Consequences
The syndicates almost never come past 37th St because it’s barely even part of the city. Everything is run down like crazy, the roads are broken and dirty and all, and everybody that lives there has jobs that work to keep the neighbourhood functioning. They work at the supermarket and stuff, but it’s barely even a store because the syndicates won’t send any fresh produce there, only bread. Anyways, the syndicates don’t go over there because of all the civil disputes and rebellions. That’s why I’m here. There’s a bar on 40th street I go to on the weekends because I won’t get caught staying out past curfew, and the bartender is half blind. He won’t card you if you’re over six foot. I have my brother’s I.D. from before he got picked up. His hair is all long and braided, so I can use it and they don’t even look to see that it says he’s a male before selling to me. That’s the reason he got picked up in the first place, he wouldn’t cut his dumb hair for training. They came and got him in the middle of the night and scared my mama half to death. I haven’t seen him in about three years and I’m pretty sure he’s dead, although my mom says the syndicates have him working night patrol or something. She even swore she saw him once outside the window. Poor lady. All she even does is sleep since Elijah got picked up. That’s why she doesn’t even know I skipped the bus to training to go drink.
On Sunday’s the bar is full of the regulars or what I like to call them- alcoholics. I’m not really one to talk, but I’m not forty working at a supermarket that only sells bread and cheating my my wife by raping 17 year olds. I’m 17. I’m here because training is hell, and all the white boys look at me like they’ve never seen a girl with a different skin tone, except for in porn. Which is true. Anyways, when I’m here alone the alcoholics like to touch up on my legs and breathe on my neck and all. I don’t mind too much because they let me put my drinks on their tab. Drunk assholes.
“Why you here, baby?” one of them whispers in my ear before biting it and sitting next to me. “Don’t you got training in the morning?”
Why does he care? If he knows I have training than he knows I’m not eighteen. For some reason old white guys think that just because they’re white I’m dying to sleep with them. My mama taught me better.
“You gonna get me a drink or just sit there?” God, I really can be a bitch. He goes to get the bartender after waving at him about seven hundred times and I can escape the smell of beer and cigarettes for a couple minutes. I think about all the losers on the last bus to training. They’re gonna have to stay there until Friday, going to classes and learning how to follow the same rules we hear every week. Not like we haven’t been studying the same fucking laws since pre-training at seven years old. I don’t mind the syndicates, I really don’t. I agree with their rules and how they go about things and whatever, except training. What ever happened to good old fashioned school? Jesus.
The one with my drink comes back and almost throws it down. “There you go, baby,” he snarls at me and grabs my thigh, holding it too tight. Sometimes the alcoholics get violent when they’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not one to stick around when that happens. I sit there pretending to be unbothered and chug the drink as fast as I can without making it seem like I’m trying to get away. It literally tastes like rubbing alcohol, but I smile through the pain.
“Lovely evening,” I say as I stand up and escape his dirty grasp. “I better catch that bus to training.” He starts grumbling something about me being a whore just using him for his money but I don’t care. He’s the pedophile.
I stumble out of the bar, realizing walking has become a challenge. I’m drunk. Drunk like the type of drunk where you’re at the place you go all the time but you can only really focus on one thing like the streetlight above you and everything looks different even though you know it’s not. I think I had about four drinks, I really can’t remember because of all the perverts and stuff. I was just focusing on not getting raped.
I lean up against the street light, barely able to hold my head up, but I know not to close my eyes or I’ll get the spins, and I really can’t deal with that right now. Then I see Silas Taylor walking towards me with a nasty little grin on his face. He must have followed me out of the bar. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy hitting on me was his dad.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in training?” he pouts at me and wraps his grimy hands around my waist. I used to fool around with Silas back in my 5th year of training (when I was fifteen and didn’t know any better). He’s the only white guy, or guy, that I’ve ever actually been with, but he never stopped when I said no so I told my mama and she got all upset and told me never to see him again. I did anyway. He’s a year older than me but he dropped out of training last year. I haven’t seen him since then.
“Why do you care?” I say trying to break free of his hold on my waist. He looks at me with that pouty face again. I think I’m gonna vomit. Honest to God. His breath smells like a straight up mini bar.
“Because I care about you.” His lips are already making their way up and down my neck; they’re soft and it almost could actually feel nice except I know it’s Silas.
“You really need to show off that tight little ass of yours more,” he smirks running his hands over the rough edges of my jeans and into my pockets. My head is spinning like I just got off a merry go round. Saying stop won’t do any good for me here. I know him too well, everybody does. The only reason he dropped out of training was because everyone hated him for raping fifteen year old girls. He’s really a monster. He really is.
I start pushing back on him harder. I’ve never been able to fight him off before, but I won’t not give up on my pride, even if I’m wasted. I feel my wrists being held tightly, and I know it should hurt but I’m too faded to even realize that somehow I’m on the ground now. Face in the gravel. I know he’s talking to me in his winey “you owe me sex” voice, but I can’t understand a word he’s saying. It doesn’t matter.
All of sudden he’s not whining anymore. It’s silent now, so I close my eyes. I can still feel his weight on my back and the cold gravel against my thighs but he’s not moving. His weight almost floats off of me like he’s levitating. I feel hands gripping my arms, lifting me up, leaving my pants on the ground.
I hate the syndicates. I start screaming about my brother and tears start streaming down my hot face. Everything is dancing around my eyes, the ground even. They took him, they killed him. I’m thrashing around fighting their hold on my arms but I’m sure it’s not affecting them at all. I’m a five foot four girl, drunk off her ass, in her underwear and I think I can take the syndicates? Why didn’t I get involved before? Why wasn’t I a part of the rebellions? I would have died either way.
It’s white, everything is white. I look down at my hands which are perfectly handcuffed sitting on my bare thighs which reminds me that I still have the spins. Silas is next to me. Silas I can handle. I’d fight until he came. He’s stronger but I won’t go down without a fight. But the syndicates. That I can’t do. Not alone.