by G. C. Julien
“I’m so sick of you kids taking everything from me! It’s never enough, is it?” She digs her fingernails into the kitchen counter, the skin of her face as tight as stretched elastic.
I glance around, observing our twenty-year-old microwave, our empty cupboards with missing doors, and our fridge that works when it wants to. She’s trying her best. But some days, her best doesn’t feel like enough.
I’d never admit this to her, but the thought pops up every now and then.
Out of nowhere, my mom slaps a can of beans off the counter, smashing it into the kitchen sink cupboard. It leaves a small dent in the wood before rolling by Mila’s feet. She then lets out an annoyed sigh and storms out of the kitchen, mumbling to herself.
Mila looks like she’s about to cry. “My backpack broke…”
I wrap an arm around her shoulder and squeeze her tight. “Don’t worry about it, Mila. Mom’s being Mom. I’ll get you a backpack.”
What I’m honestly thinking is: I’ll get you a new life. A life away from here. I’ll make sure you never have to suffer the way Mom lets us suffer.
* * * * * *
“You have to wave your hand in front of it for it to work.”
“Eve?”
“Hello?”
I blink twice and follow the voice.
Mary-Anne is standing next to me with two hands planted on her waist. Her eyes dart between me and the Chepire fridge.
“You okay?” she asks.
I look at the fridge again, and Mila’s face is no longer in its reflection.
Mary-Anne waves a hand in front of me, though what I think she’s actually doing is activating the fridge.
The glass of the fridge darkens to a deep ocean blue and small letters float in front of my face. They appear to be listing all kinds of food, assumedly meals to be created by the fridge. Mary-Anne flicks her finger on the glass, her fingernail making a soft ticking noise. Then, a long list of options appears on the screen in front of me: peanut butter sandwich, peanuts, nachos, cheese sticks, veggie platter… The list goes on.
If only Mila were here with me. If only she were still alive to see all of this… All I can think about is how every time Mom snapped at her, I promised her that one day, I’d be so rich I’d buy her a house with a Chepire fridge.
My throat swells and I turn away.
“Wait!” Mary-Anne says. “Don’t you want to see it in action?”
“I’m not all that hungry, but I’m excited to try it later.”
She seems satisfied enough to step away from the fridge.
Although I want to explore the rest of the Monarch Suite, Mila is all I can think about now. I make my way to the white leather sofa—it sits directly atop a zebra skin rug, something I assume cost thousands of dollars when money still existed.
The leather feels cool against my palms as I lean back and close my eyes.
“Are you all right?” asks Mary-Anne.
I crack one eye open and roll my head sideways to look at her. Slouching, her hands fidgeting in front of her, she reminds me of a queen’s servant—someone prepared to jump off a cliff if ordered to do so. Is that what she wants? For me to lead her?
Sighing, I say, “A lot has happened, that’s all. I wish I could draw a map of my brain and—”
Unexpectedly, the coffee table in front of me—with a sleek glass tabletop supported by silver cylinders—vibrates and lights up a bright aqua blue. The transparency is gone, and the zebra skin rug can no longer be seen underneath it.
Instead, a digitized design appears flat on the table where the glass used to be. It looks like a map or a blueprint.
Leaning forward with elbows on my knees, I slide my fingers across the table’s hard surface. “What is this?”
Mary-Anne looks as confused as me. She plops herself down beside me and I inch away from her. She bends so far forward it’s as if she’s trying to kiss the glass, then bends even farther, peering underneath.
“It must be hardwired right into the ground,” she says. In an instant, a childish grin stretches across her face. “I’ve been here six months now and I had no idea about this!”
Gliding my finger across the glass, I touch numerous rooms outlined on the map. Each one is numbered, and some of them even have names, such as Storage, or Electrical Room.
“Is this Elysium?” I ask.
She drops to her knees on the rug and hovers over the map. “Sure looks like it. Look at that—” She points at the center. “Looks like the elevators to our floor. And check this out—”
But as she motions her hand across the table, the screen changes, and at the top left-hand corner is bold text that reads: Second Floor.
“Do that again,” I say.
She doesn’t seem to know what she did, so she swings her entire arm in the same direction again and the screen changes to Third Floor.
“I think it’s a map to all of Elysium,” she says, looking as dumbfounded as I am. “Like, every single part of it.”
“Does everyone have a map in their room?” I ask.
Mary-Anne scoffs, and then, as if realizing she should be careful with how she speaks to me, shakes her head. “Vrin is pretty secretive when it comes to Elysium. We’re allowed in certain areas, but there’s a lot of technological advancements that are being done behind closed doors. So, no, I highly doubt this is a common thing.”
Though I remain tight-lipped, I’m beaming inside.
“Do you think anyone knows about this?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Good,” I say, resting a gentle hand over hers. She seems to like this; she smiles shyly and turns away. “Let’s keep this between you and me, okay beautiful?”
CHAPTER 23 – GABRIEL
The wall feels like ice against the back of my skull.
It’s like a prison cell in here, only, some messed-up version of it. It’s a bit luxurious if you ask me. It sucks being confined to one room, but at the same time, I get it. It’s for my own good, and for the safety of others.
Vrin has every right to integrate only stable people into Elysium. I threw myself on top of women, for fuck’s sake.
“How would you rate your nightmares on a scale of one to ten?” Valeria asks.
She crosses her skirted legs and leans back into the white plastic chair. I can’t help but feel like I’m being judged, though I know I’m not. Valeria’s done a lot for me these last few days. I don’t like her approach, but it seems to be working.
And how am I supposed to measure something like that? How does someone rate their nightmares? “Five, I guess.”
“Are they less frequent?” she asks.
I don’t have much to go on, here. It’s been four or five nights, but I guess they have been better, yeah. Meaning, I haven’t had as many nightmares, and the ones I did have weren’t as violent as usual.
Even though I haven’t yet said anything, the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like she already knows what I’m about to say. So I keep it short. “Yes.”
She nods slowly and taps her fingers in front of her face, taking note of what I’m saying through those weird glasses of hers. Then, she taps the side of the frame, which I’ve come to realize is her way of turning off the screen, or the projection, whatever you want to call it.
“Today,” she says, “I’d like to advance to level three.” She pauses, no doubt waiting to see how I react.
I’m not excited about having to jump up a level. It hurts. But, at the same time, it’s the only way forward. Valeria explained to me that the program has a total of five levels. I’ve been on level two for the last few days, so it makes sense that I move up.
I give her a brief nod.
Without saying a word, she extends her hand toward the Nepalt 4000 chair. Apparently, that stands for Neuro Pathway Alteration, or something like that. Honestly, I don’t care what it’s called. All I know is that it works even though the process is shitty. The damn thing looks like a spaceship. It’s made of metal f
or the most part, but a thick layer of padded leather sits on the surface. At the headpiece, a bunch of wires wrap around the base and lead to small pointed tips. I don’t stare at it too long; otherwise, it’ll freak me out.
Some days, I wonder if it’s frying my brain. Valeria wasn’t scared to admit that the machine used to be used for brainwashing during the war. So, yeah, it has the ability to fry a brain. But she’s assured me time and time again that they’ve rewired the thing to become a medical miracle. Supposedly, it can cure all kinds of psychological disorders.
She also said they’re working on making it look less scary and less painful.
I get up off my bed and make my way to the Nepalt, turn around, and plop down into it.
Valeria gets up and moves forward, her hips swaying like a cat on the verge of pouncing on a mouse. She locks the metal clasps around my ankles and then around my wrists.
It’s cold against my skin, and so is the chair’s leather, but it doesn’t bother me. Right now, I have to focus on Freyda and Justice. The sooner I finish this program, the sooner Vrin will let me out of here and back into society.
I’m curious to know how it’s going out there. Are men and women living together? Are they getting along? Are there any rules, like having men stay on one floor, and women on another? I’m pulled back into reality when Valeria grabs my face and tightens a strap around my jaw. Then, she pulls down small arms around the headrest and carefully places each one around my forehead. She’s so focused it’s as though she were performing surgery.
Every time she puts them around my head, it needs to land at a precise point. That must mean there’s a technique to it.
Then, like every other day this week, she reaches into her black briefcase and extracts a mouthguard.
“It may be more uncomfortable than our last sessions,” she says, forcing it inside my open mouth.
I already know it’s going to hurt like hell, so I nod quickly. That’s my way of saying, Look, can we get this over with?
“Close your eyes,” she orders.
I do as told with my fingers wrapped around the edges of the armrests.
The sound of machinery warming up fills the room. It’s a low hum, followed by a high-pitched tone that makes me wince. Then, blinding lights flash over my eyelids and a sharp pain fills my head. At first, it feels like a headache, then a migraine. But as it progresses, it gets so bad that I feel like my eyes are literally going to fall out of my skull.
I bite down on my mouthguard and the plastic cracks.
“You’re doing great,” her voice resonates in the distance.
It sounds like I’m underwater. Or somewhere. I can’t even think anymore.
Jesus Christ, I’m going to die. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Make this stop.
Freyda, and Justice, I remind myself.
Freyda and Justice.
Freyda and…
Freyda.
CHAPTER 24 – LUCY
“What is that?” Emily asks.
Turning to face her, I wonder if maybe she didn’t have much growing up. Most kids know what an H-Cap is. Mom compared it to a tablet from Grandma’s time—a portable electronic device that could be used for a bunch of stuff.
“You’ve never heard of an H-Cap?” I ask. “A Holographic Capsule?”
She moves toward me and plops herself down on my bed. “Well, yeah, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen one.”
I gently place it in her hand to let her have a look at it, and I think she knows how much it means to me; she grabs it so delicately you’d think she was grabbing a flower.
“How do you turn it on?” she asks, twirling it around in her palms.
“Well it needs to be charged,” I say.
She looks at me like I’m missing too many brain cells for my age. She points at my night table, where a small white pad sits perfectly at its center. “All of our rooms come with charging stations.”
Adimmer told us about it—that’s the only reason we know it’s a charging station. He taught us everything there is to know about our rooms, like how we can make a fake window appear to make us feel like we’re looking outside. It’s some sort of screen that looks like the wall until it’s activated. We can even choose any scenery we want, like a neighborhood to feel a bit less alone.
Sighing, I pluck the H-Cap out of her hands. “I’m just scared.”
“Of what?” she asks.
“Of seeing my mom, I guess.”
Without saying anything, she pulls the H-Cap out of my hands. I’m about to yell at her for being so aggressive about it when she places it down on the charging station.
“What are you—” I try.
With eyebrows close together and lips forming a flat line the width of a wool thread, she points a finger at me. “You have memories to look at. You have something left from your mom. Do you know what I’d do to have something of my dad’s? I’d do anything—” Her voice cracks and she turns her head away.
“Emily—”
It’s no use. How can I explain to her that all I want is a minute to compose myself before breaking down? Or, maybe subconsciously, I don’t want Emily around for this.
Now, she’s standing at the door of my room.
“Open your door,” she says choppily.
“Emily, please.”
“Open it!”
“Open door,” I say plainly, and the wall opens up with a soft sound. The moment she’s gone, I drop myself into my bed, a large breath blasting out of my lungs. “Close door.”
I turn to my side and punch my pillow for better head support, all the while staring at my H-Cap and wondering what life would be like if Mom were still with me.
* * * * * *
“Mom!” I shout, laughing so hard my stomach’s starting to hurt.
“What?” she exclaims in a panic. She jabs the air in front of my H-Cap and her whole hand goes through the holographic screen, causing little pixels to break apart.
“You have to control how hard you hit it.” I try to show her how to do it, but she’s so caught up in her game that she doesn’t want me interfering.
“Get over here, you son of a—” She bites down on her lip and jabs hard again.
Then, the screen disappears, and large letters come floating up: Game Over.
“No!” she shouts, and even though she seems pretty upset about losing, I’m having so much fun that all I can do is laugh.
* * * * * *
I stare at my H-Cap.
Why isn’t it lighting up? The little blue light is supposed to light up when it’s charging. I yank it off the charging station, analyze the station, and place it back down.
Nothing.
My palms get clammy and my throat tightens. I’m not sure whether to scream, throw something, or cry into my pillow. This is all I have left from my mom. I need it to work. I need to see my mom again. Even if it’s only a picture of her at Christmas or a video of her making supper and dancing by herself in the kitchen.
I squeeze my fingers around my pillow and clench my teeth.
This is bullshit.
I’m about to angrily pull my H-Cap off the charging pad again when someone screams down the hall.
I lunge to my feet and say, “Open door” while walking straight for the wall. The door opens in time for me to not smash my face into it. Down the hall to my left, there’s a big commotion. It sounds like it’s coming from the eating lounge.
What’s going on?
I rush toward the sound as it amplifies. Women are shouting, followed by rumbly, authoritative male voices.
“Back away!” one man shouts, his voice carrying over everyone else’s.
Then, a woman shouts, “You fucking pig! Fucking pig!”
By the time I make it into the eating lounge, two men are holding a woman back by her arms. One of them seems to be having a hard time keeping her still; she kicks and claws the air in front of her. I can’t tell what she’s trying to get at until I move a bit closer, shoving my way through the
crowd.
“Come on, let’s get him to Medical.”
Who said that? Is someone injured?
“Move!” someone shouts and the crowd starts to split.
Then, out from the crowd come two women wearing all white with red cross pins fastened over their chest pockets. Between them, a tall stretcher sits on two wheels and rolls toward the elevators.
“Move!” shouts one of the doctors or nurses. I’m not certain what their status is, but I do recall Adimmer saying that each floor has medical staff present at all times in case of emergencies. I never imagined an emergency to be a fight—not in a place like this.
The man atop the stretcher doesn’t make a sound, but his large hand is clasped around something metallic that seems to be coming out of his neck. At first, it looks like a metal rod, but as the stretcher rolls closer toward me, I realize it’s a fork.
Holy shit.
I avert my attention to the woman who’s now pinned to the ground with both hands behind her back. Blood covers her knuckles and smudges against the tile floor as she squirms.
Did she stab him?
“Fucking pedophile piece of shit!” she continues.
The two men holding her down—who I assume are trained guards given their dark gray uniforms and large combat boots—scoop her back up onto her feet with her arms fastened behind her back. Without a word, they drag her down the hall at the very far right corner of the eating lounge. I have yet to see someone with basic blue clothes enter those doors, so I assume it’s a staff-only area.
Then, as if this sort of thing happens every day, a young man moves toward the bloodstains on the floor with a mop and a bucket. He shakes his head, pulls out the wet mop, and begins cleaning up the mess.
“What happened?” I ask aloud, though I’m not even sure where I’m directing my question.
A young guy who looks my age turns around with both arms crossed over his chest. He’s about a foot taller than me and somewhat lanky, though also defined with round, muscular biceps. Dark brown scruff runs along his strong jaw and chin, resembling a shadow. His eyebrows are thick and full, as are his lips, making it difficult to look away from him.