“Because, little one, you are not allowed to let go.
The best of us hurt the most.”
—Erin Van Vuren
(Fourteen years old)
Pink. Blue. Pink. White.
Jesus.
How many pillows does one little kid need?
My ass is sore from sitting in the same position on the cement for so long, one leg bent with my right arm draped over it. But Katerina’s got another interview going, and I’d rather watch her tiny clone stack pillows than listen to that woman’s voice for another second.
Sofia walks to her cot, picks up her final pillow—pink again—and drags it across the cement, then puts it against the iron bars with the others. I scratch my chin, wondering what the hell she’s doing, when she sits on the ground right behind them.
Squinting, I glance from her to the work table next to us then back again. She made a fucking wall. I mean, the thing is small—five pillows can only get so tall—but for a five or six-year-old, it’s legit. Blocks the work table from her view perfectly.
She’s been here long enough to sense when an interview is coming to a close.
And we all know what comes next.
Blowing out a breath, I rest my head against the wall. It’s been months, and the little girl still hasn’t said a word to anyone. But I’ve learned a lot from spending every day and night across from her. She has exactly three dresses, all white, all ragged with small holes, sometimes strings hanging at the bottom. Her bare feet are dirty, like the rest of ours, and her hair is stringy, due for a bath.
At least I assume she gets a bath.
The rest of us get a five-minute hose down once a month—or those of us who last long enough for it, anyway—but Sofia disappears for half a day each month and always comes back clean.
The clanking of metal snaps my head to the right. The burly, bald guy who does our hose downs is here, unchaining the tear-streaked teen from the work table.
“Wh-what ... y-you’re letting me go?” The girl’s shaky voice is so hopeful it rips straight through my chest.
She’s got no clue.
Katerina runs a hand down the girl’s skinny arm. “Oh, darling. Our energies just aren’t matching up quite right. It’s my duty as your storyteller to ensure we’re inspiring each other, understand? I’m having trouble getting that connection from you.” She takes a breath and smiles reassuringly. “We have other, more fitting, opportunities for someone as pretty as yourself.”
A shriek leaves the girl’s mouth, but Baldy clamps a hand over her lips and drags her toward the exit.
Katerina stops him at the door. “Send her to Murphy for redistributing, and bring me another crate. Perhaps a boy? Someone with enough fire to pull me out of this horrid slump and get our backlogged orders filled.”
The door closes, and the room falls still.
My pulse ticks faster, my breath strained, when she turns to Sofia. These aren’t feelings I was used to dealing with in the real world—unease, anxiety, helplessness. I’ve been on my own since I was eight, when my mom disappeared while I was out stealing our next meal, and before that we lived together on the streets. I caught on real quick. Emotions, good and bad, get you nowhere—if you’re lucky. Killed, if you’re not. Trust no one but yourself, care for no one but yourself.
Simple.
Even in this room, with strangers’ screams and bright lights constantly beating against my head—the others in the crates next door aren’t so different from me: self-taught to look after themselves. To survive.
We’re more adult than any of the ‘real’ adults here.
Sofia, though, she’s not like us. She’s too young. Too innocent. Pure enough to be molded.
My knuckles curl as Katerina walks to Sofia’s cage. She unlocks it, then sits on her haunches and tilts her head. “Baby, how many times do I have to tell you?” She reaches forward, grabbing each pillow one by one and placing them outside the bars. “This is good for you. Death is a thing of beauty, and it needs to be executed in such a way that does it justice.”
Sofia swallows, but it’s the only sound she makes.
“You will understand when you’re older, working at a table of your own.” Katerina points her index finger and taps her daughter’s nose playfully, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Like she thinks she’s Mom of the Year or something.
