Page 4 of UnTrained: Volume One
When they shove us in, I realize the space is fitted with metal benches along each side. Beyond that, there isn’t much.
No windows.
No way of escape.
The door slams shut behind us, plunging us into near-darkness. Only thin strips of light filter through small vents near the ceiling.
The engine rumbles beneath us as the van lurches into motion, and I grab the metal bench to steady myself.
The girl slides down onto the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. In the dim light, her face is a pale oval, eyes wide and reflecting what little illumination there is.
"Where are they taking us?" she whispers.
“I don’t know,” I finally say.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears—flat, emotionless. When did I start to sound like this? I can't remember the cadence of my voice before. Before all this.
The van takes a sharp turn, throwing us against the wall. My shoulder slams into metal, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Pain blossoms, spreads like ink in water. I've learned to contain it, to let it wash through me without resistance.
"My name is Celia," she says suddenly, her voice cracking on the second syllable.
The name hangs between us in the stale air. I feel something twist inside my chest. Recognition, maybe, that before all of this I was a person, with a name, even though they took that from me, too.
The van hits another pothole, jarring my teeth.
Celia slides across the floor, her shoulder bumping against my leg. She looks up at me, and I see myself reflected in her desperate eyes. The version of me that fought and screamed and promised herself I wouldn’t break.
It seems like an eternity ago that I made myself that promise. Since then, it’s become clear that it’s one I can’t keep.
“What’s your name?” Celia finally asks, when it’s clear that I’m not going to offer the information.
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t matter. Names, all of that. The only thing that matters is what they tell you.”
My tone is harsh, but she needs to know. I learned it the hard way.
Forget everything that came before. I had a name, before. But now, I’m just a number.
127.
I try not to dwell on the idea that there were 126 girls before me, or what happened to them.
Sometimes I wonder if they blamed themselves, the way I do.
3
LANA
The van slows, then stops. My heart hammers against my ribs as the engine cuts out, leaving us in absolute silence. Celia's breathing has gone shallow again, quick little puffs that sound too loud in the confined space, but at least she’s stopped crying.
Footsteps approach. Multiple sets, their voices muffled through the metal walls of the van.
I can't make out words, but the tone is businesslike. Casual. Like they're discussing the weather instead of human cargo.
The door slides open with a metallic screech. Harsh fluorescent light floods in, making me shield my eyes with my hand. When my vision adjusts, I see we're in some kind of warehouse. Concrete floors, high ceilings lost in shadows. The air smells like oil and rust.
"Out," one of the men says, the same rough tone as when he shoved us into the van.
I stand on unsteady legs, my muscles cramped from the ride.
