Prologue

This would most probably be the official start of the story. The Letter post is more of like a Post-It for me, like some hastily scribbled bit of info to keep me reminded of who's who. So yea, discard that. The Letter is not going to be included anywhere in the story. Most probably.

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"My name is Gwendolyn. I'm twenty one this year, I'm a dancer, and I am homosexual."

That was all I intended to say when my turn came. The trick to these dreary introduction games was to indulge the host a little, give them a little of what they wanted to hear, and then drop a totally unexpected bomb on their sensibilities. Not that I really cared how they saw me, or what they’d do to me after such a revelation.

Not that I really cared about anything at all, actually.

We were sitting in a circle, as these games tended to need us to do, and I was 7 positions away from the current speaker. She was rather sweet looking, with short, wavy brown hair, and eyes that seemed to catch the light just right.

The light that shone into the room through a small window with vertical iron bars embedded into the concrete ledge that served as the lip of the window. I glanced at the window, reminded that I would not be able to simply walk away from this silly game, from this silly room, at anytime I wished.

They tried to disguise the fact as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do. And what they could not disguise, they tried to mute its obviousness. As I glanced around the room, each small reminder felt like a dull thud within my heart. Like recalling your most embarrassing moments, and feeling the urge to alternately bury your face and groan and to pound your fists into something, as if doing so would expel the burning shame you felt.

The unusually large bolt across the door, both painted an earthy brown to make you feel at home; the door itself, made of sturdy iron, ensured that nobody was going to break in anytime soon. Or break out. Fans and light fixtures were too high up on the ceiling to be of any use in any hare-brained suicide attempt.

The girl with the wavy hair had just finished, and now there were only six people before it was my turn. I wrung my hands, suddenly feeling very confined and claustrophobic. I was starting to hyperventilate, but I was doing all of this quietly, not wanting to attract any attention. 'Keep your head low,' was what some of the older girls advised us when we were in the holding room for the morning assembly.

I forced myself to calm down, taking slow and deep breaths. I clenched my fists to stop them from trembling, feeling my nails dig into flesh. The pain was a welcome change. It was something… real, something I had some measure of control over. It was comforting. But most of all, the pain brought focus.

I sighed and cast my eyes to the floor, contemplating my life thus far, wondering again where I went wrong, and when did I start down the path that lead me to this falsely cheerful room, sitting in a circle with other women dressed in the same plain white uniform, playing an introductory ice-breaker game.

I suppose you could say it started with iced tea.