XY Revolution

When I arrive at school, the first thing we’re told is to change into tiny white fabric shorts and a baggy t-shirt, with no bra on underneath of course. When our names are called on the roll, we then have to march up the road to the boys’ college field where the pre-auctions will be held.

Men dressed head to toe in black, with bullet-proof vests and their guns which are probably heavier than I am, line the way. Their eyes behind their dark sunglasses are on us – focussed, alert and ready. They’re also roaming. The youngest girls here are only twelve, and it makes my stomach turn thinking that these grown men could just lead one of them off, rape them and not be punished for it. Who’s the girl going to tell? Who will believe her while we’re here?

“Oy! You! Bitch!” I glare at the man shouting at me but dare not say anything. Not yet. “Take those glasses off.”

“I won’t be able to see, sir,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Well, good job you’re not the one doing the seeing today. Take them off.”

I obey and continue walking. We’re marching two aside. Left foot. Right foot. Left, right, left. There’s a registration table at the foot of the driveway up to the boys’ school. They have all our codes on a list to be checked off. Just entering that code into the system will bring up everything there is to know about Freya Belmont: my full name, age, where I live, who my parents are and what they do for a living, any offenses I may have, and if I have siblings.

Tyler says they may as well just stick a tracking device up our asses and be done with it. Dad tells him not to give the authorities any ideas.

The butt of a gun pushes me up to the table, and I turn to scowl at the perpetrator. He just grins back at me with yellowing teeth.

“ID number?” I’m asked.

“7298863, sir,” I tell the man behind the table.

“Freya Belmont?”

“Yes, sir.”

Something then stabs my arm and I hiss. The girl beside me starts to cry. We’ve both been inked; our ID numbers have been instantly tattooed onto our upper arms.

“Belmont, section three.”

I grit my teeth and start walking up towards the glaring red three. The girl I was in line with goes towards the one. She’s twelve years old then.

I notice several of my classmates in my section, but that doesn’t mean much. Classes are kind of a joke now; there are fifty girls to a room, and they don’t care how old we are once we hit eleven. If you’re over ten, you are now fit to learn how to be a proper wife. Prior to that, you learn basic reading and maths. Oh and how to diet.

“How long till the boys arrive?” I whisper to a girl I recognise.

“Ten minutes, I think,” she replies in a hushed tone.

We both eye the closest guard, who’s watching us with an eyebrow raised. We both take a side-step away from each other and stay quiet. The only time females are allowed to gather in groups larger than three is in school, brothels, and auctions. Talking is not really expected during these times due to the circumstances. Here, it’s just as dangerous to try and get information out of someone, regardless of its importance. You learn to avoid trouble where you can. I watched my teacher last year, cut out a girl’s tongue because she asked how long till the end of the day when he was talking.

“Listen up!” a councillor is standing on the make-shift stage, microphone crackling. “You will wait in your sections. When your section is called, you will be sent up in groups of five for inspection. This order is based on the first letters of your last name. I suggest you get into line now. There will be consequences if there are any…mistakes,” the corners of his mouth lift up at this, his eyes filled with sadistic excitement. Yes, this is one of the men who run our great city.

We understand the threat very clearly; it’s what we understand best now. We quickly organise ourselves using quiet voices, speaking only our last names.

That’s when the boys start to arrive. But they don’t walk in straight, orderly lines like we do. They aren’t chaperoned by armed, trained soldiers. They’re loud, they goof around with each other, and they have big smiles on their faces. They also get to sit in the seats in front of the stage.

We’re waiting in pens.

“Welcome, boys!” the councillor says, face lit up like the proudest father there ever was.

They just look like a bunch of lazy, self-absorbed, ignorant, well-fed and excited little piglets. I hate them all. Including the blue-eyed boy I’ve just caught staring at me before he takes his seat.



They start with the young ones. They lead them up onto the stage and read out their names. Occasionally, one of the boys will raise a paddle, but the younger girls aren’t the ones in absolute demand. Their turn will come again in two years.

It’s my age where things change, and we watch the first lot lose their shirts. The boys catcall and whistle and make jokes. The girls are all trembling, fighting the urge to cover themselves. No one wants their hands tied behind their back, accentuating what they’d rather not in front of the hundreds of gawking men.

More paddles go up; more are desperate to keep their females here, at home.

One girl throws up on stage. The laughs last for a good five minutes. The councillor just looks at her with a sneer, knowing that unless he says something, she’ll have to stand there, covered in her own vomit. My fists clench, and I imagine driving my skinning knife through his skull.

Welcome to my hit-list.

Before I know it, another gun is at my back, urging me forward, to start the walk up to the stage. My heart is suddenly in my throat, my breathing uneven. The only thing I can see without my glasses is the councillor’s stupid face I want to stab repeatedly. I stumble a little and hear boys laughing.

Calm down, Freya. You’ve got a plan.

“Shirts, ladies.”

I take a deep breath in, and then pull mine over my head.

You could hear a pin drop in the grass as they’re reading what’s been written on my chest.

FUCK YOU in big, red letters.

It’s the first time I feel the barrel of a gun against my head.