All of us sit up straighter, attention piqued.
Headmistress notices our interest, a sly smile pulling at her thin lips. “Over the last hundred years, this country has fallen from grace, descended into madness. What started as women’s suffrage transformed into a radical movement of ultra-feminism, where women would rather be highly educated and career focused than be wives and mothers. For most of human history, women have known and understood that their place in society is in the home, rearing children and serving their husbands. We strayed so far from the role we were designed for that men have been unable to find and connect with like-minded women, and as a result, the birth rate has declined to unprecedented levels. The very system that women fought to be a partofbetrayedthem, leading them to believe that their lives were better spent in an office than fulfilling their biological and evolutionary purpose.”
The headmistress speaks with such authority—such conviction—that I find myself nodding along, though I seem to be in the minority as some of the older girls scoff.
“That is why the Brotherhood, an organization with a vision for a brighter future, a future where men and women can both thrive in their roles as nature intended, intervened. The entire country is currently being overhauled and redesigned from the ground up, and you have the unique privilege of being a part of this newly improved society.”
“Sounds like a steaming pile of propaganda bullshit to me,” one of the older girls whispers under her breath, too quiet for the headmistress to hear. I remember learning something about propaganda in school, but I can’t remember what the word means.
The girl next to me—a sweet-looking, soft-spoken blonde who’s maybe one or two years older than me—raises her hand. “What about those who resist the changes the Brotherhood is implementing?”
Headmistress stands up straighter, like the girl’s question is offensive. “As with every revolution throughout history, there are bound to be those who wrongfully disagree. Rest assured, as long as you’re in the care of the Brotherhood, you will remain safe and unharmed. Any resistance”—she sneers the word with outright distaste—“will be squashed quickly and effectively.”
The flaking, dried blood on the soles of my feet is a stark reminder of what happens to those who resist. To men like my father. I raise my hand, even though I suspect asking this question will get me punished.
Headmistress nods at me. “Yes?”
“Will we ever see our families again?” My voice cracks, but I manage to hold back the tears blurring my vision.
The stern woman’s eyes soften for the briefest moment before her features revert to their natural, dour state. “In order to ensure a smooth transition, the Brotherhood feels it’s best to sever all ties to your former lives, including any family members. This way, you will be able to grow into the women you’re meant to be—wives of submission and subservience—without any distractions.”
I nod. Even though she used some words I didn’t understand, the overall meaning is clear:No.
“It may not seem like it right now, but trust me when I say the Brotherhood has your best interest at heart. They grant us their protection, and in return, we offer them our loyalty.” The headmistress puts her bony hand on my shoulder, and though I find no solace in the robotic gesture, I give her a weak smile.
That night, after we’ve all been afforded a hot shower and a warm meal, I lie in my new bed surrounded by two dozen other girls, all of us crying so hard we can barely breathe.
Delilah
8 Years Ago
“Female children are to be addressed by their assigned number. Female adults (except for wives) are to be addressed by their title only."—TREATMENT OF FEMALES, N.A.L. 3 § 9
“Shit.”
I look up from the concrete floor I’ve spent countless hours staring at over the years. “What is it?”
I can hear Seven’s deep inhale through her nose, followed by the quick exhale through her mouth, like she’s made peace with her fate. “What do you think it is?” The toilet flushes as I wait near the sink, and my best friend emerges from the stall to wash her hands. Her underwear is wadded tightly in her palm, but even so, I can see the dark red stain on the gusset.
“Maybe we can hide it,” I suggest, dread taking hold in my gut.
Seven glares at me. “You and I both know that won’t work. The mistresses are too attentive.”
I grimace. “It won’t be right away. The next ceremony isn’t until spring.”
Seven washes her hands, scrubbing frantically. “I know.”
“Sev,” I say, placing my hand on her arm, but she just keeps washing, her skin turning pink and raw from the harsh soap and hot water. “Sev, it will be fine.”
“How do you know?” Her voice pitches high as panic seems to claw at her throat.
I turn the water off, handing her some paper towels. “Because, Headmistress says so. She’s always taken care of us, why would that change just because we get married?”
Seven hangs her head for a brief moment before raising her eyes to mine and offering me a small smile. “You’re right. I’m sure my husband will be charming and handsome and have a huge di—”
I clap my hand over her mouth, muffling her cackle. Even though I’m not one for crude humor, her joke broke the tension, and we both breathe a little easier.
The last five years at the Institute have been rather monotonous, if I’m being honest with myself. We’ve mastered how to garden, cook, clean, and sew, along with several other skills that will help us be good wives and mothers. The only thing that changes is the girls; once they start their period, a husband is selected for them from the pool of eligible lords. Every three months or so, they arrive here, a group wedding is performed, and the girls leave as wives to start their new lives. Shortly after, new girls come in, and the cycle starts all over again.
