Free Dirt (The Dirt Trilogy) by K. F. Ridley Page A

into
another picture: a picture of burned ashes, destruction, rubble; a
picture of darkness, destruction, and disdain. I think I’m losing my
mind.
I look closer at the picture of the family portrait. Dad is
standing by me holding a picture of my mother, the original. As my
gaze ponders the oils begin to mix spontaneously on the canvas and
I see my father sitting on the side of a bed in an unfamiliar room
with his fist under his chin. His brow is wrinkled in worry.
“Get a move on, Secret.” I receive a firm push from one of my
escorts forcing my back to spasm.
He tosses me into my cage, behind the bars of confinement.
Without a trial, I’m guilty of living. An infraction I didn’t choose.
My entire body tingles. Something is terribly wrong with me.
Along with my physical detriment, every inch of my heart is a
shallow vacant glass.
I have to figure a way out of this prison. I sit for a while
contemplating my dilemma. How can I escape? I don’t even know
where I am? “Caverns.” Apparently I’m at the bottom of a hollow.
My fingers and toes sting with periods of numbness, but fear helps
to cover the physical pain.
As a little girl, I was sometimes scared to go to sleep. I would
lie in bed and imagine holding my mother’s hand as I floated into
dreams. She helped me to go to sleep without fear. I needed her
more than ever. But she’s not here. She’s never going to be here.
My mind continues to race until I lose the battle. Darkness fills
my eyes and sleep takes over.
    Awakening from a deep stupor, I still smell my disgust like the
pet of a cruel, neglectful family. I hear chatter coming down the
stairwell. “Okay, later,”
a
husky
feminine voice
responds
to
someone. A woman covered in black brings dry bread and putrid
water.
    “
Here, Secret. Eat up.” Her slick blond hair is pulled tightly in
a bun, raising her eyebrows as if she’s had a botched face lift. She
hands me a cup made of mirrored glass providing me a view of my
worn reflection; a reminder of my predicament. I look horrible and
I need to go to the restroom. Maybe the female guard will be more
agreeable.
    “
Hey, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Shut it up. You’re not coming out of there,” she barks. I don’t
know why I thought she might be more understanding. After all,
she is one of them.
She sits outside my cell. I guess she’s supposed to watch me,
making sure I eat something.
“There has to be a bathroom in this God-forsaken place.”
“All right, all right. But no funny business. There’s only three
more days till … well, just don’t try anything.”
Three more days. I must have slept through the last few days
again. The way things are going, I’ll be dead tomorrow.
The gangly woman unlocks the door and grabs me by the arm.
Even with her small frame, she has the same strength as the male
guards. She jerks me out and we ascend upstairs.
I take a quick glance at my paintings from Bran’s class. As the
original work of my family dissolves, another oil illustration comes
forth, morphing quickly as colors merge to form an image of me
walking up the staircase. Then it dissolves back into the boring
image of my previous existence. I stare briefly at the picture of my
home, a pile of ashes emerge and then briskly disappear back to the
original state of mediocre artwork. As we walk up five flights of
stairs I realize the paintings were Bran’s way of watching me. He
had me paint those pictures in order to keep track of me. That was
his role in my capture. The paintings are Straif’s security cameras.
My
pace
slows,
preoccupied in thought as we
pass the
paintings. “Move it.”
The
female
guard
starts
down a
long
passageway. Almost every inch of wall up to the height of the
towering ceilings are covered in art. These pieces, however, don’t
hold any secrets I can uncover. They hold only beauty.
She walks through a large wooden door.“Come on.” I hesitate
into the bathroom as she stands there watching me.
“I