Spoiler! :
It really could be worse, I suppose. I could be on the stage. I could have a number branded on my face and shackles around my ankles; but I don’t, and this situation still sucks.
There are what, two hundred people crammed in here? We are surrounded by concrete walls and a high metal ceiling. The old wooden stage in the front of the auditorium is stained with blood. It’s like going to a speaking for the worst prophet in the city, only to find the doors are locked behind you and the speaker has disappeared with the money in your pocket.
The screams of the young echo as parents try fearfully to shut them up. My mother clutches my hand with white knuckles. My father holds our bidding number like it’s a poison. 146, in big red letters; that’s all we are, a number.
They sent it to us in a brown box, with a letter. A poor old man delivered it to us with tears in his eyes. Of course, I'm not supposed to know that. I heard the door bell ring and ran to my hide away. From there I watched my father take it from the man and nearly pass out once he opened it. Nothing has been the same since.
A small girl’s scream erupts from behind the curtain. She sounds in so much pain. How can they expect us to do this? This is insanity. I-.
“SILENCE!” a guard shouts. My stomach must have just moved two inches upwards. He’s 6’2”, and has enough muscle to lift three hundred pounds. In his hand, is a fully loaded machine gun.
My father lays a protective hand on my shoulder. His face has gone from a comfortable tan, to ghostly white. It’s beginning. Even the sobbing children go quiet with fear.
“BRING THEM OUT!” he shouts again, gesturing to the left entrance to the stage. Chains rustle and sobs pierce the still air, visibly digging into nearly every person waiting.
The first child to enter the stage is a small boy, no older than five. A gruesome bruise stretches the length of his face, extending down his neck and into his ragged smock. He is barefoot and starving.
Thirty more stumble into the clearing to receive their sentence. They wear rusted handcuffs and have the number one branded on their cheeks. They range anywhere from infancy to my own age.
Tears spring up in my eyes. How can we be here, watching this? No, stop it Emma, this is for their own good. They are here for a better life. This will save them.
The Level Ones clump together on the far right of the stage. The youngest cling to the eldest for comfort, trying to be brave. The eldest are struggling to hold back tears for the sake of the tinny hands hanging off their legs.
The next set comes out. This group has both hand cuffs and foot shackles, along with the number two branded on their cheeks. Other than that, they look nearly the same as the first level.
Level three steps into the light. Unlike the former two, they are much older. Their faces are harder and few are younger than ten. Along with shackles, they also sport electric collars and a number three. There must be about fifteen of them.
I turn away. I can’t watch anymore. These children are my age; most of them are even younger.
There is no more screaming from the audience, if you could call us that. The silence is eerie as the level fours come out. These will be the start of the dangerous ones. They’ll have a four branded on the face, and probably slightly more imprisonment than level three. There will be no children, just teenagers.
Movement on the stage stops and I look up. All the children, except the very youngest, turn to see the entrance; this will be the level fives, the last level and the most dangerous.
The first prisoner steps out. Instead of shackles and collars, his arms are encased in solid metal and held above his head. A scar runs from his left eye down to his chin. Dried blood covers his shirt. He must be eighteen, only two years older than me.
The second prisoner is older as well. He is wheeled out on a box mover and is completely chained down. Scars from whippings litter his bare chest, but he still struggles. His shock collar lights up and his entire body goes stiff and then limp.
They electrocuted him. They could have killed him. Tears come out faster.
“BRING OUT THE LAST!” the man shouts. There’s more? How can there be more?
A shrill scream explodes from the entrance and a girl stumbles in. My entire mind goes numb. It can’t be. Wavy brown hair hangs limp in front of her face, obscuring the scars and bruises. She too has a shock collar and matching shackles. Through her knee length skirt, a metal lump shows. Fresh blood pours down her leg and settles on the floor. Every step she takes looks like agony, but her face shows nothing.
I knew a girl once, almost seven years ago, who looked just like her. She was taken away into the slums, and I never heard from her again. Is this her? Is this Beth?
“Let the bids begin!” commands the auctioneer.
Keep up the good writing; you have a really good start going. 
But that doesn't mean it was bad. On the other hand ti was actually very good! Few things catch my interest with the first chapter but this definitely did!
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