Flawed / Perfect

Two brands. And he continues to gasps.

“For your collusion with the Flawed, for walking alongside them and for stepping away from society, the sole of your right foot. Every time you connect with the earth, even it will know that you are Flawed to the very root of you.”

As he continues with a fourth Flaw, the audience protests again. Three brandings so far and continuing, it is unheard of. Only one person has ever received three brandings in the history of the Guild.

“For your disloyalty to the Guild and all of society, your chest, so that if anyone should wish to trust or love you in the future, they will see the mark of your unyielding disloyalty over your heart.

“And, finally, for the very fact that you lied to this court about your actions, your tongue, so that anyone you speak to or kiss will know that your words fall from a branded tongue and cannot be trusted for the rest of your life.”

Explosion in the courtroom. People are cheering, celebrating the justice that has been done, the scum that has once again been recognised in society. Others are shouting with anger at the judges for a great injustice. Even more than before, now that they have heard the ruling. I have gained supporters, but not many, and what use is that to me now? It is too late. Naming Day has come, and I have faced my worst fear: brandings, and not just one but five. It is unheard of.

My legs are shaking so much they buckle beneath me, and Mr Berry makes a weak attempt to catch one arm, but his heart isn’t in it. Tina rushes to my side immediately and catches me. June takes my other arm, and I’m taken out through the hysterical public in the courtroom, out the main door, and across the courtyard, where I am shouted and spat at. Objects are pelted at me, extra security hold the crowds back as they pulsate at me, more journalists than any other day hold cameras in my face, and I can barely see past the flashbulbs. I briefly see a large screen on the wall of Highland Castle and realise that my case has been aired for the public to see outside, and a huge crowd gathers beyond the barricade, many sitting on deck chairs.

I arrive back at the holding cell, covered in whatever filth people have spat and thrown at me, my ears ringing from the name-calling, my eyes still seeing the camera flashes. I try to adjust to the new light but find it hard. I trip and stumble, but Tina keeps me up. I’m aware of Tina’s and June’s worried glances at each other. They sit with me; they’re as jittery as I am.

I notice they’re covered in the same stuff I am.

“Sorry,” I say to both of them.

June looks surprised by my apology.

“We’re used to it,” Tina says, brushing off some egg yolk. “Just not this much. Look, this is new to all of us. How about tea for everyone?”

June nods and goes to the guards’ kitchen.

“I’ll get you some fresh clothes.” Tina leaves me. “I have to advise you to read the folder over there.”

The Flawed file, which prepares me for my new future.

As soon as she leaves, Carrick arrives back, accompanied by Funar, racing in at top speed, as though he can’t get back fast enough. He looks at me with concern. Big black eyes, worried, lost. He enters his cell and goes straight to the wall that divides us. I remember the first day, when he turned his back on me. This time he places his left hand up to the glass.

I don’t know what he’s doing, but when he doesn’t remove it, it suddenly makes sense. I join him at the window and raise my right hand up to the cool glass, pressing it flat against his. My hand looks like a doll’s hand next to his, and I realise that the glass that I felt separated us is the only thing that connects us. I rest my forehead on the glass, and his hand goes to my face, then away again as it hits the glass.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but I start to cry. We never speak.

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The “fresh clothes” that Tina returns with turn out to be nothing more than a blood-red smock, like a hospital robe, tied at the back and a V-neck in the front to make room for my chest brand. It is what I’m to wear in the Branding Chamber. I recognise it from the Flawed man Carrick and I were forced to listen to as he screamed while his skin was seared.

Carrick’s jaw works overtime as he watches me take the gown, his black eyes deep pools of oil. He doesn’t ignore me any more. There are no more smart faces and sarcastic looks. I have his full attention now, his full respect. I can barely escape his looks. When I return from the changing area, I see that his cell has been utterly trashed and that he is being held down on the ground by Bark. He has not reacted well to my ruling. Perhaps this makes him more unsettled about his own. We don’t get to say goodbye. I can’t even see his face. It is beneath Bark’s knee, cheek pushed to the ground, his face facing away from me. Our contact is to remain for ever without words, not that we ever needed them anyway. I have no doubt that he will find himself wearing a similar smock and taking the same steps as I am doing now.

Before entering the Branding Chamber, I sit in a small holding room with Tina and June. They go through pamphlets of information with me about what is going to happen, what I will see, what I will feel, which is apparently nothing, since they numb my skin, and how to treat my wounds afterwards. They hand me so many leaflets for aftercare services, therapy sessions, emergency hotlines, all branded with the Flawed branding. I sign some paperwork – quick, short agreements accepting all responsibility for what is about to occur – agreeing the Guild will not be held accountable if any of the brandings go wrong or if ill effects result down the line. It is discussed clinically, calmly, as though I’m going for a nose job.

As I step out of the holding room and into the long, narrow corridor that leads to the Branding Chamber, I see Carrick sitting outside on the bench where we sat together, guarded by Funar. Funar has a sneer on his face, and I can tell he is happy about both my situation and the fact that Carrick will be forced to listen. Carrick will hear me scream. My family will hear me scream. I will scream.

No. I will not let that happen. I will not allow them to do that to me. I will not scream.

Feeling defiant, I believe this is the first time I have ever truly felt it. The first time on the bus was compassion, on the stand in court my admission was out of guilt and not bravery, but now I feel anger and I am defiant.

Our eyes meet. His are strong, and I feel the effect of his stare.

“I’ll find you,” he says suddenly, his voice deep and strong, and I’m surprised to hear him speak.

I nod my thanks because I don’t trust myself to say anything. He fills me with the strength I need to enter the room without freaking out, mostly because I don’t want to lose it in front of him. My parents and Granddad are already seated behind the glass, as though they’re at the cinema waiting for the reel to begin, but their faces display the terror I feel. They do not want to view what they are about to see, but they are here so I don’t go through it alone. On seeing them, I think I would rather be alone, an unfamiliar feeling for me, who only ever wants to be surrounded by family. The excommunication from society is taking effect already within me, feeling detached from my family already, a stranger who can only go it alone.

Mr Berry is here, too, which makes me uncomfortable, though I’m sure he must be here for legal reasons, and past the open door, around the corner, I know is Carrick. That gives me strength.

Tina places me in the chair. It is like a dentist’s chair, nothing unusual apart from the fact that my body is bound to it – at my ankles, wrists, head and waist – so I can’t kick and flail as I’m seared. They want to get a clear symbol on my flesh for all time, the irony of a perfect Flawed symbol not lost on me. Tina is tender as she buckles the straps. I even sense a halt in sarcasm from June. Now is not the time for that. I’m getting what I deserve, the punishment speaking for them all.

Bark is busy with the equipment, doing whatever he needs to do.

The motorised chair reclines. I wince against the brightness of the ceiling lights. My skin feels hot as they shine on me, in the spotlight and centre stage for all to see. This is it.

“It’s better not to look,” Tina whispers into my ear as she fastens the strap across my forehead. I cannot look now anyway; I can’t move.

They inject my right hand first with the anaesthetic. It immediately numbs. Bark picks up the hot poker, and I see it, with its cast-iron F surrounded by a circle at the tip. My hand is flattened out and my fingers are strapped down, too, my hand forced open so that my palm is ready. It is done simply and quickly. No modern equipment, just a cast-iron poker and a count to three by Bark.

“One, two …” Sear.

I jump, but I can’t feel the pain. A sensation at most. And the smell of burning flesh, which makes me nauseated. I don’t scream. I won’t scream.

“There’s a bucket here if you need it,” Tina says, by my side instantly like a midwife.

I shake my head. I can hear the internal whimpering inside, see the burn on my open hand. The raw wound in my smooth skin. Four more times. It is the tongue I fear the most. I know they will leave this until last, they have told me that already, because it must be the worst.

The skin on my right sole is injected with anaesthetic, and I lose all feeling instantly.

Bark moves towards my foot. He looks at my ankle and frowns, seeing my anklet.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“Bark,” Tina snaps. “I let her keep it on. Keep moving.”

“No … I … I just … it’s just that I made it. For a young man. For his girlfriend. He said she was perfect …” He looks at me, realising.

I recall Art’s telling me when he gave me the anklet that a man at Highland Castle made it for him. Bark is the man who branded me perfect, and the same man who brands me Flawed. We share a long look.

“Bark,” June says sternly.

Bark is momentarily human as his sad eyes pass over mine, and then he snaps out of it.

“Brace yourself,” Tina says gently, hand supportively on my shoulder.

“One, two …” Sear.

I can see my mum crying into a pile of tissues, her composure completely and utterly cracked, smashed and shattered. My dad is on his feet, pacing. A red-headed guard is near him, keeping a concerned eye on him, ready to step in if Dad crosses the mark. I can’t hear them, but they can hear me. It’s all part of the fear they place on the public. Let them hear my screams. Make a mistake, and you’ll end up like her.

So far I haven’t made a sound, and I won’t.