I am the face of the rejected pile, to be honest, judging from the fact that I was the first one in the pile.

That and I'm the tallest, so I stand out pretty easily amongst the crowd of heart-broken brides who'll never get to meet their soul mates.

"Hey," I tell myself. "At least you know why you won't."

The other girls aren't so lucky. They might never know.

A while later, Arnold Wallace walks into the room, changed from his alll-white suit to a different blue suit. From casual to business, I think jokingly.

His eyes sweep the hall as mothers rush to him, his gaze settling on me with a quizzical stare.

"Take the girls to the basement parking. Tell them not to carry their belongings. They're not going to need them where they're headed," he says.

His warm persona has changed as well to something more dark and off-putting. It sends shivers through the room.

He turns on his heel, as his guards protect him from the crowd, and begins to walk away.

"Mr Wallace, please," my mother begs. "We just want to know what's going to happen to our daughters."

He turns to her, a smug look plastered on his deceitful face.

"Why my wonderful mothers! We applaud you all for all your hard work and dedication in raising these wonderful girls but rules are rules," he states, quoting the third redundant rule that makes my blood boil.

"No girl over the age of sixteen can remain unpaired to their soulmates and if, in the event that their pairing is revoked, they are to be handed over to the care of the government to take on a far more dignified role than that of a life bearer."

It pains me to think that all we're born to do as the women of this world, is to open our legs to the men who'll go to college and pursue their wildest dreams -should they choose to- while we are granted two options.

Our duty to our husbands or our duty to our government.

We have no choice now that we have been deemed invalid to the marriage and conception institution. We are under the mercy of the government for purposes beyond our knowledge.

"But what will they do? All they know is sewing, cooking, and keeping a house. That's all they've been taught," she wails, tears streaming down her wrinkled face.

Tears prickle at the surface of my eyes. I want to rush over and console her but I know my mother. She prefers logic over emotional support even when she definitely is in need of it.

And looking at her now, I can tell that with her hopes and aspirations for us all fading away, she probably needs a lot of that.

"That's not entirely true Mrs Watson. If I do recall correctly, your daughter speaks three languages. I'm sure the army intelligence will find her useful in our fight against The Caecum who have been terrorizing our people for decades, as will all your daughters when they begin a new chapter of their lives serving in the northern army camp."

"As a soldier? My baby cannot and will not become a soldier. You don't know her as I do. She has a fickle heart!" she yells out as Arnold walks away.

"They'll learn!" he shouts, waving his hand to a dismissive tone. 

"They'll die," another mother yells.

Arnold stops at the declaration of such an inevitable outcome and turns, facing us one last time.

"For the kingdom? What an honor."

When the security guards begin the mothers from their daughters, my mother rushes to me, her arms wrapping themselves around me in a warm embrace for the first time in years. She embraces me for a split second before pulling away, her cheeks wet with tears.

"Where's your suitcase?" she asks, gathering her emotions.

I pull it out from underneath a table and she crouches beside it, pulling out a small locket from a hidden compartment.

"Wear this, Lara. Behind my photo is an unregulated phone number to an unregistered burner phone that I bought fifteen years ago, just in case. You can call me whenever you want and let me know if anything's wrong," she whispers, handing it over to me.

"Behind dad's is the number of a person that you should call only if you have absolutely no one else to turn to," she adds, a tear falling down her cheeks. I reach out for it and wipe it off, not realizing that I'm crying as well.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask. "Did you know that this would happen?"

She nods. "I'm always preparing for the worst. Always. And I promise I'm going to find a way to get you out of there. You just hold on, Lara. Just hold on."

"I don't think I've got what it takes to be what they want me to be, mom," I sob. "I'm not like you. I'm not strong enough."

"No!" She hisses, slapping me softly. I snap out of my emotions, staring at her in disbelief.

"You are a Watson. We raise you. The only way we live is by being strong enough to survive. So promise me that you'll hold on long enough for me to get you out," she says, her grip on my shoulders tightening.

"I promise," I squeak, my voice hoarse with emotion.

A guard steps into our conversation, pulling my mother away from me. I yell at him, pushing him away so we can have our last embrace.

Then my mother pulls away, grabbing my suitcase and walks away with one last glance. I look around me as the guards pushes me towards the crowd of sobbing brides, my eyes still focused on my mom who exits the hall with the other mothers.

But unlike them, she doesn't look back and something about that toughens me up for whatever's going to happen to me. Deep down I know she'll stick true to her words and find a way out for me.

She always has.

I stick the locket into a secret pocket that I'd begged her to sew in and take a deep breath, my ears tuned into the guard's conversation.

They instruct us towards the basement where three buses are parked where we are split into three groups referenced from our bio-data. I quickly find myself a seat by the window at the back of the bus. 

A red-headed girl joins me, her eyes swollen from crying. The bus drivers take another half hour to arrive and then we're off.

When the bus exits the building, we are met by loud protests from our parents. My father yells out to me when he sees me and a smile sneaks up my quivering lip.

He always finds me.

He rushes over to the window and I open it to get better access to him.

He runs faster than I'd ever seen him run, clutching something in his hands. It must be important. I think and pull myself out of the window, holding onto the chair before me for support.

Our hands touch twice but on the third try, just as the bus driver steps on the gas, my dad hands it out to me successfully, his jubilant smile, enough to calm my breaking heart.

At least I know deep down he won't be eating himself up for not being able to give me whatever message lies hidden inside the paper. I settle down on the window seat, my head still sticking out of the window, and watch on as my mother, father and little brother wave on.

Tears pouring down their forced, stiff smiles.

A/N
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