Page 2 of UnTrained: Volume One
“Come,” he says, nodding. “Follow me.” I obey without question.
A few of the women venture glances at me as Master leads me past them. I don’t make eye contact, but I see it from the corner of my eye. I wish I could tell them to ignore me. That nothing good comes of curiosity.
Here, or anywhere else.
I follow Master down a dark hallway. When he opens a door, I glance at him only long enough to see his nod, indicating that I should enter.
I step inside the dimly lit room. There’s not much here: two benches, a toilet in one corner without any attempt at privacy, and a shower in another corner, also without any type of curtain or wall.
The door clicks shut behind me. The air feels heavy, stale, almost suffocating. I stand still for a moment, catching my breath, the faint scent of dampness and something else—something saccharine—fills my nostrils. Anxiety coils tighter in my gut as I look around, absorbing the barren walls and cold surfaces.
Master's footsteps fade away, leaving silence in their wake. I brush my palms against my thighs, feeling the fabric of my uniform, its roughness a stark reminder of my place here. My heart races under the weight of uncertainty.
I stand frozen in the center of the room, my breath catching like fabric on a nail. The silence wraps around my throat—a collar tightening with each second.
The gray walls inch closer with each heartbeat, paint flaking away as if even it wants to escape. Seconds stretch into minutes that refuse to end.
My sharp inhale prickles my lungs, and I can taste the dampness on my tongue, so close yet so elusive. The quiet presses around me, a weight that nearly chokes, and every surface gleams with a sterile indifference. A shiver skitters down my spine, the sudden vulnerability of my surroundings gnawing at my sense of safety.
I twist my fingers, trying to anchor myself in the moment, but it only tightens the knot of fear coiled in my stomach. What did he mean by ready?
I suppose I can imagine, but I’d rather not. Then again, there are only so many outcomes for women who are taken against their will and held hostage.
I can’t even find it in me to be bitter anymore. That faded slowly, after my anger and will to fight.
Now, I just accept my reality. After all, it’s partly my fault.
I gasp as the door opens, surprised by the sudden noise, and even more surprised when another girl is directed into the small room next to me.
She looks as startled as I feel, her wide eyes darting around the cramped space before settling on me. Her hair hangs in tangled strands around her face, and bruises mottle her arms in various stages of healing.
I recognize the look. It’s the same hollow expression I wore when I first arrived.
"Sit," comes Master’s voice from the doorway, though I can’t see him. The command isn’t directed at me, though.
The girl lowers herself onto one of the benches, her movements jerky and uncertain. She keeps stealing glances at me, as if trying to read some answer in my face. I offer nothing. I’ve learned that lesson, too.
The door seals shut again with a metallic finality that makes my chest tighten. Now we are two, trapped in this concrete box together. The girl’s breathing comes in quick, shallow bursts that echo off the walls.
I study her from my peripheral vision. She is younger than me, maybe nineteen or twenty. Fresh enough that defiance still flickers behind her fear.
I shift on the bench, the metal creaking under my weight. The sound makes me flinch, and I press my lips together, trying to swallow any noise that might escape.
I recognize this hypervigilance. Every creak, every footstep in the hallway beyond once sent my heart hammering against myribs. I remember clutching at hope like a lifeline, believing someone would come for me, that this nightmare would end.
But it never does.
2
LANA
My fingers tremble as I smooth my uniform over my knees. The fabric feels identical to what I wear—rough cotton dyed an institutional gray that seems designed to drain color from everything it touches. But the girl’s uniform still holds creases from being folded, still looks stiff and new.
"How long have you been here?" I whisper, the question slipping from my lips before I can stop it.
My chest tightens. Speaking without permission could mean punishment for both of us. I glance toward the door, listening for footsteps, then look back at her. The desperation in her wide eyes tugs at something buried deep inside me—some remnant of the person I was before this place stripped me down to nothing.
I wish I knew. I’ve been here longer—so long I can’t even guess at how many weeks or months it’s been. I’ve never been in a room like this, so I don’t know what the next hours hold.
