Page 7 of The Female

The fluorescent lighting in the hallway is intense, and I blink a few times as my eyes adjust. The sterile, white walls make everything feel brighter than it really is. I’ve seen images of this facility before, but I quickly realize it’s nothing compared to actually being inside it.

There’s no personality or attempts to comfort in here. Everything is made to be efficient and cheap, which I suppose makes sense. Ultimately, we’re objects to be sold, and there’s no point in wasting money to keep us happy.

Despite my father’s constant claims that I’m not property, this building makes me feel exactly that.

The man leads us down a long hallway before turning right. His pace is fast, and the sound of our pattering bare feet feels loud as it echoes off the walls. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, and I hug my arms to my chest as he slows and comes to a halt.

We copy him, waiting nervously for further instructions.

“We need to get some information from all of you,” he says, pointing at the doors lining the corridor to our left.

One is open, and I peek inside to see what I’m dealing with. The room is small, containing only a desk with two chairs. Like everything else in this building, the walls and furniture are a crisp, unnerving white.

“One person per room. Somebody will be in shortly to speak with you. You’ll get a physical once you’re finished, and then you’ll be brought to your rooms.”

He’s loud, but he hardly seems to care or notice. Where is everybody else? I expected to see at least one other employee walking about.

Maybe they’re busy with the females who have already been brought in.

“Any questions?”

He’s met with silence. That’s becoming a common theme here.

After an awkward second, he nods and gestures for us to enter the rooms. He doesn’t wait to see if we follow his instruction before he spins on his heel and heads back down the hallway we came from. We all turn and watch him leave, our attention on him unwavering until he’s entirely out of sight.

It feels cocky of him to leave without ensuring we aren’t going to try to run, but it just shows how locked down they must keep this facility. There’s absolutely no worry in their minds that any of us will escape.

Besides, there would be no place for us to go even if we did. A woman on the street is sure to be noticed, and I’m willing to bet the men I’d encounter on the street will be no better than the ones here.

I make eye contact with the other women, all of us waiting to see who goes first. A tall brunette dressed in what I assume to be her father’s or brother’s clothing eventually shrugs and enters one of the rooms. Her actions are catalysts for the rest, all of us following suit.

My feet carry me to the room with the open door, and I make my way to the chair farthest from the door and sit down. Crossing my legs and intertwining my fingers on my lap, I will the thundering of my heart to settle as I wait.

What information do they need from me? And what kind of physical are they intending to conduct? I’ve never been to a hospital or doctor before, but I’m pretty sure I’m healthy. Nothing hurts.

I’m not forced to wait long, and I straighten up as a young man walks in only a few minutes later. He looks mostly human, which is comforting, and his short stature and thin limbs give me the confidence that I could take him down should he try and harm me.

He offers me a warm smile as he enters, his kind expression not fooling anybody.

“Good morning! I’m John, and I just need to collect some basic information from you before sending you off to the doctor,” he explains.

I nod as he sits in the chair opposite me. He barely glances at me as he sets a blank form and pen on the desk. My jaw clenches as he clicks the pen with a tired sigh, his expression flat.

“Your name?” he asks.

I blink, debating whether or not I should answer him and, if I do, whether I should tell him the truth or lie. I suppose the only point of lying would be to protect my family, but it doesn’t matter much when my mom has been captured and my dad is dead. The man quirks an eyebrow at my prolonged response.

“Charlotte Myers,” I finally say, deciding it would be too hard to remember a fake name.

John hums, writing it down.

“Age?”

“Twenty-five.”

He hums again, the noise quickly earning a spot at the top of the list of things I hate.

“Breed?” he continues.

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