Page 3 of Corrupted Torment

At least at the group home, people had my back. They met all my major needs, and I really couldn’t complain. They even gave me an allowance. Sure, I needed to fend for myself often enough, and maybe I had grown up quicker than some of the other kids, but I’ve never had it bad. I just know more about the world. Book smarts might not be my thing, but ask me to look after the younger kids, or do the washing. I’m your girl. Well, I was anyway.

Here, I’m already segregated and alone, without an offer of help or relief from this miserable place. I want my best friend, Zee. We shared a room, trading secrets and comfort in the night. We have this book of poems—one Zee came to the home with—we always said we would write our own someday. I hope she’s okay. Will I find those sorts of comforts ever again?

I don’t understand this mentality. Is this some kind of ritual teasing, like some sort of test I need to pass? Can I go back home? Do any of the women know how they came to be here? Are there any men? How long have they been here? Why watch me sleep if they didn’t want to help? Why bother even bringing me from the beach at all?

My head is a blur of wild thoughts. All reaching and rising to be up front and centre, a swirling mass of confusion. I want to scream, to make the chaos tumbling around inside me stop. It’s always been this way: lost inside my mind. Right now, overriding them all, shouting loudly inside me, is my thirst.

I need to move, to get water, or I could die.

Scanning the area again, I know I can't afford to fall apart completely right now. I have to focus on controlling my breathing. A whimper escapes my lips, but I try to remain strong. Ignoring everyone around me as my stomach cramps in protest and hunger twists my insides. Concentrating again on the direction that was pointed out to me, I finally spot what could possibly be a pathway in the trees, and I shuffle onwards.

The tremor in my steps is slowing me down, but I keep walking with my head held high, despite the tears sliding down my cheeks. I’ve never felt this vulnerable and shaky in my life, but I have no choice but to keep going. Thirsty, hungry, and exhausted, I traipse one footfall at a time until I reach the path I’m sure I am supposed to follow.

Mapped out by the tread of feet, I follow the dirt path, thankful for the shade of the trees on either side as I trudge on. I don’t know how long I walk; I only know it wouldn’t take anywhere near as long if I were in better condition. Worn down by time, the pathway is wider than I would’ve guessed. It looks like it allows multiple people to walk alongside one another. A few women pass me and walk back towards the camp, completely ignoring me like everyone else, and I just keep moving, focused on the path ahead.

The trees start to thin down, and in the distance, I finally glimpse my first look of what I can only guess is the warehouse. Large and looming, the building is not at all what I’d expected in such a desolate place. As I draw closer, my eyes widen at the sight of it overlooking the beach. The path continues straight to a doorway on the left of the dark grey building, made from stone and wood. My shoulders tense as I creep towards it. My fear ratchets back up at the thought of what’s inside.

“Move.”

An elbow jabs painfully into my side. There’s hate in the woman’s dark eyes, and it fills me with unease. I don’t know what I have done to offend her. She glowers, looking me up and down like I’m a piece of meat before continuing on, a sneer on her lips.

Was I walking too slowly? Glancing at the path, I know she could easily have gone around me. Perhaps she needs me to hurry to catch her up? I don’t know why she felt the need to hurt me to get my attention. Clutching my now aching side, I make myself move more swiftly to chase after her into the gloomy warehouse. I don’t want to upset her further.

I don’t want to make any enemies here. Worried it’s already far too late for that, I bite the corner of my lip anxiously as I walk closer. Sweat drips down my back and body trembles as each step I take amps up my nerves. This is worse than going up to senior school, especially when the risks are so much higher.

I push open the door slowly, uncertainly peeking my head around the door before I enter. I don’t see the woman, but I am stunned to find the rows upon rows of supplies. It’s enough to last the people here for years. Blankets, clothes, and food line the walls, along with enough metal and wood to build several shelters. It makes me wonder why they didn’t just set up camp here. Why are these things supplied at all? It’s basic, but it’s all vital.

“Glad you could finally make it. I wasn’t sure you would. I’m Aggs.”

Her voice echoes from behind me, making me jump. I spin, letting out a whimper as I find her staring at me with a nasty tilt to her lips. Aggs. The woman who found me on the beach, the one who wanted to leave me to die. I hadn’t been able to make her out earlier in the harsh sun, but her size and power would have frightened me on a good day, let alone today.

It seems the woman was here for me after all.

Alone.

“Grab a rucksack. Let’s set you up.”

Her eyes track my every move, and I can’t help the creeping tremor that shakes through my body as I follow her instructions. I anxiously keep my distance, feeling like I’m too close to a snake about to strike. My side aches from the blow she has already doled out to me, and I’m scared that’s not even close to the worst thing she will do to me.

I think she’s the one bringing out the worst in the women. She’s at least the one who has the power to control them, to rule with an iron fist. The thought is terrifying. I’m going to need to learn to lie low and to keep to myself.

* * *

Unease curls through me as I look around. The weight of suspicion lingers heavily in the air, but I don’t understand why. I’ve been here for four days in this shanty village on an island no one wants to speak about. Reality is a long-forgotten dream that’s left me captive to this nightmare.

Here, the homes are a mishmash of large scraps of wood and metal. It’s just enough protection from the worst of the elements, placed amongst the base of trees. The trunks look like they keep the homes as sturdy as can be, while being held together with thick rope. At least that’s all I can see is holding the things together, but I suspect it must be more. I haven’t figured that part out yet, and the people here aren’t too forthcoming.

Although the camp isn’t an immense area, the place holds at least a hundred of these little shacks. They’re barely big enough to lie flat in a sleeping bag and store our few items of clothing. To be honest, they’re more like uneven, decrepit mausoleums settled among the trees. They’re left to rot, decay, and rust. Some have real-looking doors with hinges creaking from age, but most only have a sheet of plastic covering to protect the occupants from the outside.

I’ve only just begun to create my own. The pieces are leaning together against a strong-looking oak tree. Its sturdy branches are reaching up to the sky and are easy enough to climb if I ever felt the need. It’s a reminder of one in the garden from the group home. It had been my safe space amongst the leaves. Currently, I have a wooden base, a plastic sheet, and two metal walls picked out, but have so far not started construction.

I’ve had to go back to the warehouse a few times already. On the third day, after giving myself a day's rest, I dragged the beginning of my new home back. I didn’t know just how much effort the heavy scraps would take to move.

Panting with exertion, my face undoubtably red, I struggled, heaving, pulling and dragging the hefty panels. Others laughed behind their hands and whispered to one another as I held back my tears and the frustration thrumming through me. No one would help me.

Well, not until Fliss came along from a scouting trip today. Without a thought, she helped me heft up the large piece of metal I’d been struggling with, and we carried it between us to my chosen location.

Now, I’m sitting at one of the campfires to warm my chilled bones as the night-time temperature drops. Sitting next to me is Fliss, the nicer of the two women who’d brought my unconscious body back from the beach.

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