Final Challenge

A/N: Wow, I can’t believe it’s almost over. This has been so much fun, and I have met so many wonderful people. I’m so grateful to Livi and Alex for coming up with this and coming up with Ashton. Anyway, without further ado, I give you the my last challenge. (RP courtesy of @ashtonschreave)

Warning: Suggestive dialogue and a lot of language

Another round of eliminations.

And it’s not me this time.

Challenge 5

My submission for challenge 5. Roleplay courtesy Gracebella. Trigger warning for mentions of rape, child abuse, and drinking.

Eliminations tear out of every inch of my soul this time around. I was so sure I’d get eliminated, so, so sure, but when it came down to it, I wasn’t. I can practically hear my mother’s screams when the announcement is made. A part of me is relieved, joyed actually, but another feels shaky. This small bit in my heart prayed that I could go home and wait for my brother to come back.

But he’s never coming back.

My submission for challenge 4. Roleplayed with @gracebella-sinclair Warning: Swearing and mentions of suicide, rape, and death.

He’s dead.

That’s it. It’s over. He’s dead. Ohhh shit.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Of course, God hasn’t cursed my life enough already, so now my brother is taken from me. What a big fucking joke. Absolutely hilarious.

I’ve never been a crier. Ever since I was a little girl it was always a silent, passive. Mother said crying was for the unwise, for the weak, and I believed her. My mother was my idol. I did everything exactly the way she wanted me to. Maybe this is the price I pay for not obeying her.

My maids are gone when I reach my room, and I’m glad for it. My throat is already tight to the point where I can barely speak, every breath making it harder to breathe. I’m barely in my bathroom before sobs tear through me.

God no. Everything I’ve lived for… He’s gone. What’s the point anymore?

I gasp through my tears and hit my palm on the mirror with all my might. It shatters beneath my touch and sends glass shards inside my hand. I clutch it to my chest and slump down to the floor. Blood trickles down my arm, staining my dress a dark crimson.

I wish I were dead. I wish I had died that day 4 years ago when none of this would matter. I wish I never had come here. I wish I’d killed myself so I didn’t have to go through this.

I had tried to once, twice actually. The first time was thought out and planned. I had made sure no one was home, that Nick wouldn’t hear until it was all over. I had planned to take all my mother’s pills, to die quickly and painlessly. It was supposed to be pretty, that way my body would look perfect in the casket.

I hadn’t done it, though. I was selfish. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The second time was a different story. It was on a whim. I was upset, I was hurt. I wanted to die because I knew I deserved it. I had used a kitchen knife. Everyone was home. Nick knew something was off and saved me.

We never did wash my blood out of his clothes.

I had scars on my wrist, deep and unforgiving. They’re gone now, removed through surgery and cosmetics until I was perfect again in every way. And though the scars may be gone, I’ll never forget the scars inside me.

There are still glass shards in my hand when I get the news: eliminations. I had told Gracey I felt sick, so a maid comes running to me with the news.

“You made it,” she says breathlessly, busting through the door. I sit on my bed, clutching my hand aimlessly.

“Good.”

She stares at me, as if expecting me to jump up and down for joy, but soon turns away. A moment later, Gracey appears in my doorway.

“Hi sicky, I’m here to inform you of our next challenge.” Of course she would be. Winter would be going at it with Cody right about now.

My eyes stare at nothing in particular. I’m just blank, empty. I don’t seem to care anymore. “Nick is dead.”

“Oh… I’m sorry,” she mumbles. I don’t expect her to know what to say. There’s nothing you really can say when a person loses someone, nothing that really matters.

“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.” It’s an obvious decision. Nick was the only good thing in my life. I had to be there.

“Yanely, you need to push through this, going home won’t do anything but crush your chances of happiness.”

Tears flood my eyes. “I can’t. I want to go home. I want to be there when his body is buried. I just can’t do this anymore” He was everything to me. He’s always been there, no matter what. He always wanted our family to perfect and loving. I could at least try to give him that.

“How do you know he is dead? He could still be alive.”

No. I can still hear the words they said to me. I know it will never stop. “They said he took a bullet to the chest and they lost him. How am I supposed to take it?”

“I don’t know, after my sister died I thought about quitting, just quitting everything, but it was better to push through with everything, it helps you push through the grieving process to try not to change your daily lifestyle.” Gracey would know what to do. I know I should listen to her, but I can’t.

“I don’t care. I just want to go home and see my family. I want to see my mother.” Not a lie. I do want to see her, but I wish it were under better circumstances.

“Isn’t your mother an asshole though, wouldn’t you rather stay here with your friends?”

“She needs support too. I just want to go back. Ashton doesn’t even like me.” It’s true. I can kind of feel it. I want to stay, but not if I’m not enough.

“If he didn’t like you, you wouldn’t be here, and I like you, are my best friend, please don’t go.”

“What’s here for me? He’s obviously picking Alizé. I can’t take another heartbreak.” I’d be fine if he chose Gracey, but Alizé? No, I… can’t.

“He might not pick her.” A lie. “And I’m here for you. What friends do you have back home? I know most Twos are forced to be friends with dumb socialites and I can’t see you enjoying having to listen to them gossip and chatter while you grieve.”

I think back to Tara and April. It hurts how true it is. “I don’t have any friends there anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”

“So wouldn’t you want to stay here more than, where there are people to support you?”

I bury my face in my hands. “No. Yes! I don’t know okay. I want to be with my family, but I almost feel like my mom would turn me out for leaving.” She would. This is what she’s wanted for me since I was a child. She was torn up that I was born before him, thought she’d miss the deadline and be made a fool, but I hadn’t. A part of me still wonders if she bought my way into this.

I sigh, shaking my head. “I don’t want anything. Please just leave.”

Gracey looks down at my hand and sighs. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” She leaves for a few minutes and come back carrying a small bag. “Give me your hand.” She puts gloves on and pulls out tweezers to start removing the glass from my hand.

“I hate you,” I whisper, trying to ignore the stinging in my hand.

“Thanks, love you too.” She takes the glass out, putting it on a tissue paper from her first aid box, then got a cotton ball and poured some disinfectant on it. She starts to pat it on my cuts.

“I’m not leaving,” I say finally, averting my eyes.

“Good, should we tell your maids that you accidentally threw a book at the mirror of something?” She starts to bandage my hand.

I briefly wonder how she became so good at this, but I shake the thought away. “That might be best. I don’t really want Ashton to know I broke my hand slamming a mirror.”

“Hey, maybe the mirror deserved it.”

I want to laugh, but I can’t seem to force it out. “It kept staring at me, reminding me I’m not good enough.”

But I’m not. I never will be.

“You’ll get used to it, I spent about a year never looking at photographs of my sister, I couldn’t stand looking at the one of us who was truly supposed to be destined for greatness. In time the mirror won’t be as taunting.”

I clutch my knees with my newly-bandaged hand. “I have so much bad luck now. How could any man want me like this?” Alizé thinks Gracey’s unstable, but she seems like one of the most stable people I know. She seems like she’s always had her life straight, but I know better. Still, she handles everything so well.

“I’m sure some will,” she says, “and the mirror smashing doesn’t give too much bad luck. Once I smashed a mirror and got a free cake a couple hours after.”

I laugh. “Because you’re Gracey. You’re sweet and innocent and… I’m not. Nobody besides you and our group likes me. Ashton’s just using me for my ass.” It hurts. God, it hurts, but it’s a raging thought in my mind.

She rubs my shoulder. “Plenty of people like you, you might be a bit more guarded than most, but that doesn’t mean you’re any worse. Once people take the time to know you I’m sure they’d love you, and those who don’t, well, they don’t deserve you anyways. And if you really feel like Ashton’s just using you for your ass talk to him about it.”

I sigh. “I don’t think he’d understand. He’d think I’m telling him he’s a horrible person and shit.” I like Ashton a lot, but he has a tendency to take everything I say the wrong way. “I hate myself for becoming attached.”

And it’s true. This whole time I was preparing for him to show me out within the first month, but every time I talk to him this one, horribly stupid part of me just holds on a bit more.

I don’t leave my room for days. My maids come to check on me, but I send them away along with my friends. I excuse it as wanting to work on my project, but I barely lift a finger to try. I almost wish Ashton would come and just eliminate me so I could go home, but there’s a part of me that wants to be here with him, for him to treat me like I actually am something worthwhile.

If I think about it I can still smell him in these sheets. I can still feel his hands on my skin. It was… it was slow and intimate, something I’ve never felt before, and it makes my skin tingle. It’s what my first time should have been. Maybe if I focus enough I can forget everything they did to me.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make it go away. No one can ever find out about this. I could be thrown in prison, executed even. I could become an Eight. That’s worse than death if I’m perfectly honest.

My head throbs. God, I should eat something, but I don’t think I could keep it down. The last time I ate, I threw it all up within five minutes. To anyone else it’d seem like I was pregnant, but I know better. Despite my mother wanting me to end up with-child, that’s not happening. I may a manipulative bitch most of the time, I can’t force Ashton’s hand with a baby that he could easily reject. I can’t hurt him like that. I can’t hurt myself like that.

I know I’m not pregnant, but I wonder if I’ve caught something. I rarely get sick thanks to the access to medication we have as Twos. Or in my mother’s case, quite the opposite. It wasn’t rare for her to take too many prescriptions and get put on bed-rest for a few days.

I guess in a way Twos are just like all the other castes. We find ways to kill ourselves too.

It saddens me, though, that we get access to enough narcotics to kill ourselves for no fucking reason, but lower castes can’t get enough money to get antibiotics for a common cold. Hell, lower castes barely have enough money for food. I had always wondered how teenagers didn’t end up pregnant every time they had sex. Not long after that I realized one thing: pre-marital sex is illegal. They can’t afford birth control or condoms. I bet most women can’t even afford regular healthcare.

I’m a selfish person. I never realized how much I had, despite how horrible my childhood was. Gracey had spoken of some kind of service project. I had mostly half-listened to what she had said, but I got the general gist of it. Think of a program that I feel is needed to help better Illéa and make a plan to implement it into our country.

Well, it looks like I’ve found my project.

This law is absolutely fucking ridiculous. If an unwed girl is found out not to be pure on her wedding night, then a man can legally divorce her, no matter his status of virginity. In fact, the amount of males thrown in jail to females due to fornication is 1 in 9. This is apparently because they end up pregnant or the police get an “anonymous” tip. And rape? What’s rape? They don’t account for rape. According to federal law, if a woman wants to prosecute for rape she’d have to fess up to not being a virgin and get thrown in jail.

So that means even if I wanted to prosecute for every time they sold my body to grown men as a teenager, I’d have to be thrown in jail beforehand. This is not right. If they would just allow sex, acknowledge rape, and give lower castes access to birth control and condoms, then the amount of women jailed for pregnancy would go down, meaning less money spent and more room for actual criminals in jail.

Most of the girls in this competition want to spend time on a pretty project, but I… I will bring this down as far as it can go.

Writing is hard with my cut hand, but I manage to ignore the pain as I write every piece of information about this law down. I’m lucky I’m good at math, I realize, as I calculate approximately how much each prisoner costs compared to lowering the price of birth control and condoms, and though it’s a tad more money, it is manageable. We’d just have to modify the budget slightly to allow more room for this and less money to fund some of the higher castes’ golf courses.

It’s around midnight when I finally get on the phone with the palace offices. They say they can’t give me information without their supervisor’s consent. I find that pretty ridiculous considering these particular documents are usually open to the public, so I make it very clear who I am. “I’m Yanely Genovious, one of the Elite. I need this paperwork for a project.”

But they just repeat the same thing to me each time: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need to call back during regular office hours which are 9am-5pm. Thanks, hon. Buh-bye now.”

“No, wai—!” Click.

Fuuuuck. I bet they would let Winter have it if she asked. Maybe Gracey. I’m not the people’s favorite—er, anyone’s favorite actually. I’m just the privileged Two that “paid” her way to be here. Oh yeah, I definitely paid a lot.

My mother tries reaching me through letter, but I refuse to answer her. She’s probably heard about Nick’s accident by now, but it’s not like she cares. He was never anything to her. I’m not even sure he’s my real brother. For all I know my mother cheated on my father and I’m illegitimate. Then I’d definitely be an Eight. Sexually impure, a prostitute, illegitimate. If that was true—

No, no one will find out. If this law is repealed, then I’d be safe. And even if I were illegitimate, no one would have to know. We can’t know for sure anyway.

One thing I do know for sure, though, is that I hate my mother. All my life she’s told me to bow down to men, be submissive unless they like it otherwise. She’s sold me, doubted me, and finally when I get the chance to get a way, she wants to control me still. No more. I can’t—I won’t let her do this to me anymore.

I lie down on my bed and let a shallow breath. I need to eat something if I’m going to live to see this project through. I must’ve caught something. It’s either that or I’m so grief-stricken that my body basically shuts down. If I die tomorrow I probably wouldn’t care, if not for this project. I need to see this through for as long as possible. I’ll get food in the morning.

I haven’t seen Ashton in days. I feel slightly upset that he hasn’t checked on me considering I haven’t been to any meals the last two days, but then I realize it’s a total possibility he’s just as sick as me right now. Though I doubt it. He’s probably got doctors 24/7, and I refuse to even let in my maids. Is this how Sevens and Eights feel? Fives and Sixes? Do they suffer for days and hope that it goes away lest it turn into something worse?

Suffering is probably good for me. I need to suffer. It makes me feel real, sane, like I’m not already gone in a lifeless, mind-numbing sleep. But it’s satisfying to have a purpose like this. Though I like Ashton a lot, it’s not quite the same as making a difference. Being with him would just make it so much better.

My head is pounding when I’m woken up by the slight knock at the door. My maids shuffle in like they do every morning, their eyes cast to the floor. “My lady,” the tallest one says, “we’re very concerned for your health.”

I squint at them, trying to make the dots clouding my vision go away. My muscles groan as I try to sit up, but my head spins enough that I’m forced to lie back down. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”

“You haven’t eaten in days, Miss. People are worried. The doctors want to come and see you.”

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m not hungry.”

The shortest one steps forward. “Ma’am, no offense, but you look horrible.”

I smile lightly, though I’m sure I look rather sadistic with my tired eyes and smeared makeup. “I’m okay. I just want to be alone.”

“No, if you don’t eat something you’re going to have to go to the hospital and they will force you to eat something.”

I honestly don’t feel hungry, and I know that if I eat something I’ll just throw it up anyway. “Maybe some crackers,” I say. That seemed to appease them enough, though I’d probably just flush them down the toilet later. They left, leaving me to my own devices.

I force myself up and sigh. I can’t blame them for coming time and time again. It’d probably look bad for them if their lady died on their watch. I have no plans to die, luckily for them. I go into the bathroom, stepping subconsciously over the glass over the floor. There’s still blood on the mirror and sink from my hand, but I don’t pay any mind to it.

I feel absolutely horrible. My body aches, I can barely stand, but I need a fucking bath or I am going to scream. I fill the tub and slip into the water. It takes me a second to realize I’m fully clothed, but I can’t find the will to care. I’m practically delirious. Any second now I’ll see the Ghost of Christmas Past.

My maids return within minutes carrying a tray of crackers and cheese. They stare at me strangely as I lie in the bath fully-clothed. “Ma’am?” the small one asks. “Are you alright?”

I don’t answer. Either that or I don’t hear her. I’m not exactly sure.

She gasps as she enters the bathroom, finally seeing the mirror. “What happened? You need a doctor! You should go to the hospital!” She sets a hand on my forehead. “God, you’re burning up! Enid, go get the doctor!”

“Don’t need doctor,” I mumble.

Her arms wrap around my shoulders and with the help of the other maid, slides me into the floor. “Miss, your skin is burning up, you’re dehydrated, you haven’t eaten anything in days, and now I find a broken mirror in your bathroom? No, you don’t get to have a say in this.”

I admire her for standing up to me. She had always been quieter than the rest, but she was quick and could catch any mistakes. “If I ate I’d throw it all up,” I mumble, though I’m not sure why. “I need to work on my project.”

She smiled and pats my hair. “You can when this is done.”

“To prove… my point, there are… thousands o-of women imprisoned for not being a… virgin while their pa—partners get to… oh, Goddamnit, I can’t do this.” I lean back and close my eyes. The hospital doesn’t do me much good. I still feel horrible, but at least now I can actually feel my body.

“You’ll get it, Miss,” my maid says, the one that cared for me yesterday. “You just need to rest. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She’s right. The doctors said I caught the flu and I won’t get better for at least a week. I can’t present like this, but I refuse to be eliminated. “No, I have to. I need to do this presentation. You still have five days. You’ll be fine.”

“I have to get this done. Please. Just let me go back to my room.” I can barely keep my eyes open, though. It’s an outlandish request, even for me.

She shakes her head. “No. You refuse to eat and drink, and if you die under my watch the royals will not be happy.”

“It’d be better for everyone if I just—”

She slaps my hand. “No, don’t say that. I see you, Miss. We’re all glad you’re here. You send us away, so we get paid for doing nothing except playing chess and fiddling our thumbs. You don’t tell yell at us or make us run to get you things. You may be slightly unapproachable, but you are a good person and I would be honored for you to be our queen.”

My insides churn in what feels like either happiness or vomit. Probably both. “He doesn’t even like me.”

She brushes a hand across my cheek. “Don’t say that. I see the way you look at him. Maybe he doesn’t see you that way, but maybe he does. If you die and he shared your feelings you’d be throwing away his happiness, as well as yours.”

I clench my jaw. “Get my notebook.”

My head spins as I get dressed while my maid, whose name I finally learned as Amelia, sat a bottle of pills onto the desk in front of us.

“These are your antibiotics. Take them before you go. I also have a fever reducer if you need it.”

“I feel awful,” I groan, sliding on a black blazer.

She pats my back. “Just don’t throw up on the queen and you’ll be fine.”

“What if I do, though? God, I’m glad this isn’t televised.”

“You’ll be fine, Miss. Now go out there and win.” She slaps my back, and I smile, walking out of the room, all my supplies in hand.

I’m so early, I realize. I could go back and sleep for an hour and still come back with time to spare. My muscles are still aching, and I immediately regret my choice of heels.

I lean against the wall, heaving a breath. I’m already sweating, from nervousness or sickness I’m not sure. I fight the urge to throw up. Despite the medication I took, my head still pounds.

I’m about to turn back to my room when I hear a high-pitched voice. “What are you planning on doing for your next challenge?” A blonde woman with black glasses and red lipstick shoves a tape recorder into my face.

Goddamnit I was so close. I could turn and leave now, but what would that get me? I heard stories about this girl, about how she attacked their projects, but I had nearly successfully avoided her by being locked into my room. I have a while until my presentation. I can do this.

“Oh, um, I’ve decided to do a Women’s Health and Sexual Liberation Initiative.” I curse myself for not speaking well, but there’s only so much I can do to avoid slowly dying in a palace hallway.

She scrunches her nose. “Isn’t that kind of a flawed plan, since you know having sex outside of marriage is illegal, but anyways, can you go into more detail of how you’d like to go about this?”

I internally smirk. I’ve prepared for this. “Yes, it is flawed, but that’s part of the reason. I don’t think sex before marriage should be illegal. The whole reason it was put in place was to keep children from being born to those of different castes out of wedlock, but I think with some education and the poor being better equipped with birth control or condoms, then the law shouldn’t be needed anymore.” I think through my answer. Yeah, that should be good.

“How would they be handing out the forms of birth control to the poor?”

“Usually it’s only taken by the higher castes, to people who can afford it, but with a little budgeting it’s totally possible to help it become available. We would of course need to add sexual health back into school because a lot of necessities that kids need to know aren’t there, such as safe sex, protection from STDs, or even what rape is. Kids have to learn it from their parents, who could give misinformation or not even talk about it at all.”

Her eyes are narrowed, testing me for all I have. “Some parents may not believe that it is right for their kids to learn that stuff at school, aren’t you worried that the people would revolt.”

I want to roll my eyes. “Over a little education? Sure, it may cause some discomfort among parents, but it’s something the kids need to learn. I remember when I first got the talk. I was 13 and very lucky I had a mother willing to talk to me, but a lot of others don’t have the luxury. Some parents would feel better if their kids knew the mechanics and consequences of having sex. A better education and resources to birth control and condoms could even help prevent a lot of pre-marital pregnancies.” Yes, I was very lucky to have my mother.

“Some parents will be very upset, even if you say it’s just a little education, the parents see their education as a strong influence of what is raising their children, and if their children aren’t being raised how they like they could easily start a protest.” She purses her lips, and then a vile smirk masked by a curious glint in her eye. “Have you had sex out of wedlock, if you yourself haven’t broken the law how can you say it’s okay?”

Ohhh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What do I do? Do I lie? Do it reveal everything? I let out an internal deep breath. No, don’t lie. Come clean. It’ll be fine.

“A lot of Twos and Threes and some Fours go to private school, and private schools can teach what they prefer to, but those castes have access to a lot more supplies (condoms, birth control, etc.) The lower castes definitely don’t have a lot of the right information or supplies, which is why the pregnancy and STD rate is so much higher. In the end, it may be the parent’s decision, but just offering the information could lead to a whole lot of difference.”

I take a breath. “And if you must know, yes, I have. I am not ashamed of it, and I never will be.”

Her face is blank, calculating. “You claimed in a past interview that you weren’t going to say if you had sex with Prince Ashton. Has your stance on not claiming that changed if you aren’t ashamed of sex?” she asks, completely ignoring my previous statement.

I want to scoff. “I’m not ashamed of the sex at all. Even if I had slept with him, it would be one of those things that should have both parties consenting on giving out the information. That’s why I won’t be giving out the names of my former sexual partners.” Mostly because I don’t know who half of them are.

Her eyebrows raise. “Partners? Plural?”

I roll my eyes, for real this time. “Yes, plural. I have been with multiple men, and Prince Ashton is aware of this.” Well, some of it.

“What about women?”

Well, that’s a strange question. “Women? I don’t swing that way, but I respect those who do.”

I can tell the reporter is getting fed up. “Have you ever smoked weed? Killed a man? I mean if you’re fine with breaking the law of wedlock where does it stop?”

Jesus Christ, this woman. “Having sex isn’t and shouldn’t be the same as killing, so long you have consent and the proper supplies. And no, I’ve done neither.”

“Aren’t you worried that once you get eliminated, or if you make Prince Ashton mad, he’ll have you arrested for sex outside of wedlock?”

“It’s always a risk,” I say, “but Prince Ashton isn’t spiteful. I highly doubt he would because he’s told me himself he’s agreed with me on a lot of these sexual issues.”

She sneers. “What if he’s lying because he wants to have sex with you the toss you out?”

Wow. Okay. “He wouldn’t. The Prince may be a lot of things, but he wouldn’t do that to me. I trust him.” It’s stupid of me, but I do.

“You seem like a very credulous person then.”

The nerve on this woman. I have the sudden urge to slap her. Swallowing, I clutch my notebook. “Maybe so, but he could possibly be my husband. I want him to know these things beforehand.”

“You can know someone, Lady Yanely, without trusting them.” Doesn’t this woman know where to stop? Good God.

“I appreciate your opinion, but I know what I’m doing.” I straighten myself and send her a side-eye. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend to.” I leave, not waiting on her response.

I wait.

People go by. Some guests stroll, smiling lightheartedly at each other. Maids bustle down the hallway, attending their own duties. But the air is tense around me. My stomach is tied in knots, no matter how much medicine I take. Winter and Gracebella join me, but we don’t speak.

After a while, I sit in the bathroom with my head between my knees, willing myself not to throw up. Finally, Gracey runs in. “You’re up.”

I glance in the mirror once before heading toward the doorway. There stands the wooden doors that hold what could very well be the most important moment of my life.