tw: psychological violence
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"Why don't you like him? He saved our lives, didn't he?"
Portia stared at the wall painted forest green. "I guess he did. But I still don't trust him." She lowered her voice. "I don't feel safe."
"Why are you whispering?"
Her head turned towards Deirdre, her expression stone cold.
"I think we're being watched."
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Deirdre rested on one of the cots, sinking under the covers. The other newer girls were on the wooden floor, playing with a piece of cloth and a bowl. That small metal bowl could cause plenty of noise, something Deirdre despised. Her eyes studied the beige ceiling. There wasn't much she could do besides sleep, scrape her nails on the walls, and count. All day long she counted the number of hours, minutes, and seconds since she'd seen Portia. Twenty-two hours. Thirty-five minutes. Seven seconds.
She missed Portia, the only other girl she liked in the camp. Where was she now?
"Deedee, do you want to play?" one of the girls, Annalise, asked. Her twin sister gazed up at Deirdre expectantly.
She didn't answer, but kept counting. Eleven seconds. Twelve. Thirteen.
Bang. The sound of metal hitting the floor startled her. Oh, won't you shut up, she wanted to holler.
The door suddenly creaked open, revealing a tall man in a dark suit. "Are we having a good morning here?"
They all looked up, including Deirdre. "Uncle Fritz!" they exclaimed.
A small smile pulled on Deirdre's lips as she straightened herself. She was very fond of Uncle Fritz, just like the others. He understood Deirdre. He cared for her. Even loved her. But Portia never liked Uncle Fritz.
"Deirdre Fraser." He stated her name as the others ached for his attention. "Can you follow me, please?"
Stunned but thrilled, she sprung up from the bed and stepped closer to him. She could feel the girls' eyes boring into her back with envy. Uncle Fritz gestured outside the room and shut the door behind him.
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"I notice you don't play with the other girls like you used to," Uncle Fritz began, gesturing to an old, stained bed. There was a needle sitting on a tray on a desk next to it. "Please, sit down."
"But I never played with the other girls," she answered, obeying. "Only Portia."
He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, Portia Barclay."
"I'm waiting for her to come home. When is she coming home, Uncle Fritz?"
He ignored her, and instead reached for the needle. It swiftly pricked her skin for a few seconds before withdrawing. Though it was certainly not the first time, as usual, Deirdre winced.
"Do you remember what I said about obedience?" he asked.
This sent a cold shudder up her spine. Of course she remembered. She would never think twice about going against him. "Yes, Uncle Fritz. It is shameful and despicable to not obey authority. Only the weak do not obey."
"And are you weak, Miss Fraser?" She shook her head tentatively. "Of course you aren't. You have a brilliant, remarkable, independent mind. I've never met anyone like yourself."
Deirdre's cheeks turned a light shade of crimson. "But it is important to remember: who do you belong to?" he continued slowly. "Who is your authority?"
"You, of course, Uncle Fritz."
"Good. To be rewarded, you must obey. It's as simple and fair as that. Now, I have a gift for you." He smiles as he shifts his chair to one of the drawers. Inside, there was a mini box of velvet. Gently, he carried the box with both hands. Deirdre's left leg twitched, eager. "Open the box, and tell me what is inside."
She cautiously took the fuzzy box from him and opened the cover.
A tiny, winged animal the color of salted peanuts peered up at her.
So fragile. So delicate. Yet, so beautiful. "A baby bird," she said softly. "I love it."
"Yes, a bird. Now place it in your palm."
Anxious about harming it, Deirdre scooped it up with one hand and placed it in the other. The bird was so warm; its ebony eyes observed its surroundings, comforted.
"Squeeze the bird."
Her eyes shot up at him, bewildered. "I can't." Her throat grew dry.
His expression remained. "But didn't you just say you must? You must obey authority? As I said, it's easy to obey. You can, but you simply choose not to."
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She closed her eyes. Twenty-two hours. Forty-three minutes. Eighteen seconds. Nineteen. But why was she still counting? For Portia? The bird let out a small squeak. Probably for its freedom, for its family. Those words were hazy in her mind; she didn't know what they meant. So Deirdre didn't listen. She didn't listen to its high-pitched cries, pleading her to stop. She didn't listen to the voice resisting inside of her, burning with terror. Because she only listened to one man — Fritz.
Her fingers slowly tightened.
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The man laughed. He just laughed and laughed.
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