"Nottingham, Prologue and Section 1" by Camilla ´Motone´ Whitney

Prologue

In the Beginning

            My mother's laughter in the front room.  Good, they were home.  I crawled out of my hiding space and ran to meet them.  The happy talking stopped, a gasp.  I cowered in the dark doorway, unseen by my parents and the strange man that lurked by them. 

“At last,” the strange man said, smiling grimly.  “Our greatest foes.  Jackson, Marian,” he looked at each parent in turn, “I have a message from the Prince.”

Angry shouts came from my father, then screams, sobs, ripping, slashing, moaning, followed by a long, cold silence.  What I remember most of all was the strange man's flesh tone.  An appalling, meaty pink.  He was carnivorous and cruel. 

            Over the next six months, I found myself in a whirlwind of relatives and shuttled off to various locations, finally sent to live with my aunt Bonnie, of whom I had never heard.  She looked nice enough on the outside, she had the green tint of any respectable citizen; she had this nice two-bedroom apartment (which, I supposed, was why I was sent to live with her), and overall looked like a nice lady for an orphan like me to live with.  In fact, I rarely had complaint.  She left me alone most of the time, didn’t care what I did as long as it didn’t draw unwanted attention to her.  I could be gone for days; she didn’t care.  Flares were rarely built, until the day of the Incident.

            Aunt Bonnie will deny the Incident, deny that I ever existed in her life.  She can say what she wants.  I'm here to disclose the Truth.  It was the Incident that made me what I am today.

Section 1

They Have No Cloke for their Sin

            Lunchtime.  I slipped unnoticed away from Aunt Bonnie, unwilling to gag down any of her vegetable stew.  She was in the lower section of the higher class—she would only eat vegetables.  I didn't see how killing plants was any different than killing animals.  An injection of ChloroFill™^* and a walk downtown made my meal.  The sun was bright and the ChloroFill was working fast.  Strength was building up inside me as I walked.  Water was cool and refreshing as I swallowed it.  It sloshed within my delightfully empty insides.  It was springtime, so the sun was bright, warm and invigorating.  I had never felt better.

            I spent most of my time downtown, away from the apartment, and I knew most of the streets.  I kept to the main roads, unused as they were.  Cars were too expensive for the common person like myself and others.  Even though some had the money or means to buy one, they didn’t have enough to maintain it.  And to anyone that high in society, sunlight was essential to life.  If you couldn’t afford ChloroFill, you couldn’t afford a car.  And if you couldn’t afford ChloroFill, that meant you had to gain your energy through eating.  Those people were the scum that littered the backroads and alleyways of the city, where I tried not to go.

            I knew downtown by heart.  I didn’t have to look up to see the large, crumbling buildings, dissolving from years of disarray, nor did I have to glance down to see the piles of litter containing prince-knows-what, lining every curb.  Right now I was just looking at my arms.  They were nicely tanned-and-greened from exposure to the sun, pocked with injection marks on the veins.  The green flushed delicately across my skin, even bringing its tint to my face, my ears, my fingertips and toenails.  Some people’s hair even turned green, I had heard, from a lifetime use of ChloroFill.  But most people died before they ever got that far.

            A flash of shadow from above.  I looked up to see someone wearing a large, dark cloak, jump over the narrow gap of an alley, from one buildingtop to the next.  He continued running across the roof.  My curiosity arrested, I quickly followed him along the cracking, weedy sidewalk, not realizing that in my narcissistic reflections I had wandered onto unfriendly territory.

            Vomit stenched the air, followed by alcohol.  I stopped, almost slipping in my haste on some slimy indiscernible smeared on the ground.  I tried to suppress my disgust as I peered down at the man by my feet.  He was drunk and homeless.  That was common.  Alcohol was cheap, far cheaper than any other ingestibles; or so I assumed by the fact that all lower class seemed to bathe in it.  Even his ruddy skin tone was common among those like him.

            A voice from behind me:  "What are you looking at, Greenie?"  I looked around.  He was talking to me.  Another Pinky, this one large and threatening, burly, and red with heat, anger and intoxication.  I was one of the only photosynthesists on the street—possibly the only one.  He asked me again, followed by curses.  I backed away, not knowing what to do.  Inexplicably, cameramen were soon arriving on the scene, along with reporters, all from the same newscast.  There was only one.  He continued taunting me about my skin color, thrusting a hamburger in my face.  Suddenly it was hot, I felt sick.  My stomach was cringing with some kind of horrible pain I had never felt before.  He shoved me against a wall of the building behind us, and I didn’t notice until later the rough brick had ripped through my tanktop and the skin covering my shoulderblade.  His large, meaty hand covered my shoulder, pressing me against the wall.

            Zing.  His eyes bulged.  He let out a hideous, animalistic scream as he clenched my shoulder, his knuckles and fingertips turning white.  Then his grip relaxed; he fell backwards, a crunch.  I looked upwards.  A man in a long brown cloak holding a bow, a quiver on his back, standing atop the building across the street.  It was the same figure I had seen earlier.  The sun was behind him, casting his entire figure in shadow.  All I could see was a silhouette.  He took the time to nod to me before running quickly along the rooftops.  The Pinky twitched, and the cameras focused on him, along with the reporters.  I ran.

            My heart thudded with nerves and use as I ran through the streets and up two flights of stairs to the apartment.  It was quiet inside.  I opened the door quietly, hoping that Aunt Bonnie, for some reason, wouldn’t be home.  I was met with a wave of slightly cooler air as a cheap fan made its whirring sweep across the width of the room.  I was suddenly aware of how much I was sweating, and as the door clicked shut behind me I tried to wipe the sweat off my face and arms, perpetually sore from daily injections.

            Aunt Bonnie was here all right.  In the next room I could hear muffled voices, which turned out to be the TV.  It was small, probably 20 inches, and the reception was somewhat unclear, but she watched it every night, especially the news.  That was what she was watching now.  Words filled the room, words from the drunk, an eyewitness; words from the reporter; accusing words.  There was a particularly dramatic shot of the slain man, revealing an arrow intersecting bloodily with his spine.  A conspiracy, it seemed, had killed the man, the useless, homeless, drunken man.  A conspiracy in which I was key.

            I had made no noise entering, but Aunt Bonnie sensed my presence.  She turned slowly, terror in her eyes.  Her voice was calm and steely as she suggested that, if I didn’t want to eat (she knew I didn’t), I go to my room.  I gave her a glare equally cool to the one she sent me, turned, and went to my room.  I didn't know what she was going to do, but I was planning to fight it. 

            I sat on my bed, letting the fatigue flush over me.  What had just happened?  I lost track of where I was going, I was attacked, a mysterious man on a rooftop saved me by killing my attacker, and now I was suddenly an accomplice to murder.  I had no one to turn to.  No family, none of them wanted me—that had been proven twelve years ago when my parents had died.  Now that I was a dangerous criminal, they would probably change their names to disassociate permanently from me.  I had no friends either.  The closest things to friends in this city to most people were the women in red that plagued street corners at night.  I did not even know what friendship was.

            I gazed at my room.  Testament of the pathetic life I led.  Chained and isolated to this apartment, to this city.  Even when I was feeling rebellious, if Aunt Bonnie told me to go to my room, I went to my room.  In frustration I punched the wall.  The action left small indents in the wall, and a dull throbbing of pain in my knuckles.  I looked at my hand wonderingly.  It was ridiculous that such a small action should result in a consequence like that.  It was ridiculous that here I was, cowering in my bedroom under the terrified reign of Aunt Bonnie, and that the first time something exciting happened in my life, I get blamed for it.  But I felt drained now, too tired to care.  I must have been sitting there for some time, because it was dark outside, as dark as it could be with the neon streetlamp right next to the building.  I roused up the energy to change into pajamas, and fell asleep.

            Aunt Bonnie worked fast, I discovered the next morning, for when I tried to open the door it didn’t budge.  I tried again, I tried pushing and pulling, and it did nothing.  I began desperately rattling the knob, feeling the door struggle.  She had installed locks during the night.  She had probably installed an entire new door—this one had a solid catflap, which probably locked on the outside.  At any rate, it was too small for me to fit through, even if I could open it.  As I turned angrily from the door, I discovered a new development that brought this to an utterly new level.  There were bars on the window, as though she feared I would risk the story drop down to the street.  She found it necessary to control me, as there was no government to do the job.  There was no one to come and arrest me, lock me away.  I had never heard of such a thing.  Which was why she had to do it.  Perhaps she was hoping for some great community honor for incarcerating a horrible murderer.  But that would indicate anyone cared.  I was yesterday’s news, this much I knew about society.

            Still, it couldn’t be too bad being imprisoned in my room.  My only concern was ChloroFill; I had a limited stash.  I presumed that was what the catflap was for.  Other than that I was fine—I had a bathroom, which meant a supply of water among other things, I had all my clothes and other paraphernalia to keep me occupied.  And surely, once Aunt Bonnie realized I was harmless, she would let me out. 

            I spent the day getting myself accustomed to the idea of looking at the same four walls for an indefinite period of time.  I had spent entire days alone in my room before, so it wasn’t too strange, although I’d have preferred to go outside rather than stand by the window to get my dose of sunlight.  It was an entirely uneventful day.  The next day, on the other hand, would change not only my life, but also my entire lifestyle.

Men shaking me forcefully awakened me.  My walls had been stripped of their decorations, my carpet pulled up, even the mirror and the shower curtain had been removed.  All of my belongs had been removed as well, except my bed, which they were taking now.  All of my clothes, everything, I surmised they would try to sell and barter, some would be taken as payment, and what they couldn’t use, they would probably burn.

Aunt Bonnie said nothing to me this entire time, just glared at me from the doorway, in a self-righteous, altruistic way.  She was taking it upon herself, sainted woman, to shield the world from the monster that I was.  Anger consumed me at this thought—sanctimonious prig!  She was going to keep me as prisoner in my own bedroom.

            The moving men were done by midday.  I thought that would be it, but a short while later more people came in.  These were bearing instruments that claimed semblance to methods of ancient torture; harking back to a time I knew little about, only archetypes.  Oh prince, I thought as I was strapped down to a table, devoid of clothing, what are they going to do?  First they shaved my head, the dark, wavy locks wafting heavily to the ground where they lay in curled repose.  Then they took out a headcap, covered on the inside with millions of tiny suction cups.  This they attached to my head, affixing the cord extending from it to a machine, and switched it on.

            I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, tensing my entire body as the strangest, most inhuman feeling coursed through my head—it was like twisting and sucking and pulling and digging all at once, leaving no hair follicle unharmed.  Meanwhile, the people stood around in strange coats, like a traveling band of mad scientists, adjusting the machine and preparing other instruments.  The headcap was stealing my hair color; I knew they would process it into hair dye.  I would never grow colored hair again.  They used similar instruments to do the same to every other hair on my body. 

            Again, I thought they could do no more.  But they pulled out a bucket of a foul smelling liquid.  I couldn’t read the label; I had never learned to read.  But five of them pulled out paintbrushes, and began painting me.  The color was white, and they covered every bit of skin.  There was nothing I could do.  I didn’t even bother to fight when they unstrapped my hands and feet one by one in order to cover my ankles and wrists.  I could only wonder why she would do this.  Wasn’t locking me up enough?  Did she have to subject me to such humiliations?  What was the point of it all?  I caught her eye with my own.  She was looking down at me with grim satisfaction.  I knew what Aunt Bonnie was trying to do.  Make me a ghost to myself, break my will; force me to succumb to a non-life.  But I couldn’t fight.  They were too strong; I was strapped down.  They relieved my entire body of all color—almost all.  There was nothing they could do about my dark eyes. 

I attacked when I got the chance, screaming, thrashing and kicking.  Stricken fear on their faces, they left me alone, too afraid, dragging their instruments and machines hastily behind them, leaving one thing behind them: a white set of women’s underwear.  Outside I could hear the final blasts of the door being riveted shut, never to be opened again.  I was too angry to cry.  Future nights found me otherwise.

I desperately went to the sink and tried scrubbing off the paint, but it was already dry.  It was too late.  I realized as the sense of futility sunk in—I had been stained with tattoo paint.  It would never wash off.

            Alone and trapped, clothed only in a white set of underwear, I tried to recollect myself, to plan my escape.  If she thought she could keep me here like a phantom, she was wrong.  But my thoughts soon wandered to the man.  Who was he, and why had he shot that arrow?  What did he care of some pathetic girl was hurt or worse by a street drunk?  Surely that happened every day.  What was he, some kind of hero that went around saving pathetic girls?  And why had he shot an arrow at all?  More accurate, high-tech weaponry was certainly available; they were sold on street corners like drugs.  Why would he choose something so identifying?

            Pattering and scattering.  I hadn't had nourishment all day.  Knowing that photosynthesis was now impossible—the paint covered my entire body like a permanent sun block—I could only dread what was now being provided for me.  I turned to see a pile of dog food.  My mouth dried as I picked up a piece and examined it.  Did she really expect me to befoul my system with these stale, meaty chunks?  Even vegetables would be better than this processed animal corpse.  I tossed it back to the pile.  But I could feel myself growing weaker.  My skin had already been deprived of light, so now, my stomach began rumbling and I found myself back to the pile, sitting in front of it, staring it down, daring myself to try a piece.  As yet my system had only been subjected to pure water, but now I found myself needing meat.  Closing my eyes and holding my breath, I choked down a single piece.  I was utterly and thoroughly disgusted, but it was enough.  My body took control and before I could help it, the pile was devoured.  I didn't want it; couldn't help it.  It just happened.

            Gasping against the wall, when an even worse feeling came over me.  I stumbled to the sink, smelling the cool, clean porcelain as I leaned over it.  Eruptions of gas followed by stomach juices and partially digested dog food.  My body was rejecting the foreign impurity.  It left me drained of strength, weak and dazed for the remainder of the night.  I lay on the floor in a lethargic heat.

            One night I waited for Aunt Bonnie to open the catflap, then in desperation, I flung it open and grabbed her hand.  I looked through the flap at her frightened face.  “I didn’t do it, I swear!”  I said.  I don’t know what came over me, I was going insane.  “You have to let me out, I’m innocent!” She was pulling desperately away, and managed to wriggle free.  She tore down the hall.  “Please.” I shouted, barely able to fit my face through the hole.  But she was gone.  Dejectedly, I closed the flap, and stomped angrily to the window, tears burning my eyes.  I rattled the bars until I was out of energy, then pressed my face against them.  I couldn’t fit my head through.  I looked down at the hazy street, the stench of litter floating up with the heat.  They could walk free; they were not punished for anything they did.  I was punished for something I didn’t.

            Day by day, necessity forced my body into accepting this new form of nutrition, and each day I felt myself grow pinker, though hidden.  I was returning to the crude form I was born as; becoming a carnivorous monster like a few others.  My only comfort was that I couldn't be completely shunned, there was really no way of telling by merely looking at me that I was a Pinky.

            As soon as I had grown accustomed to the dog food and regained my strength, my plan went into effect.  Every morning and night I pulled on the bars on my windows, loosening them as much as possible.  On alternating days, I did what workouts I could without equipment.  If I was going to have to fight the rest of my life, I would be ready for it.  I spent the rest of my time wondering what my life would be like after I escaped, but mostly about the man, who he was, if there were more like him. 

I had decided from the start to be as quiet as possible.  The only way Aunt Bonnie would be able to tell I was gone was when the pile of dog food became too big for her to open the flap.

            The day came.  My hair almost fringed my eyes, and I couldn't survive here any longer.  When night came I washed my hair one last time, and nervously choked down the kibble, knowing it might be a while before I ate again.  I took off my tanktop and got it wet, then wrenched the long, curved faucet from its place on the sink.  A slight creak ensued as I tied my wet tank top around two of the window bars and twisted with the help of the faucet.  The bars bent under the pressure.  I repeated with the next set of bars, forcing a gap between the two sets.  Aunt Bonnie was a cheap and lazy woman, she couldn't afford anything like security cameras.  Who could?

            I crushed through the embrace of the bars after putting my tanktop back on, took a deep breath, and jumped from the sill.

            Hard, rough cement perfumed by a harsh, smoggy atmosphere.  Freedom may not be pretty, but it was sincere.  I was a luminous white figure in a wrinkled, rusted tank top and women’s boxer-briefs, glowing under the dim neon streetlight.  As I moved along the shadows, I wondered what came next.  I needed clothes, but my mind would not rest until I had found the man.  I didn't know what to think of him; he had saved my life, yet at the consequence of my imprisonment.  However, imprisonment was easily remedied, death was not.

            My arms pricked at the chill of the night.  I wandered without destination.  I hadn’t thought of where to go, I knew of no place I could.  Friends were not easily made as any kind of citizen, and now that I was a fugitive it would be impossible.  So I walked without direction.  It would be a long night.