Authors note: Lyrics from Silent all these years and China are used by kind permission from Sword and Stone Publishing.
Mail me here: MBard
The Compound
I've been in the Compound for what seems like an eternity,
but is only a short lifetime. I know this place like the back of my hand.
Every inane rule, every irrelevant task. Nothing escapes me. I watch the
others, carefully judging who will get caught. I'm no snitch though, if
I know something it goes no further than my memory. It’s more useful there.
I'm not like the other interns, I'm special. The Committee
knows this and they gave me my own room. Not a cell, the cells are for the
prisoners, the ones who are really lost and who aren't allowed the privilege
of existing with others. Us interns are kept separate from them; the fear
of corruption said the Committee. More like the fear of revolution. We're
all separated from each other in some way, even the interns. And myself,
I'm secretly separated from them all.
The room isn't much, just like the doubles. A hard bed,
small table with one drawer, a few cobwebs. No windows though, just the
bars. They don't trust us with windows. They don't trust us with much actually.
I prefer my single room, at least I can trust myself. It was dangerous sharing
a room, never knowing what the other might do. A soft moan in the night
was a welcome surprise, but more often than not you were going to get something
quite different from the intern below you. The Committee insist on doubles
though, you can intern more women that way. They don't realise how dangerous
the doubles are, especially with the new interns. The ones who wet themselves
when they step through the Compound gates. I was never like that.
Unlike the other women I know why I was interned. They
came for me in the middle of the night. Privately. I was expecting them.
The Militia. They were subtle, probably for the first time. I was handled
delicately, like an old piece of china. I remember thinking of some old
song from my childhood when they came. 'Funny how the cracks don't seem
to show'. To the other women, the ones are dragged kicking and screaming,
the cracks didn't show. But I am as clever as Them, I saw the cracks first.
When I'd been tried and presumed guilty they took me to a room. The Committee
sent their Representative to me and unlike the others I didn't question
him. I sat silently. He was confused at first, I watched him fidget with
his neat dark blue regulation tie. I think he was a new one, not knowing
how to handle the silent woman. Do you know what's going to happen to you?
He said. I nodded. You're being interned in the Compound. I still nodded.
He began to get angry, wanting some kind of violent response from me. I
didn't comply though. We sat in silence for another ten minutes, then he
straightened his tie again and left. I'd call that round one to me.
My file is in the hands of the Committee now. Not all
files go to them, most are kept by the Representatives, the ones who sold
out to stay alive. I hate them. Especially the Representatives whom I have
dealt with. They went crawling to the Committee as soon as it took over,
the low life’s of our old world. Most women, like me, had more dignity and
were stronger than the weak ones. But the others, they saw their chance
and took it. Now they are on the right side of the Committee and they love
to let us know this. In my previous world I would have been above such inelegance,
but here I am inferior. Not everything has changed then.
I've never seen the Committee in person/s. No-one has
to my knowledge. They give out their orders through loud speakers hidden
somewhere where no one can vandalise them. The Militia, the Representatives
and Wardens at our very own Compound don't even get to meet the powers that
be. It makes me wonder how these people got the jobs they did. There was
no card in the job centre, no advert in the local press. All of a sudden
they just appeared in different clothes to us and started watching people.
Answering to a force, which is un-seen but so formidable, no one dare disobey
it. How bad can it be? What can they do that is worse than being interned?
Imprisonment. Labelled a prisoner and put in a cell. Despite what I said
earlier it doesn't sound too bad. I've been in prison before. At least prison
in the old sense of the word. I quite enjoyed it. Mixing with real criminals,
women I'd never dreamt existed. It sure beats the chasm of women here. Ones
with no sense of independence, no real bravery. Just little women.
Mealtimes are a sacred constitution here in the confines
of Compound life. The one time us interns get a choice. We can either eat
the food they put in front of us or not eat it. They don't force-feed us
like the prisoners for they know we will co-operate best when we feel a
sense of one-upmanship.
Man.
Mealtimes not only provide us with a choice they are a
source of entertainment as well. For if there was a time when the interns
could try and out do the guards physically it was at the dinner table. Once
a place for families eating their evening meal, now an opportunity for a
rise in self-esteem. We all strive to beat the guards, physically or mentally;
each intern has their own methods. But the place to do it physically is
in the dining hall, a large rectangle room that reminded me so much of a
high school canteen. I fully expected a teacher to pop round a corner to
some women waiting in line and tell them to hurry along quietly. Of course
the teacher never came and we had to put up with the guards and their repressive
presence telling us what to do.
Only last week an intern provided us with a break in the
usually monotonous toil of life we have become accustomed to. She was what's
called a stripling, and they always regard themselves as being superior
to the rest of us. Not used to Compound life, but they soon learn. This
particular stripling I'd seen in the double section of the Compound. A pretty
boyish little thing with a stark tattoo across her right arm. I wondered
if her room-mate was having as much trouble as I had all those years ago,
or was it months? She had an audacious air about her and I knew it wouldn't
be long before she tried her luck with one of the guards. And sure enough
our evening meal if that’s what you can call it, was interrupted by the
stripling just as I expected. I told you I was special.
She was waiting in line for food just like the others.
From my seat at the far end of the room I get the best view of the queuing
women, ladies in waiting, and I could see her beginning to cause some trouble.
The guards noticed it too and one of them moved closer to the expectant
women. The stripling saw the guard approach and decided upon that one to
target. The physical women never usually decide on which guard to force
themselves upon until the actual event occurs. Unlike the complete women
who use their minds as weapons and choose their plaything well in advance.
(I belong to the latter in case you were wondering). The women had realised
something was going to happen and, as if they were at a play back in the
old days in some grand theatre, they sat down and faced the stripling, ready
with their applause. Even the ladies in waiting around her had distanced
themselves, becoming scenery instead of supporting players. Not wanting
to get too involved in case the guard doesn't relent and actually fought
back. God forbid. But I knew that this particular guard wouldn't change
the script, it was too scared of the punishment it would receive if it harmed
an intern. If the punishment we receive is anything to go by, the guards
must live in fear of their actions. The kind of torture that leaves stains
on your mind. Dark, foul stains that re-appear at night when you least expect
it and rob you of sleep. No, this guard would definitely let her do what
she needed to do to prove to herself that she was coping with Compound life.
Hah, how can anyone cope here, even me?
We watched the stripling as she attacked the guard. It
was nothing we hadn't seen before. No new twist to the tale unfortunately.
All the women cheered, or should that be jeered, as the stripling grappled
the guard to the floor and announced that she'd won the battle. Ah, but
not the war honey.
Since then the usual accolades have been bestowed upon
her. Shouts in the yard, worrying looks in the dining hall, teasing gestures
at night. The price of fame. Nothing like this befalls me. It wouldn't suit
my cause to be appreciated by the women. Acknowledged yes, but adored? Not
me. My achievements are vast but muted. Like a song I once heard. 'Silent
all these years'.
Regular meetings with the Representatives fill our days
with direction. Each of us is examined mentally at least once a week. They're
scared we could change our state of mind in a week, as if its something
we can control anyway. And if we could I think it would take more than seven
days to go from bad to worse, but perhaps that's just me. The interrogation
is not like the formal mandatory one we get after the trial. Its much more
intrepid. Anything can happen. The fight, for that is what it essentially
is, can go either way. At the moment the score on my record stands at 66
to me against the pathetic 54 the Representatives have managed to get past
me. I've been trying harder lately.
The other women know when you have your meeting. They
see you being led away by two guards, not one. Exchange looks between themselves
then go back to whatever it was they were doing. At one time there was a
worry that we'd never see the women again. Sometimes they didn't return.
But that was a long time ago and the Committee have learnt since then.
My meetings are held in awe by the rest of the interns. I have the best record amongst us, and although I don't let this be known someone always finds out the result.
Where women are concerned nothing can be kept secret.
The end