Page 8 of Echoes

I can't bring myself to speak, and thankfully, Mr. Whittingham doesn't seem to care. He rounds his desk, hastily motioning for me to follow. I quickly stand, tailing him as I'm escorted back to my room.

As our footsteps echo down the hallway, my mind can't help but wonder what tomorrow will look like. It's eerily quiet—the usual screams from people in their rooms appear to have dissipated, and it sends a chill down my body. With the chaos of today, I expected more. The silence is telling, and that alone scares me.

Standing outside of my door, my eyes gaze over the numbers before I'm pushed inside.

Everything looks the same, yet it feels different.

"Wait," I say, turning to look at Mr. Whittingham at the door. "Do I get my shower?"

The door slams shut in my face, answering the question. Sighing, I trudge over to my bed, laying down.

Despite the consuming weariness threatening my existence, I'm unable to sleep. My eyes watch the door, expecting someone to sneak in at my minute. But as the hours pass, I realize they aren't coming. I'm alone again, just like always.

I should be used to it. That was my entire life, my sole purpose. But now…

Now, it feels like a fate worse than death.

I've barely been asleep for three hours when the door is shoved open, banging loudly against the wall.

I jolt up in a panic, first morning light blinding me as drowsiness intoxicates me.

Through the haze, I spot a guard, hand on the weapon attached to his belt.

"Up," he shouts at me.

Frowning, I stumble up, swaying dangerously. "What's going on?"

We're never woken upthisearly. And judging by the quiet hallway outside, no one else is either.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing my arm roughly.

I whine under my breath as his fingers leave bruises on my skin, my legs barely mustering up the strength to carry my weight as I'm dragged into the hallway.

As we approach the communal bathroom, relief floods through my chest at the thought of taking a shower. I step into the tiled room, unable to focus on much, when the guard shoves me to the floor.

I manage to catch myself just in time, hands slapping against the dirty floor as my knees cry out in pain. I bite my tongue, sucking in a breath as I do what I do best—keep my pain to myself.

"Clean," the guard orders, throwing a rag down next to my hand.

"What?" I sit back on my calves, looking over my shoulder at him.

He shoves my shoulder with his foot, knocking me forward. "Start cleaning, murderer. Whittingham's orders."

In my sleep deprived state, it takes me a few seconds to process his order. Reluctantly, I grab the rag, digging into the grout on the tiles. The guard scoffs, knocking over a bucket next to me, the contents spilling over my hands and seeping into my shorts.

"With the bleach obviously. The amount of filth you lot bring in is disgusting."

A burning pain sears into my palm and I quickly sit up on my calves, hastily wiping my hands on the front of my shorts. "It's burning," I tell him.

"Too bad. Get moving."

I shuffle away from the pool of bleach, scrubbing the tiles as my eyes scan the bathroom. It's massive—there's no way it's possible for one person to clean the whole room without proper equipment. But I prove that wrong. It just takes an obscene amount of time.

By the time I'm told to stop several long hours later, my hands are red raw and stinging. The guard, who had finally grown bored of his phone, relented, dragging me up from the floor.

"Breakfast time," he grunts, pulling me toward the door.

"I need to wash my hands," I argue but he ignores me, heading straight to the hall.

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