Saints or Sinners?

Britain and Ireland’s hidden secrets uncovered in a shocking revelation of the country’s sinister past. Were we any more moral that the killers of World War 2? By Hannah Jacklin

In 1945 the last Nazi concentration camp was liberated. The world was recovering from the Second World War and yet with all the fighting for freedom. Against fascism. To stop Hitler’s dictatorship on the home front! We too were imprisoning and abusing our people.  We fostered shame and caused women to hide their children while still in the womb. We hid them away in convents to ‘repent’. Yet it wasn’t until September 25th, 1996 that the last Magdalene laundry was closed in Waterford, Ireland. For many women this signified the closing of a darker, hidden part of their lives – unfortunately, for a few individuals, their past was a subject of shame that they never shared.

Most prevalent in the Republic of Ireland, these Magdalene laundries – named so after the biblical woman of sin, Mary Magdalene - were not uncommon throughout the sixties and seventies. Pregnant women would be sent to these institutions, by law in some cases, but more often by their families. ‘Fallen women’ were shameful for their relatives and consequently concealed behind the doors of the churches.

A false sense of trust was fostered for years in religious figure heads. Now we are realising the extent of the infringements of the church, such as the sexual abuse of young children and the forced servitude. Aside from this, women who had been raised in nun-run orphanages were often put in these laundries to ‘keep them from the danger of sin’; they were ‘too beautiful’.

Similar in sorts to the way the people of Germany trusted Hitler and the Nazi party to lead them out of the economic downturn of the time, these girls and their families trusted the church to clean them of sin. Little did they know the true cost of repentance.

Historians have theorized that the rise in underage, out of marriage pregnancies could have been due to the economic downturn of Ireland in the 1930s, which worryingly is similar in sorts to the current worldwide economic situation. There has been much research into the correlation between people on the poverty line and a rise in pregnancies. Finding in many cases that those in poverty are more likely to engage in unprotected intercourse, resulting in conception. However, this cannot be generalised as some women were abused and raped before ending up impregnated. It was not uncommon to hear of girls that worked in male private schools that got raped by the boys or else developed ‘taboo’ relationships which were never allowed to last, due to class differences. In some lucky cases these girls found men who truly loved them but it many cases they were sexually abused and discarded. Despite the increase in reliable and easily accessed contraceptive methods in Britain, 1 in 100 girls conceived, half of which occurred out of marriage. This may have been because of the lack of sexual health education but, particularly in Ireland. It was the dominance of Catholicism that stopped the government and officials in the country from allowing such thoughts and behaviours.

Films on the subject such as Peter Mullan’s award winning film, ‘The Magdalene Sisters’, as closely accurate as they may be, cannot express the true horrors of the convents and the treatment these women underwent. Publicly condemned by the Vatican and Roman Catholic Church, the film nevertheless highlights yet another blunder by the trusted men and women of the cross and their further denial of such things. Magdalene laundries were run by organisations, such as ‘The Sisters of Charity’ and ‘Good Shepherd Sisters’. Survivors such as Mary-Jo McDonagh have said “the film is soft on the nuns” . 30,000 women are known to have been kept in the corrupt system and locked away in the penal establishments and yet none revealed their sufferings. Though they agree now that they were far more brutal than the film led people to believe. These figures are startling considering the legalisation of abortion with the 1967 Abortion Act.

Being sexually active outside of wedlock was considered a crime against God. Abused victims, and those at risk from any male around them, were sent away to be ‘saved from sin’ and ‘kept for the Lord’. As soon as you arrived, your name was recorded on the ‘Register of Penitents’. Then, much like the ways of the Nazis, it was replaced, and your right to speak to the other inhabitants removed with it. Similar to the trials of law, you were then given the length of your sentence. The length of your pregnancy or your entire life would be stolen away by a Mother Superior but worse than that, your dignity would be stripped from you by the ritualistic shaving of your head to prevent lice and the replacement of clothing and name. In many ways these were a ‘modern day concentration camp’.

Women were forced to work exceedingly hard: scrubbing floors and clothes, making rosaries and clothing right up until the moment their waters broke. They were humiliated and broken by the work, the shaving of their heads, binding of their breasts, vicious beatings, obligatory fasting and silent prayer sessions for an offended God’s forgiveness.  Many women died during arduous childbirths due to haemorrhaging; a significant number of these were refused medical treatment such as stitches and pain killers by the nuns as penance to their sins.

Director Peter Mullan outlined the church’s similarity to the torturers of the world, stating, “In any oppressive regime, you take away people’s ability to think, once you take away their ability to express themselves” and “It is about breaking people down”.  Unfortunately pregnant women were forced to sign a disclosure form whereby they entered willingly into the ‘protection’ of the church. After birthing they were to sign another, relinquishing all rights to the child and promising never to attempt to track them down after adoption.

Irish officials are being forced to look into the past issue by the Justice for Magdalenes (JFM), a group of surviving women who are campaigning for righteousness, compensation and the governmental acknowledgement of the atrocities. The Sinn Féin political party deputy leader, Mary Lou McDonald TD has condemned the acts of the church and state as “deplorable” and is prompting the Minister for Justice and Equality to speak out on the matter. However, despite promises of the McAleese report being published on the subject, it was postponed for a third time but has now been published. McDonald stated at the time that, “Every delay deepens the distress of the surviving women. These women, many of whom are unwell and elderly, have been let down at every turn by the state.”

How a woman could do this to another woman is unimaginable. Generations were trapped in a cruel cycle and it wasn’t unusual to have a daughter work alongside her mother and not know it until the sisters told her that the latter had passed away. Interviewers of these women have often found that many will not talk until death is knocking on their door. Only then is it possible for these women to find the strength to overcome the fear and shame of their ordeals. Some psychologists have implied that their denial is a coping strategy and the only way they can live with themselves and the guilt of leaving their children.

Many of these adoptions were the exportation of the children out of the country to America; this was often done without correct and thorough checks into the suitability of the adoptive parents and the health of the child. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until the Adoption Act of 1952 that stricter laws were introduced by the Irish government and Immigration Bureau to prevent dangerous and underhand transactions occurring, by which point many had. This law and many similar ones have now been replaced by the 2010 Adoption Act which puts strict regulations on adoptions from any Hague country.

Utterly deplorable as that part of our countries’ history may be, it is humbling to think that some went on to marry, have children and live fairly normal lives. Much like survivors of the holocaust, it is a tribute to the strength and the kindness of humankind that some of these young girls were able to trust again and not turned bitter by their experiences. But let us never forget the past trials against mankind, for then we will lose our humanity.

Can you all please read this? I need feedback for my English Coursework,

It is an interior monologue I have wrote on my fathers final months. Using his poetry, His facebook page and my own memories to get it as accurate as possible.

Please comment with thoughts. (I won’t use names of commenters in my coursework just for my commentary I need some feedback) 

I am also unsure as to the audience I should target this for, So if you comment can you also please leave your age aswell? Then I could average out the best age for the audience :)

Thank you!! 

In the "care" of another (based on a real story of my Grandmother)

Sean Ross Abbey, Roscrea. County Tipperary, Ireland.

Robed in their black habits, gold crucifixes hanging cold and lifeless on their chests, implicating the festering lumps of organ beneath, those women came. Prised him from her, gently mewing babe; her squirming bundle of joy in an otherwise harsh reality. Hot prickling behind her eyes, vision blurring, breezes cooling where once dwelled warmth, against her maternal bosom. The first droplet of the tide falls to the floor as she remembers her journey in a mist of memory. She watches an American couple in their finery walk away with her child. They can offer him a better life than Maura: education and wealth. But will they love him like she will always? She will never see him again after he is driven in the black cab to the airport and whisked away forever. She’ll never forget though.

Maura staggered up the steps to the front of the Abbey of the Sisters of Charity; rain poured down her heated cheeks, soaking her. Seven months pregnant and no one offering even a smile, never mind a helping hand she thought wryly. A nervous grimace curved into her sweaty skin as she wearily pasted on a look of false confidence ready to face her fate. The door before her creaked open and a nun stood watching the struggles of another weighted woman, with a scowl. When Maura reached her, she wordlessly led her, baggage-laden to the musty smelling office of the Mother Superior. Assigned the name Mary and jobbed with helping man the massive laundry vat, Maura was told she was a ‘fallen woman’, here to make amends to the good Lord for her wickedness. There were to be no illusions; the children would be reared till the age of three then removed for adoption.

Silence was enforced by the Sisters, but in times of tiredness their attention lapsed, and those “sinners” spoke in urgent, hushed whispers. “I didn’t want him to” the girl next to Maura quivered “but… he was strong. He had the stench of the Northern Irish on him”. A chorus of sympathy followed. They gave nicknames to the nuns: “Glass bottomed bitches. No sign of humanity in them, you never see them using the toilet…”

Unfortunately, it was at this point that Sister Theresa chose to rouse from her slumber, disapproval and irritation evident in her expression. “You should pray for your souls. Your carnal desires are impure! You are moral invalids. But Our God is merciful, if you devote yourselves to his ways you will be absolved of your unholy deeds!” Maura’s heart went out to her, to the girl beside her stifling her snivels, and marvelled at how a religion, supposedly just, could condemn a faultless woman?

After several weeks of scrubbing the clothes of the surrounding institutions, Maura’s fingers were callused and sore. Her feet hurt. Her ankles were swollen from hours stood in front of the hot water, with her precious burden getting heavier each passing day, making her back strain. Another month till she was to bring new life into the world. Picking up a filthy shirt, she began drenching it while her thoughts travelled to notions of the corrupt world she was bringing her child into. Would they be judged by her indiscretion? She sincerely hoped not.  Anger and shame built inside her chest as she recalled how naïve and in love she had been. Damn this country and its inadequate education system! Young girls like herself being raped and manipulated by their lack of knowledge and still nothing was done to resolve the problems. Instead, the filthy government and estranged families hid them away behind the veil of the church. A sad state of affairs when no one in the world cares enough to help you. Instead, leaves you solitary and friendless.

Maura had been made bitter by the screams of women in labour, by the cries of unattended lambs, lined up for the slaughter, like a conveyor belt with the youngest at one end to wait and the oldest at the other to be chosen.

In the private boys’ school she had worked in, Maura had heard rumours of women like her. Forcing themselves into rubber corsets to hide the extending bulge of their growing child from the disapproving society. Many were raped or tricked into giving themselves to the boys and never getting over the trauma of five men drawing in around them, ripping their clothes to expose pale flesh before forcing themselves onto the whimpering wrecks. Disgusting! Her sister Tess had heard the horror of one girl giving birth in an outhouse at work. Right down into the bowl. She’d left a trail of blood behind her across the courtyard, which her friend mopped up. She’d taken in blue yarn for knitting… That’s how they caught her. The child had floated to the top of the lake days later, the umbilical cord still dangling limply, blood-crusted into the blue-grey skin when the boys had found it. Of course by that time, the blood had been washed away by an associate, and the outhouse cleaned so there was little to go by. Little to go by, except that blue thread wrapped round the child’s throat in a choking noose, and the bruised bump on the crown of its tiny head.

There was an investigation. Tess was called to give evidence having seen the girl fetch the seemingly innocent weapon of untimely death. Her nerves had eaten away at her over the next few days till finally, on the day of reckoning, the pressure was too much. She collapsed on the steps to the courthouse. The relief was palpable when she came to. She was terrified. No one was prosecuted for the deflowering of the girl, only her for murdering the firstborn. Love. Hate. Heartbreak. This was all that girl knew before they dragged her to the cells. The sight of her blood-soaked boy.  Mouth frozen in a silent cry. Stuffed into a bag. Sinking into the black waters. That sight would haunt her.

Maura vowed not to submit to cowardice. Her child would be brought into this world and then taken to a better place, not this prison of the fallen. If God would not give her strength, then he is as unjust as those that preach his work. If that be the case she will find strength in her soul as a mother! What right has another woman to her child? Was she unworthy of raising her own offspring, even after suffering judgement and living through it? Of course not! No woman had succeeded so far at outsmarting the Sisters but Maura believed she would. She had to. Believing her lost love still cared for her. He had to; she was the woman that carried his seed till it bloomed into being. Surely he would want to see it become the fruit of his loins? If not, what then? Go it alone?

Sudden, spasming pain, like a sharp kick to her back wracked through Maura’s muscles, making her grasp the wall for support. As the agony receded, her head cleared. Maura began to hear the rest of the world come back to her, the cries of outrage from the begruntled nuns and running footsteps. She didn’t care, as the next body-shaking attack came, stronger than the last, inducing a gasp and soft snivel. “She’s going into labour!” In her next moment of clarity, it quickly became apparent to her that she was damp, and in that moment of realisation her resolve vanished, replaced only by a paralyzing fear of what was to come. Maura was vaguely aware of Sister Theresa ordering the laundry girls to pray for the “sinner giving birth to a runt”. Surrounded by figures shrouded in black, a feeling of panic and dread  rose in the pit of Maura’s stomach, developing into another shooting pain making her writhe on the supporting arms of the midwives as she was rushed through the stone corridors to a room with a single flimsy looking bed.

Hours passed. With each minute the things they called ‘contractions’ got stronger and closer together and before long, Maura had the desire to push, which was agreed appropriate, given her dilation. As she began to focus all her efforts in a downwards force on her lower regions, they began to burn unbearably; she wanted to stop but Sister Margaret forced her on saying it was “penance” and “natural”, though her words were little comfort with the stinging sensation, throbbing below out of sight. It was pathetic, she thought, that a grown woman like herself would want nothing more in the world than for someone, a knight in shining armour, to come and take away the pain. What a child! It was so selfish and stubborn of her to think that if she simply stopped pushing then her child would just remain a part of her. A slight relief in her genitalia was a surprise but she was still being told to “keep pushing”. The numbness of the pain fogged her brain. Wouldn’t she feel the head and the shoulders for what they were? It felt like an eternity but eventually the women around her said “It’s over”.

When they placed the cleaned babe in her cradled arms, tears welled with the pride that ensued. It was a boy.

I am never going to be able to redraft my english coursework.

It is impossible! There’s too much I need to add:( I’ve worked on it for about two hours today, and it’s still not done. I’m on the very last section, which is good, but I have two more paragraphs to write, one with loads of analysis, and it’s already over the word limit. I am stresseddd out over it. 

An incredibly long short story...

The Concept Of Breathing

Something cheesy I wrote up for my English Language coursework


Dylan laid down the flowers. The misty ambiance of the graveyard wrapped its arms around him. He closed his eyes and spoke an unvoiced prayer. It was getting late. “I must hurry Rosaline” said Dylan. It was nearly night time as the last few gleaming orange rays of the sun buried deeper into the horizon. Dylan did not want to wait for the moonlight to show her visage. He might fall victim to an ambush.

He said his final farewell, engraved R.A onto the little grave he had dug with a final message and walked away. He could not bear to think about her anymore. It was what he would lay to rest deep into his thoughts.


Holding onto the little crystal necklace, his only remembrance of Rosaline, he carried on, tears dripping down his cheek onto the moist ground. He desired the world of the past to come back. He hoped this was all just a big nightmare that he was yet to be pulled out of.


Over the next couple of days, as he headed south, all he could think about was Rosaline. He couldn’t believe she was gone. The very thing that gave him the soul to continue living in this wasteland that he used to call home. They were headed southwards towards “The Sanctuary”. A place where resources were provided and they would be given a place to live. It was over all the broadcasts they could pick up. But what point was there now? Rosaline, his beloved little sister, was no more. The bitter, freezing sub-zero night conditions had swept her away from him. No more would he show compassion, no more would he show weakness and no more would he show sympathy. It was his fault Rosaline was gone. He hadn’t been strong enough to protect her. He hadn’t been tough enough to keep her going.


The moon had begun to surface and it was time for him to get shelter. Harsh, cold wind blew across his body, so violent that it was like getting thousands of cuts from miniscule razors. Soon, he ventured into a cave he had found nearby. Slowly, he checked around. He eyed each corner carefully. The Others were extremely sly. They would veil themselves in places where you least expected it.



Dylan set up camp. He travelled light and carried with him a sleeping bag, his jacket, any food he could find and precious pure water. Water, a resource that was greatly limited. If Dylan ran out, he would resort to squeezing fresh mud to obtain any water stored within or try sucking on the leaves of trees. Tired and weary after the day’s journey, Dylan quickly fell asleep. He was tormented by thoughts of his sister, plagued by the reflection of breaking the promise he had made to their parents. Emotions flooded in, there was simply too much to think of. The feeling of being alone, the feeling of paranoia every time he was travelling. It was the same every night.


Dylan woke up with a start, sweat dripping down his face, his face warm. Something had woken him from his sleep. He could hear his heart pounding a fast steady beat. There was nothing to be heard but dreary silence. It was accompanied by the sound of water dripping from the moist roof of the cave. At the very moment, he heard faint voices. Voices coming from all over. He was surrounded. The Others were out searching for food. Dylan laid low in the shadows praying they wouldn’t find him. He tried to avoid conflict whenever possible since it seemed that he was always outnumbered in a fight. Not to mention, most of them were all large brutes that would kill you in an instant. Their instinct for survival had taken over their sanity leaving them similar to little less then animals that would not reason.


The voices sounded closer. Harsh, deep guttural sounds being snarled. They sounded livid. They must not have had fresh meat for a while. It was only a matter of seconds until they’d be closing onto him and he would be cornered and helpless. Crawling on his belly, he eased in towards a corner trying to get as far away as possible. More voices, more rustling, even closer this time. Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan could see rays of the day’s first sunlight easing in. There was an opening in the cavern! Little by little he crawled out, making as quiet a noise as possible.


He was out. The dark night had left over remains of mist that flooded over his body. He quickly put on his jacket, shuddering as he did so. Dylan sprinted on, continuing towards the south and only stopped in doing so once he was convinced he wasn’t being followed. It had been a narrow escape.


He carried on for days. The whole while, trying to make sense of it. It had happened one average summer day. The global catastrophe that had wiped out most of the human population. It was a bug that had taken out most of the world’s population. No-one knew where it had come from, how it affected people and what it did to them. People were instantly taken over. The virus would take over the human mind and cause them to commit suicide without a second thought. It seemed to take over brain cells; multiplying rapidly until eventually the mind was no longer in control. Dylan had seen people walking off buildings, stabbing themselves, road accidents and other terrible things. The first time he had seen it occur, he hadn’t even known whether the person was affected. It had been his best friend, back at work. The sheer terror had rendered him helpless. He hadn’t even tried to stop him. Soon after, most of the others at work started doing the same. However, there seemed to be a small amount of humans who were deemed to be immune. Dylan and his sister, part of this small percentage. He cursed the heavens. If only it had finished him off as well.


Leading on from that, he started thinking about The Others. Who were they? They were all normal humans. The small bit that had survived. Unfortunately, they were not of sane mind. Most cannibals were part of interconnected families that had agreed to peace treaties with other groups of cannibals. They stuck to their designated hunting areas. Groups of cannibals set borders all around cities and forests. Anyone caught trespassing was fair game. Anyone they found outside was also fair game. Either way, you were either with the cannibals or you were as good as dead. It was only a matter of time until they got to him. He couldn’t survive forever.


 Now, for the other question, why had they resorted to such demeaning means? The answer to this was simple yet he was skeptical to how they had been led to believe so. The survivors had figured out they were immune. Countries over the world had designated meeting points where there were meetings of groups. Within these groups, people had ideas. Some believed it was the will of god and they set off, leading the life of saints and hermits, never to be seen again. Some decided they would not mingle with the others and would lead their own paths as had Dylan and Rosaline. Some decided to finish themselves off, not wanting to live in a world so obscene and alienated. The rest however, had other thoughts. They believed that the immunity only lasted as long as they had an ongoing source of that resistance. They believed that to survive, they would have to feed on the flesh of other immune creatures, or other humans. These ideas weren’t tried out in substance until a couple of weeks after people had disbanded.


The idea itself was sickening, but soon, they grew accustomed to it. No longer did they feed to survive; they did so because it gave them pleasure. The notion of not ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ having people to look up to, not having any rules, no law to follow, nothing to question crime and hardly any socialization, made them crazy. They lost their senses, undergoing major mental changes. They had stripped themselves of any humanity and had become what man had started off as.


Every time Dylan thought about all of this, he grew weary. As he went along the path, he could hear the sound of moving water nearby. The thought excited him. It had been ages since he’d had a nice wash. He hurried along, following the sound until finally he reached a small waterfall covered by lots of short shrubs and trees. He took of his top and walked in. The cold water made him shiver and made his skin tingle but it felt good. He took his time. His mind was rushing through as many thoughts as it could process. He yearned to just stay here forever, like a candy store a little kid would never want to leave. He desired for the water absorb him in some way, so he could become one with it. He wished for all the anxiety to leave. Dylan laid down near the shallow end of the pool and closed his eyes.


“Fsk” An arrow whizzed inches away from Dylan and lodged itself into a tree. His eyes opened in an instant “WHO’S THERE?” yelled Dylan. No reply. He was in trouble. “Fsk” Another arrow speeded by. He was being ambushed! Dylan quickly got out, picked his shirt and backpack up. He galloped back in the direction he had come from. Numerous arrows whizzed by. Horns were blown. The cannibals were alert now. He would be surrounded once again, this time, with no escape. Dylan kept running on and on praying they would lose him. Alas! They were onto him like a pack of wolves. He could hear short breaths, panting, following him. He ran sideways, took turns, ran through bushes and tried everything. He just had to lose them. They were not going to let him go.


Dylan ran on and on until unexpectedly, he met a dead end. His eyes darted left and right searching for any route for escape. There were none. Strong, large hands tied his legs and hands. He was thrown onto his back. Dylan thrashed about. He was stopped by a blow from his assailant. His attacker’s face wore a mask of triumph. It was apparent he had gone without human meat for an extended period. He let out a large roar and chuckled sadistically. Blood was filling his eyes. He muffled Dylan’s mouth with his massive hand. By now, several others had gathered. They were smiling, visibly content. The aggressor drew a long, razor-sharp axe. Chants procured. Several Others let out blood curdling howls. They lay on the ground and banged their heads. Dylan closed his eyes one last time. He prayed to God. He was finally going to be at peace.



The head-splitting blow never came. His eyes closed, Dylan could hear nothing but serene silence. His muffled breath in rhythm with the gasps of air being taken in by the horrendous beasts. Slowly, he opened his eyes, shivering and trembling. What was happening? Why was he still alive? With one strong, rough arm, the brute picked him up throwing him back onto his feet. What sort strange ritual was this?


All of a sudden, an ear splitting horn blew. Trees shook as the birds took flight. The circle Dylan was standing in parted, forming a clear path. What was this? Were they letting him go? The horn blew once again. Dylan strived to cover his ears but too tired. His eyes were blurry, his head hurt and his body ached. A huge malformed shape appeared, slowly making its way towards him. Dylan narrowed his eyes trying to figure out what it was.


As it got closer, The Others, surrounding him started waving their heads, humming a deep melancholy, tune. The shape, Dylan could now make out. It was similar to The Others, except larger, way larger. The man stood over 2 feet tall, his body tattooed with thousands of scars, a few running off the sides of his neck, a few on his chest and others on his wrist. He was missing an ear, and his right eye. The humming dramatically stopped.


Dylan’s previous aggressor now stood straight, his axe hanging on a makeshift belt and his head held up high apparently a sign of reverence. Dylan’s body trembled as the massive man came close. He looked Dylan straight in the eye with a scowl so fearsome, that it would scare off even the bravest man if his size did not. This was no ordinary Other. He seemed different. The Others seemed to hold great respect for him.

Dylan’s brain hurt, plagued by confusion of the situation. He dropped down, his knees too tired to support him.

A few seconds passed.


“Rise" growled an animalistic voice. Dylan looked up, trying not to tear his gaze away from the fearful sight. Slowly, he got up, shaking with the effort. The monstrous man held out a hand. One of The Others ran up close, a sack dripping with red liquid, squeezed tight in his palm. He placed it in the gigantic man’s palm. He ripped apart the sack, and the smell of rotting flesh instantly spread, clinging to the air.

The man held the meat out, undoubtedly human meat. What was it that he wanted Dylan to do? Did he want Dylan to eat it? Dylan shook his head, he couldn’t do it. He backed away and instantly, The Others started to growl and the sound of axes being unsheathed could be heard.


What inhumane behavior was this? What was he to do? Dylan reached out, his dirt smeared fingers slowly grasping the warm fleshy meat. He brought it close to his mouth. As he brought it closer, the giant man chuckled, almost as if he was enjoying watching. What was Dylan doing? This was completely wrong. This was everything he went against; this was what made him different. How could he so readily accept what they offered?

“Join us” snarled the voice, this time louder. The Others were getting impatient now, Dylan could see them shuffling about waiting for his move. He was surprised at how long they had been patient for. He seemed to have stood there for an eternity.

“So what will it be?” continued on the rumbling voice.

Dylan honestly did not know anymore. What WOULD it be? Spending perhaps a lifetime, as part of these inhumane creatures or die as the last possibly sane human alive.