by Myers, Kelly
“What if my phone location is on?”
“Our guys took care of that. As far as anyone’s concerned, you’re not even here.”
“Where am I?”
“Just eat your food. God, this feels like babysitting.”
“Who’s Mary Anne?”
“That’s the nickname we give to Two’s wife. You didn’t think we were gonna say her real in front of you, did you?”
“Palanick really does pay attention to all the details, huh?”
“No great company thrives on oversight.”
Leaning forward, I study her appearance on the high-definition screen in front of me. She’s wearing what looks like a formal pair of pants and a white button-down shirt. Something black is lumped on the bed beside her, which I assume is a jacket or blazer of some sort.
Her black hair, although in disarray, looks beautiful in a wild, untamed manner. Like a gypsy’s mane. Her narrow shoulders—tense, I’m sure—promise a fine detailing of the human form under the delicate fabric of her shirt. I can’t exactly guess her height, but she can’t be too tall. Her feet are also small, perhaps a seven.
Switching off the sound, I sit back and watch as she enunciates something or the other. The movement of her lips defiant, the expression on her face unwavering. She waves a hand, angry. Ramone doesn’t budge. And neither does she.
14
Dina
“I’m sick of this,” the man in the mask stands, pulling out a plastic fastener from his pocket.
“No!” I shrink back as he approaches, flailing my hands about as he tries to grab them.
In just a few seconds, he manages to overpower me and tie my hands behind my back, pulling the fastener enough to hold my wrists together.
I scream in despair. “Fuck!”
“That’s right, it’s your turn now,” he produces a blindfold from his other pocket and secures it around my eyes, tying it at the back.
“Jesus.” His once muffled voice now becomes clear, and I understand that he just took off his mask. “How can people breathe in these?”
“People…” I continue to yell. “Will be looking for me!”
“What do you think we’re doing with your laptop and phone, huh?” he chuckles, his voice moving farther away until I hear a thud on the chair.
“You can’t—”
“Oh, no? Well, I have information that claims otherwise.” He sighs before continuing. “Your family and friends think you caught a bug and lost your voice and can only text. Work believes you’re sick and can’t make it to the office. Your homie Derek? He put his piece on hold with your boss’ blessings, thanks to an email you’ve sent.”
“Until?”
“Indefinitely or till further notice,” I hear the victory seep from his voice. “Are we forgetting anyone?”
“My friends won’t believe that I don’t want them to visit. That’s not like me.”
“Not if you’re quarantined somewhere out of the house.”
Feeling my blood boil, I raise my voice. “That’s insane! Why would I do that?”
“You’re contagious, and you care about the people you love,” he scoffed. “Were we wrong to assume that?”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t worry. They’re all fine…sweet oblivion.”
“Fuck. You.”
“Sorry, doll, I’m taken,” he chortles, coughing a little before clearing his throat. “Who am I forgetting? Ah! That schmuck you’ve been dating?”
My eyes well up, and tears begin to dampen the blindfold. “What about him?” I slowly ask, my heart dropping. “What did you do?”
“He now believes that your work and illness will render you unavailable in the coming few days.”
Letting out a sigh of relief, I don’t know if I caught what he said. “Days?” I repeat, my voice gaining a pitch of renewed denial.
“The sooner you cooperate, the better.” I hear him exhale. “Have you not seen any movies, kid?”
I whimper. “What the fuck?”
“The ones with their hands tied are usually the ones who get hurt when they don’t comply. Now, what do you say?” I hear him shuffling closer with the chair. “Wanna try a bite?”
“Why don’t you bite me?”
“Y’know what?” I heard the chair screech against the tiles. “I’m too old for this bullshit. Suit yourself. Eat, don’t eat. Starve for all I care.”
I hear the door lock click.
“Hey!” I yell out. “How can I eat with my hands behind my back like this?”
“Whatever, kid,” his voice gets lower and lower. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Hey!” I shout. “Hey!” I draw it out, squirming and kicking in place as I hear the door slam shut.
Silence ensues.
Complete and utter silence.
Once again, I let my eyes exude the tears directly onto the soft fabric that’s covering them. It gets wetter, the moisture spreading in a bigger, wider spot that reaches the bridge of my nose and the tops of my cheekbones.
I weep, not knowing what to do. I’ve never felt so hopelessly powerless in my entire life. My darkest, most desperate moments dwarf and shrivel next to this one, withering into oblivion.
What was my lowest moment before now? Was it the day our dog died when I was eight years old? Was it the time I failed to get Bryan Garner’s attention in junior high? Was it when I had to break up with Jesse Coleman because we were going to different universities? Was it when I failed at changing the world with my words and watched vicious criminals get away with their offenses because they were more powerful than I could ever defeat?
Or was it when I finally let go of my passion and accepted that job at the B-Gazette, abandoning every shred of self-respect I had left in order to make a decent living?
No…it must have been when I actually thought that I still had a chance to alter destiny doing what I’m doing. That was the moment that led to this. To now. To me, being here with no way out.
If only I’d listened to Julia when she incessantly argued that the system was what it was. That dreamers like me belonged in the realm of arts and culture, not journalism and pushing against a brick wall.
My whole career has been leading to this very dead end. I should have seen it coming.
Palanick’s men are going to kill me. Make my body disappear. I wonder if acid really works on annihilating human flesh and bones like the movies. Or perhaps they’ll cut me up to pieces—detached, motionless limbs that they can bury across endless acres of land like fertilizer. No-one’s ever going to find a trace of me.
But if this is how my life is going to end, then perhaps I should go out with a fight. I owe myself that much after years of pretending to be the defender of honor and goodness.
Footsteps outside break my ominous train of thought, and the door is unlocked again.
“Missed me?” One’s voice echoes through the air.
“Fuck off,” I shake my head.
“I’ve got a proposal for yah,” I hear metal hitting tile as he puts down the chair and sits. “If I give you back your laptop and phone, do you agree to play along? Work remote or whatever you reporters call it?”
“I’m a journalist,” I insist, gritting my teeth.
“That’s moot to me. What do you say?”
“I’m not going to make this easier for you, so you may as well kill me now.”
“A little dramatic, are we? That’s the hunger talkin’.”
I press my lips into a thin line and say nothing.
“Y’know, if you don’t work, they’ll fire yah.”
“I’m a dead woman anyway, so what does it matter?”
“You’re not dead. Nobody’s gonna kill you.”
“So now you care about my career? The one you’re currently trying to ruin.”
“We’re trying to get you to see things clearer, is all.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Well,” he clears his throat. “from where I’m standing, I see
you’re trying to tarnish an entire conglomerate’s reputation without solid evidence.”
“Oh, so you’re also a subject matter expert?”
“I know who I work for and what they do.”
“They kidnap people,” I smirk, smiling. “Are you proud?”
“This was a last resort, and you know it.”
“And what do you hope will come out of this situation? Oh, let me ask in a language you can understand: have you seen any movies? Because the guys who put guns to hostages’ heads usually end up in jail or worse.”
“There’s no gun here.”
“Got rid of it already?”
He bursts into laughter. “Oh, I didn’t have a gun back there either. You just took my word for it.”
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, burning through my face as anger boils up.
“I told you that your safety is important.”
“Back to my question, One…what do you hope to get out of this?”
“My employers wish for you to resume your work as usual…with the deletion of any future related articles. They’re quite forgiving, so if you and your team issue a correction that states that the last few articles were misguided and lacked evidence…all will be well.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Which part? Maybe I can negotiate an offer for you.”
“All of it,” I hiss.
“But Peele and Duvall already agreed to put your little project on hold.”
“Since you say you’re not gonna kill me,” I shrug. “I’m gonna pick up where I left off.”
“Let me ask you this, doll—” he pauses. “What do you hope to get out of this?”
“Sleeping at night knowing that I did my job revealing one of the century’s most abrasive projects? Do you have kids, One?”
“Not yet, but maybe one day.”
“And do you want them to live in a world where privacy doesn’t exist? It’s a basic human right, don’t you think?”
“I’m not saying I agree with what you’re saying, exactly…but let me humor the thought.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “If I had to choose a world for my kids, between enjoying the level of privacy we have now—and…” he chuckles. “let’s agree it ain’t much—and between me knowing for a fact that every interaction they have online is traceable. Everyone they talk to is accessible. Every asshole who as much as considers harming them is within reach…I’d wholeheartedly choose the latter.”
His speech is filled with determination and blind assurance. Certainty drips from his voice like a man who has been brainwashed beyond repair.
“You speak as if you’re certain that this very same data won’t fall into the wrong hands. The very hands you’re trying to protect them from.”
“Palanick and its partners will make sure that never happens.”
“For now,” I raise my voice an octave. “While Gabriel Palanick is alive, that is…assuming, of course, that he’s really the saint you think he is.”
“Oh, Gabriel Palanick is no saint—he’s far from it.”
“Then how come you defend him with such passion?”
“Because I know his dark side—I’ve seen it. I’m familiar with how to handle it, and I can assure you…it doesn’t even remotely touch the matter of my,” he chortles. “imaginary children.”
“Plural?”
“I plan to have two. Boy and girl.”
“You sound mature enough. What took you so long?”
“Everything happens in its own time, doll,” I hear the chair judder under his shifting weight, and his footsteps approach. “But I got work to do, so we’ll leave my life story to another day.”
“Sure,” I scoff. “I’m here all week.”
“Now,” he comes closer. “what about that remote work we talked about?”
“Why don’t you bring your boss here so he can beg for that himself?”
I hear him sharply draw a breath before huffing away. “And the food?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No wonder you’re still single, doll,” he walks away, grabbing the chair that accidentally hits a metal body, prompting a loud, shrill noise. “Even that surgeon…he can’t handle you. You’ll see.”
He slams the door behind him, and once again, I’m left alone in darkness and deafening silence.
Who am I kidding? Of course, Michael won’t be able to tolerate a single bad day of mine. But referring to me as a problem that needs handling is just offensive. I’m a person with a wide and complicated set of preferences, needs and moods. I’m not to be ‘handled’—I’m to be lived with and accepted.
I don’t know why One’s words get to me so much, but as I wiggle myself forward until I’m far enough from the wall to lie down, I feel all my muscles tense up.
All those men who deem me impossible. All those people who think I’m a conceited, hot-headed feminist who can’t find pleasure in the simple things. All those times, I had my heartbroken.
They were my fault.
No man I’ve ever been with tried hard enough to understand me. None of them were even enough—period.
Maybe Zoe is right after all. I’m attracted to the wrong type. I keep setting myself up for failure by failing to acknowledge that ‘my type’ doesn’t really fit me at all. But what’s the point now that I’m staring at the last week of my life on Earth?
It’s far too late for this revelation to be dawning on me now.
15
Gabriel
“She won’t do it.”
Ramone’s declaration prompts me to lift up my eyes from my tablet and stare dead into his eyes.
“She won’t eat and most certainly won’t be cooperating by working remotely,” he explains, tongue in cheek.
“Really?”
“Yeah, she’s ready for you.”
“I think I’ll make her wait some more.”
“Yeah?” he sits down in the armchair across from mine. “Let her stomach growl some more?”
“How long has it been?”
“Twenty-one hours, not a single bite.”
“Water?”
He scoffs, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “We got ourselves a self-righteous one pulling a Gandhi down there—”
A knock on the door interrupts us. It’s my housekeeper with a laptop bag. “This is for you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
When she leaves, Ramone and I give each other a knowing look.
“Been brushin’ up on your journalistic skills?” Ramone jokes before taking a sip.
“Just wanna look into her world through her own lens.”
“Well, I’ll go lie down. Call if you need me.”
“Sure thing,” I mindlessly answer as I pull out her laptop, touching its smooth surface with my fingertips as I place it in my lap.
I pour some more whiskey into my glass and take a sip, waiting for the device to boot up. It whirrs over my thighs, that mechanical start-up hum that sparks my curiosity for what’s about to come. When I’m faced with the login page, I punch in the new digits and letters that my team left for me on a post-it note stuck to the corner of the screen. I yank it out and crumble it as my eyes meet the first inner insight into Dina Cormack’s realm.
Her home screen carries a famous quote: “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” ~ George Orwell, 1984.
“Okay,” I launch her internet browser. “I can get on board with being Big Brother,” I whisper to myself, amused.
The first page that loads is her email inbox. Her personal email inbox.
“No,” I draw it out, chuckling. “Didi, you bad girl. Isn’t this your work laptop? Tsk, tsk.”
Zoe.
Mom.
Michael.
Zoe.
Zoe.
Julia.
The Work Safe Coalition.
“Interesting,” I wrinkle my eyebrows and click on that email. It carries an invitation to a meeting of sorts.
Dear Ms. Cormack,
As a dedicated volunteer and valued long-time contributor, you are cordially invited to our first live webinar on fostering safe working environments for recently rehabilitated women in Boston…
“Gotcha,” I move on to the next.
Daniel Frank.
Subject: I miss you.
“And who are you?” I tilt my head and open the email.
Dina,
I know we agreed not to talk, but I really do miss you. I don’t know what I could’ve done better to keep us going. It’s not that I can’t appreciate your needs—it’s that I failed at understanding how to make them work for me. For us.
But now that you’ve left a gaping hole in my life, I can’t help but regret not trying harder.
I want to see you. I want to talk.
I miss you terribly.
Dan
My eyes jump up to the date, and I realize that it’s almost a month old. Scrolling down, I see no reply. No unsent draft. Nothing. She clearly read it and decided not to respond.
A woman with a heart of steel—I like it.
Zoe.
Mom.
Dad.
Julia.
Zoe.
Julia.
Julia.
Edmond Health.
I click on that one.
As we strive to provide high-quality health care to the at-risk members of our community, we can still use your help.
I see…another charity.
The Boston Theater Association.
Boston Food Bank.
Actors Fund of America.
Women’s Home for Domestic Abuse Survivors.
Music for the Children.
Boston Refugee Center.
The more I scroll, the more NGOs I see. Her personal donations seem to be going predominantly toward supporting independent arts, art education for underprivileged children and women’s causes, with the occasional food bank contributions, petitions to release political prisoners and to support organizations that rehabilitate rape and abuse victims.
“You’re a great citizen, Didi. I was wrong,” I take another sip. “You are trying to do your part.”
Opening another tab, I go into her search engine and click on ‘history.’
“Oh my God,” I see a long list of searches just waiting there. “Haven’t you heard of incognito mode?” I shake my head, chuckling.