder how long it would take them to stop talking about me.