Page 5

CHAPTER

FOUR

Paigelynn

My ankle feels like it's pinned between two pieces of granite.

Granite made of ice.

My inner thighs are so tight as I shiver, and my knees feel like bony knobs of glass.

Where am I?

What am I?

Who am I?

As my eyelids flutter, slivers of light pierce my iris. I clamp my lids shut quickly and try to remember what comes next.

Inhale? Exhale?

Pain shoots through the right side of my neck. I move my shoulder but meet resistance. It's not that the shoulder itself can't move. My wrist is the problem.

It's locked up.

Bound.

I'm tied down.

My chin dips down enough that my throat is in a delicate balance between choking me and giving the back of my head a much-needed pain break. If I move a quarter inch in the wrong direction, I can't breathe. It's cold in here – wherever here is – and as I let light into my eyes again, I remember.

Remember it all.

Betrayal.

Disappointment.

Horror.

Disgust.

Terror.

Deception.

Need.

Yes, need . That's part of what makes me loathe myself – and Cam – so much. I need him. I don't want to, but so help me, I still do.

It's impossible to reconcile the truth with what I felt when I was with him. Those two realities cannot co-exist. This is not a world where Cam hands me off to butchers like this and kisses me the way he did in the bunker.

There can be no existence where he saved me from The Basher and Makiah, took me to the hideout and lovingly taught me so much about myself – then threw me away like a useless candy wrapper.

I refuse to believe that any human being could fake the sincerity I know I felt from him.

And yet the other reality – where he is a stone-cold pig like the rest of them, a bad man The Mother warned me about – is impossible to ignore, too.

She warned me about bad men because she created one herself.

Completely helpless, I'm tied to this hospital bed. No tubes run into my veins, and the woven cotton blanket that covers me is neatly tucked around the edges of the bed. I look down and see I'm dressed in a clean baby blue nightgown, flannel with long sleeves, as sexy as an old quilt.

Whoever took care of me did so out of duty. I remain untouched, unless you count bruises.

My heart rate skyrockets as I realize I'm bound as if on a cross.

My education was light on Jesus Christ, but I do know the basics. Taught to ignore other religions, I was instead instructed to think of myself as a goddess higher than even God's son. That my captors put me in this position has meaning of some kind.

A nerve along the base of my skull tingles suddenly, a spike of pain shooting up under my scalp. Did someone strike me? Was I drugged? Or did exhaustion and terror finally make me pass out, and they took the opportunity to immobilize me?

"It doesn't matter," I whisper, the words mostly to hear myself talk. To feel a break in the excruciating silence.

To remind myself that I am still alive.

Fear is my biggest enemy now. Not The Mother, not Cam, not the bodyguards or the billionaires.

Fear . The Mother always told me that I had no reason to fear anyone or anything except impurity.

Transgressing and allowing myself to be touched by any man other than my future husband would end the evolution of the world to its new, superior incarnation.

"She lied," I hiss into the air, rolling my left shoulder slightly, eager to find a position that doesn't make my joints hurt so much. Each ankle and wrist is inside a tight circle that connects me to the bed.

At least I'm not nailed in place.

"They all lied."

Certain I'm being monitored at all times, I choose my words carefully.

"Cam was the biggest liar of all. I know the prophecy is true. This is the universe testing me," I say, the words easy to come by.

Too easy.

"I am the prophecy," I say, a bit bolder and louder, the air I take into my lungs pushing up from my mouth, my tongue dry as paper. The words mean more now, sinister and slick. Cam was right when he told me the truth in the bunker, but he was wrong about one thing.

I really am the prophecy.

What they are doing really does usher in a new era in humankind. Able to live above the law, these people have created the perfect system for themselves.

They are nothing more than wealthy scavengers.

The thought makes me sink deeper into my soul. The window has dark curtains covering it, light seeping in around the edges. My own breath is all I hear now, and a faint hum from a heating and cooling system. Every second that ticks by is one of my last.

Cages come in many forms. Even The Mother lives in one, a cage made of the four chambers of her heart. Dragging her oxygen canister around, the cannula a fashion accessory no woman wants, she's stuck.

My heart has been claimed by her, handed off by her son.

The same heart that reacts like a scared rabbit to every sound is the one that will beat in her chest next.

Next.

My hands feel so tight and swollen. I flex the fingers and hit plastic. Touching tentatively, I find a small plastic cylinder, with a small protrusion on top. Ah – a button? I press it.

Shuffling noises in the hall follow, then the door opens.

"Yes, miss?"

I turn to my right to see a woman my age, wearing pink scrubs and white plastic shoes. Her hair is jet black and cut short around a round face. Neutral eyes meet mine.

"I need water," I say, coughing at the end, the position of my neck still unstable.

"Of course. Would you like to change positions? Your head looks uncomfortable."

"Please."

Completely unafraid of me, she moves to the bed, unlocks the straps binding my hands, and pushes the motorized hospital bed so I move into a sitting position. Then she finds a small bottle of water from some storage space under the bed and hands it to me.

My wrists have red streaks on them. I sip the water with small, short bits, careful not to choke.

"Why am I tied up?" I ask.

"So you don't kill yourself."

Surprised by the direct answer, I pause mid swallow.

"Why would I do that?" I ask calmly, mind racing to find the best way to get this woman on my side. If she works here, she's either part of the group of true believers or she's a jaded outsider. My next words need to be a test.

Of her. Not me.

"The redheaded one. She – " Her mouth snaps shut like a trap door. "Because I've been told you must."

"I am the prophecy," I announced calmly, with authority, using the mantra as distraction. My whole body threatens to make me faint. One of the virgins completed suicide? How bad is what's about to happen to me that someone in the same position would take their own life?

"The prophecy above all," she intones automatically.

Hope blooms inside me, the cool water making its way into me. I give her my best approximation of a smile.

"Do you have electrolyte solution? I have no energy."

"It was given to you by IV last night."

"Is that why I need to use the bathroom so badly?"

She frowns. "You were catheterized." That explains the raw feeling between my legs.

"Was I sedated?"

"Of course not. That could harm... you."

She was about to say "the organs," wasn't she? Which means she might not be a true believer, after all. How can I still use this? Use her?

"I see. I must just be tired."

Bowing her head, she says nothing, reaching for the straps around my ankles.

"Do those have to stay on?"

She halts but does not remove them. "Not if I am in the room with you."

"You, or anyone?"

"I follow orders, Paigelynn. You are the prophecy, as you said."

That was not a real answer.

A plan begins to form, a tiny piece of it here, a kernel of it there.

Pretending to still believe could be a way to get out of this mess, or at least extend my life.

I know the prophecy isn't real. No matter how much The Mother trained me, once I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears from Cam what the Viking Virgin project really is, I woke up.

Too late, but I did.

If they think I still believe, though, then what? Can I turn this around and manipulate them ?

Years of being deprived of information, education, truth – it all hurts me now. This is what they wanted. Created. Needed.

Manufactured.

"You said I'm bound because of suicide risk. Did – did someone else – did something happen?"

"I can't – "

Her non-answer is an answer. The girl who grabbed my hands while we sat on the bench? Or the other one on stage? If it's true, this can only be bad for those of us who remain. We're meat.

Less meat for the animals means every scrap will be devoured.

But it also means the fight for what little remains will be more fierce.

"What's your name? You can tell me that, yes?"

"It's Marcela."

"Hi, Marcela. Nice to meet you."

The look I get back says, Is it?

"Nice to meet you too, Princess."

We're back to Princess now. That feels like progress and also like I'm going back in time.

"Can you tell me what happens next? I know Cam – er, Mario – gave me to The Mother. That's so she will prepare me for my husband." Instead of asking this as a question, I let my voice drop at the end, firm and confident.

Confusion swirls in her big brown eyes.

"Ah, I don't know. It's not my place to know."

I shake my ankles. "Could you untie me? I'd like to walk. No one wants blood clots in a princess."

"Absolutely." Marcela seems relieved to be able to do something concrete that is both allowed and that I've requested. Tension radiates off her in spite of the neutral face she shows me. Once the ankle loops are off, I pull my knees to my chest and flex my calves, which threaten to cramp.

Close, but they don't.

Angling my toes up, I flex as much as possible, my poor Achilles tendon nearly snapping as I move it. These small pleasures need to be my anchor. Closing my eyes, I pretend I am just my body. No mind, no brain, no fear, no horror. Just breath and blood and the feel of my hands against my skin.

It calms me.

For just a few seconds, but that has to be enough.

"Where is my king? My husband?" I ask, the words coming forth so easily. As I say them, my throat cracks a bit, emotion impossible to suppress. What if – what if all of this is happening because I betrayed the prophecy? Going with Cam after he killed Jason and Malcolm might have been a mistake.

Letting him take me away from Makiah might have been another one.

Dread takes over every cell of my being.

What if I'm wrong?

Could this all be my punishment for transgressing? If I go back to being good again, will they stop all of this?

Maybe Cam isn't a bad man, after all.

Maybe I'm the one who has been bad.

No one actually removes organs from living people for their own purposes. No one breeds women for the sake of creating more kidneys for billionaires. As my racing mind fills with too many thoughts, the overwhelm makes it hard to breathe.

Perhaps I'm wrong about everything .

"I cannot answer any of your questions, Paige – er, Princess," she says, looking at the door.

"Please excuse me. I'll be back shortly.

" Marcela crosses the room and exits, the door locking with mechanical precision.

On the other side, I hear the murmur of her voice, urgent and quick.

She speaks in short sentences, lots of affirmative tones.

I'm being managed carefully. Too carefully. A suicide from one of us means that the woman who made that desperate choice had enough freedom to act on her own will. She had to want death more than the fate we're about to experience.

I'm about to experience.

My skin crawls like it has bugs under it, legs filled with the irresistible urge to run, yet I can't.

I'd only hit a wall.

Then be bound again.

They have me, one hundred percent. Nothing about me is mine. The concept of a me does not exist.

I am theirs.

Wholly theirs to do with as they please.

I, Paigelynn, do not exist.

How can I let go of the idea that I should?

That's the part that drives me insane here, stuck in my mind, my body transmitting all these reactions and emotions, making me ill.

My stomach tightens again, nausea overtaking me.

Anticipating the pain of what they plan for me is the cause of my suffering.

If I can just go dead inside, I won't suffer.

I wish I knew how.

Marcela steps back into the room, holding a small tray, easily held in the palm of one hand. She sets it down on the tiny table next to the bed.

"I'll be outside, if you need me."

"You're not staying?"

"Do you want me to?" Her face says she would rather eat a live snake than stay.

Do I? Do I want her to stay? My mind stutters inside, eyes darting all over. I freeze, unable to think.

She sighs. "I'll leave you to your food, Princess. You should eat. You'll feel better if you do."

I say nothing, staring at my knees.

She leaves.

The food looks pleasant, a bowl of strawberries, a small egg white omelet with chopped scallions on top, and a piece of healthy nut bread. If I had an appetite, I would enjoy it.

You want nothing , I tell myself. A person who is dead inside would think that. A person who didn't care about their fate would just move one second at a time, not thinking about the future, not stirring up dread about what is coming.

My stomach makes a gurgling sound that I feel, the need for food becoming dire.

With my fingers, I find a strawberry, the sweet, firm flesh giving way as I chew. Ripe and delicious, it's almost too good. I take another. Then another. After eating five, I pause.

I inhale.

I exhale.

I start to cry.

Forehead against my knees, I sit on the hospital bed and sob until all the moisture in my body is gone, until tears run down my shins like raindrops on a window, until my belly is hollow and I am empty.

Nothing I do matters.

Trying to kill off my feelings is impossible. Maybe if they drugged me, I could do it, but not now. Life is meant to be filled with joy and purpose, love and community.

Strawberries and hope.

I have my berries.

Where's my hope?

Where is Cam?

Where is the life I was promised? I am a Princess. I am the prophecy.

If I'm not those things, then I am just as human as the rest of them.

Which makes me... what ?

What am I?