The survivors were three misfits whose misfortune it was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The day they kidnapped us was the day our childhood shattered into shards of broken dreams. No stuffed dolls. No make-believe tea parties. We were alone in a world of darkness. The only light we found was the solace we had in each other. We became more like machines than humans, each movement we made was precise. We could make no mistakes. Our toys were guns, and the only love we received came from cold, unfeeling, steel faced machines. The doctors could steal our souls, our hopes, our emotions, and even our lives. They could never steal what we dreamt at night, good or bad. Those dreams, even the nightmares, were our anchors to sanity. The only sacred, cherished thing we were allowed.
We became codependent of each other. In each other we discovered hope that had been crushed for us so many years before. We were our sisters, our mothers, and our friends.
First there were fifty. I cried when the first ones died, then nevermore. They were weak. Is it a crime to be human? They died in our arms, the stench of their vomit soaking into our skins to the point where it overcame our souls. Our souls died with them that day. I still smell the scent when I'm alone. It's something you never wash off or get rid of, no matter how hard you try.