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We had to act swiftly.
The consistent cycles of Uhah’s health and memory were a double-edged sword.
If we didn’t tread carefully, the key to our freedom might be lost forever in the labyrinth of his mind.
Ending my day with renewed determination, one thought echoed in my mind:
We need to act fast, or the secret door will remain a secret, and me and Grace will never escape.
8
GRACE
The hum of the machines resonated around me, juxtaposed with the odor of industrial-grade detergent and the faint odor of unwashed clothes.
There was a slight dampness in the air, making it feel heavier as I moved through the Prize Pool’s laundry room.
“Grace,” Beva, another Prize, sighed exasperatedly, her slender fingers pointing at the huge pile awaiting us. “Look at all this! It’s endless.”
Rubbing my temples to fend off the mounting stress, I mumbled:
“We’ll get through it. We always do.”
I could feel the coarse texture of the laundry bags as I began sorting the clothes, categorizing them by color and material.
It wasn’t just the sorting that bothered me; it was the state of the garments.
Many of the negligees, once silky and soft, now lay torn and frayed.
A pink one, which reminded me of something I might have worn back on Earth, was now tainted with splotches of a deep red — unmistakably blood.
I tried not to think about the events that led to such stains, focusing instead on the cleaning.
Other pieces were marked with strange, alien-looking substances — thick and gooey residues of uncertain origin.
The vibrant colors of these garments were overshadowed by the stains, and I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose at the unfamiliar, and sometimes foul, odors emanating from them.
Trying to shake off my revulsion, I reminded myself of the task at hand.
“I don’t even want to know where half of these stains come from,” I remarked, trying to lighten the mood.
Beva chuckled, a sound that was melodious yet tinged with the same weariness I felt. “Some mysteries are better left unsolved, dear.”
The clinking of the buttons against the washing drum was a steady rhythm, providing a backdrop to our work.
It was therapeutic in a way, lulling me into a state of automation as I methodically went about my task.
Occasionally, the clang of the laundry door would echo, signaling another Prize dropping off their load.
Time seemed to blur, with only the changing levels of laundry piles as an indication of its passage.
A sudden thought struck me, and I quickly glanced at the wall-mounted clock.
My heart raced.
It was already 2 pm.
“Beva,” I whispered urgently, “I need to finish this quickly. I have someone… something important waiting.”
