by Nirina Stone
I close my eyes to try to look closer. It’s not a glass cup.
I’m sure he asks again, but time has stopped but for the Flash! Flash! Flash!
“Mason,” I reply, finally, my eyes abruptly open. “My name is—” no, that doesn’t sound right. “Her name was—Rosemary Mason,” I finally blurt. My parents told me the name, once, when I was very little, maybe four or five.
At the time, it did not register consciously. It did not need to. I remember all the jars around our house, full of pickled things and preserved fruit, sometimes used to drink when they weren’t used otherwise. I remember thinking, What an odd name to be called after a glass jar, then I promptly forgot.
“Rosemary Mason!” I say louder, as he stands a little bit taller.
He moves backwards and I feel a surge of panic, realizing he hasn’t slid anything towards me.
“But—wait!” I say, but it’s too late. The door is closed. Maybe I got it all wrong, after all? I slump back, so tired. So hungry. I can’t think anymore. I just can’t. I close my eyes.
When I wake again, I have to shut my eyes quickly. Any light after all that darkness is an unexpected, almost painful experience. How long was I in that dark room? Is this what death looks like, or am I hallucinating something new? It’s really bright. Maybe the Vorkians wear those bright bow ties because there’s more colour and light in death than there is in life?
I look up carefully, after a few more minutes of adjusting. I lie under a cork white and gray ceiling with small pock marks all over it. There is still no sound, no movement, nothing, but I’m definitely in a different room.
I don’t move, but instincts tell me there are no restraints on my limbs. My hands lie by my sides and I wiggle my fingers, not sensing anything on my wrists. I stretch my legs and, feeling nothing there either, push myself up on my elbows to sit up and look around.
When my arm snags, I see it’s attached to something. There is a needle in my arm, linked to a tube which leads to a metal stand on the side of the bed, with two bags hanging from its top. I recognize this as an IV. They had me patched into one the day I arrived at Azure when they were about to take two of my teeth out.
The room is sparsely furnished and small—big enough for this single bed, a desk and chair in front of me, and a mirror instead of a wall in front of the desk. After the closet though, this is a veritable mansion.
I turn to my right and face a wall of glass sliding doors, leading out onto a small balcony. I sit up to look closer. The view from the balcony is the top of a massive thick forest across the way. Have I ever seen a forest of this size?
I’m definitely not in Prospo City, anymore.
Slowly, I stand and try in vain to fight the dizziness, and the nausea is still there. I’m with the Sorens. I may already be pregnant—I fight the thought away, and focus on my environment. Pushing the IV along with me, I use it to keep me from collapsing. I walk over and push at the sliding glass, but it does not budge. Guessing that it’s locked, and guessing they suspect I would jump out the window, I back away and turn toward the room.
I only had a quick look at the trees but caught sight of their lush green leaves and branches swaying in the wind. My ears prick in anticipation of the sound, but there’s nothing coming through the glass. I might as well be deaf.
There is a compartment of sorts, three feet from the left of the bed. I trudge to it and open the small beige door to look inside. It’s a bathroom. Well, a shower room to be more exact, because it is only big enough to house a shower, a toilet, and a tiny sink. It’s really only big enough for one person at a time.
There is a wardrobe across from the shower room, and right between them is a large red door.
I expect that, since it’s the only other door in this sparse room, it will lead me to whatever is outside. So I push down on the handle to open it but nothing happens. I’m locked in. Did I really expect otherwise? I turn around and sit on the edge of the bed. My head feels lighter, my skin not so dry. What can I do now, but wait?
My head turns toward the desk, realizing that it’s not empty. In fact, it is lined with all sorts of paper books, and I recognize some of the titles. There is everything from Austen and Collins to Wilde and Zafon. My fingers itch to flick through one of them, but I resist.
Where am I? I expected to wake up from my stupor attached to some machine in a fertility ward. Is this a temporary waiting room before they hook me up? If I’m already pregnant though—
Or are they attempting to make me comfortable? I look at the books, noticing they’re not dirty and dog-eared like the ones I read in Azure. In fact, most of them are in excellent condition. How is that possible?
I stand, meaning to walk over to the books to pick one up. No, focus. I sit back down and keep my eyes trained on the red door.
One of them will have to come through that door at some point. Then—then what?
I’ll try to run past them maybe. Run through them if I must. But I’m still so tired. I’m not strong, I’m still faint from my time in the hole. But I can be fast when I need to be. I hope.
I’ll fight them until there isn’t any fight left in me. There will be more of them than me but I will not let them attach me to some machine without a fight. I’m having a moment of deja vu. I was waiting in a very different room about a year ago, thinking these same thoughts. Has it been a year? How long was I in that closet? It doesn’t matter. I’m determined, as I was then, to still fight. I sit—and I wait. What time is it?
Hours have passed already, and still nothing. No one. Darkness falls, and I wonder if my captors have forgotten about me. Maybe they had a busy day today. I snicker. They likely have hundreds of little compartments like this and the closet, with hundreds of scared little Citizen females like me, and I’m waiting for my number to come up, so to speak.
I lie back down on the bed on my left side, so I have my back to the balcony, and my eyes still on the red door. My head is heavy, but my cool fingers under it ease the discomfort. I watch the door for a while, still wishing I knew the time. It would be one more thing to know, besides the thought that I’m still alive and that I’m not in Prospo City.
Then my eyes get heavier and heavier, and I let them shut for a while. No harm in closing them for a few minutes, I think.
I wake when I hear a noise—a scrape or a sniff, not sure. I raise my head an inch and see movement in my peripheral vision. Jumping onto the ground beside the bed, I keep my arms slightly in front of me. I’m not strong but I fight the dizziness. My eyes land on a man sitting in the chair in front of the small desk. The IV is gone. The man doesn’t budge. He watches my face and sits calmly, patiently, his hands on his lap.
I stay frozen and watch him. He’s tall, very tall. I’d give him about six feet five, maybe six. He is not the same man that stood in the back lit doorway for however long I was in that hole. This new man has a thick mane of yellow hair, the likes of which most of the Prospo can only replicate out of a bottle. His hair appears natural, untouched. Though how would I know? His eyes are blue, what I imagine to be ‘sky’ blue, slightly darker than the blue in Azure.
They are big eyes, as if they can take so much more in with their size. He’s not smiling at me, but has a pleasant, half amused, half bored look on his face while I study him.
I breathe in and smell something enticing. There is a tray placed at the foot of the bed.
Trying not to take my eyes off the man too long, I dart my eyes to a large bowl full of steaming fragrant stew on the tray, a buttered bun—also steaming—and a small white ceramic cup full of a frothy brown liquid I can’t place. It doesn’t look or smell like joe or really anything else familiar.
Nothing on the tray resembles the generic, over-processed food we had at Prospo City.
In all the obsession with automation and convenience, the Prospo no longer cook anything more elaborate than a sandwich. Besides, most Prospo are happy to have food in pill form as sustenance. The act of cooking is looked down upo
n as an outdated, unnatural thing. Like reading paper books or taking long walks.
We do not have similar conveniences in Citizen City, so most of the Citizens are accustomed to growing up on whole foods we farm and harvest ourselves from what little land we have.
It’s a harder, longer process, but the food we eat is delicious for it. Anything the automated machines in Prospo City dish out is sub par.
The smell of the stew reminds me of Mother’s cooking. She’s not the best cook, but she makes an incredible stew. I try not to think of Mother. I will end up crying again, and I don’t want to. Not this minute.
“Are you hungry?” my captor asks, the same moment my stomach rumbles. I can’t ignore the overwhelming hunger and nausea—how can both things exist at the same time?
He smiles. His teeth are bright, but not artificially bright. He’s dressed in a simple dark cotton shirt and jeans. He’s definitely not Prospo.
I am hungry, I’m famished. My eyes dart back to the food on the bed. Is this a trick? By Odin it smells incredible. But is it drugged?
“It’s not poisoned,” he responds to my silent question. “We do not medicate or poison people—Not on purpose.”
I frown at him and my eyes land on the food again. I’m so hungry and it smells so good, my stomach retracts and rolls. Of course I don’t trust him but, for a moment, I don’t really care. I could enjoy a couple of minutes of tasting this food—it would be worth it.
“You should eat,” he says, standing up. “You need your strength.” Then he walks to the door and is out of the room before I can ask, “Why?”
It took him two long strides to get to the door and exit. Yep, six foot six. Eyeing the door, I wait for him to walk through, but have a feeling it’s the last I will see of my captor for a while. Smelling the food, I tell myself I should leave it. If it’s not drugged or altered somehow, why would the Sorens feed it to me? I pick up the tray and carefully place it on the small desk in front of all the books. I lean in to take a long whiff of the stew and my mouth waters, making my jaws ache right under my ears.
If it is drugged, then I will likely wake up attached to a fertility machine, right? But if that’s what they were planning to do, why wouldn’t I already be there? They wouldn’t even have to poison my food. They could just as easily inject the air or my IV with a sedative and I would be at their mercy.
Who am I kidding, though? I remember my days in the black closet. Aren’t I already at their mercy?
Before I can think more, my hunger wins out. I can’t imagine a better solution than eating this food. Right now. I resolutely sit in the small chair, pick up the large silver spoon, and scoop up a small puddle of stew. I move it to my lips, still breathing in its intoxicating fragrance. I smell basil, parsley, beef. Oh beef is nearly impossible to find, these days! Carrots, turnip, potato.
What else is that? Capsicum? My mouth waters and, before I change my mind, I pop the spoon in and eat. My eyes nearly disappear into the back of my head, the flavour overwhelms me. I don’t think. I scarf it down and only slow when all that is left is a savoury gold liquid at the bottom of the bowl. I grab the bun and rip it, breathing in the creamy whipped butter as I chew.
I eat like someone who hasn’t eaten in weeks. I might not have. Will I ever find out how long they had me in that dark room?
I so miss good old Citizen City cooking. There may not be much, portion-wise, but we had it good. I better be careful, comparing Citizen food to Soren food. They are nothing like my people.
The cup of frothy brown brew smells enticing too. So I pick it up and hold it to my nose. What is that? I have never smelt anything quite like it, though it reminds me a bit of something else. Something creamy and earthy and spicy at the same time. I take a sip and sigh out loud.
The heat from the beef stew and buttered bun has already settled comfortably in my stomach and most of my body but this velvety liquid seeps through my entire skin, heating up my throat, my cheeks, my chest, all the way to the tips of my fingers. I didn’t realize until now that I still felt cold.
It is mind-numbingly good—rich and dense, roasted and fruity, earthy and warm. It is by far the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted. I still have not defined what it is, and am already drinking the last few dregs of the stuff. I swipe my finger along the wall of the cup to suck up any last drips of the brew, until the cup looks practically clean. I’m stuffed, content, and fully exhausted now.
It’s night time. My body aches to snuggle into the warm blankets on the tiny bed and sleep, for hours. For days. But my mind is telling me to beware. It wants me to try to get out of here at all costs. Because today, after I gave them what they wanted and supplied them with a name, they were kind. They fed me warm homey food. They want to soften me up.
Tomorrow, I may have to fight for my life.
Interviewer
The morning after the amazing beef stew, he sits in my room and watches me eat a breakfast of eggs, sizzling bacon, fresh vegetables and fruits, and the tastiest cup of joe I’ve ever had.
We didn’t have an amicable start, though. The moment his tall, lanky frame unlocked and walked through my door, I was ready, I was revved up. I charged at the open door, intending to ram into the tray of hot food in his arms. I miscalculated my strength and speed. He twisted to the side and away from me, the door already closing in on its hinges.
I turned to face him, my hands up in the air, my body crouched and ready to run. I didn’t see him place the tray on the desk in front of the mirror, but he was already facing me the moment I charged at him a second time.
As soon as my hands made contact, I felt his arms bend and twist me around and I was caught in a headlock, my hopeless humiliation only trumped by the dizziness in my head.
I was breathing heavily while his was short and even.
He waited, his arm still around my neck, though he didn’t choke me. He held me in such a way that I couldn’t struggle or move or really do anything other than slump, waiting.
That’s when I panicked and started yelling, screaming really, until my throat was hoarse. I felt wetness on my cheeks, and the inevitability of my situation hit me.
“You can’t!” I pleaded, all logic gone. “You can’t make me your surrogate! I’ll fight you with everything. You’ll have to kill me first!”
I expected more pain, or for him to comply to my threat. But I lost my footing when his arm loosened and I turned to face him. He held his hands out, his soft brown eyebrows raised, with a small smirk on his lips. “We don’t do—that—here,” he said. “I know you have no reason to trust me.”
“You don’t say,” I huffed.
“But listen. There’s a lot I’d like to tell you about us, and that’s the first thing you’ll learn. We don’t force surrogacy. Why would we?”
I huffed again, not sure what to say, but I remembered that they could easily have drugged me already, if their plan was—that.
“I admire that you still have fight left in you,” he finally said after I visibly weakened. “Save it for when you’re stronger. You won’t win here.”
“It’s sweet,” I muse later on, over breakfast. His eyes are on me—still waiting, I think, for me to try another attack, or throw something, but he’s right. I need to save my strength. “I’ve never had sweet joe.” Joe is always served steaming hot, brewed black as Father’s eyes. Bitter and woodsy and sharp, just enough to wake you up. Never sweet.
Sugar has been banned since Apex was first founded, so this is a first for me. The only sweet things I ever taste are fruits and some types of leaves.
“We add honey to ours,” he says.
“Honey?” I repeat. I’ve read that honey comes from honey bees, and they were extinct long before the Great Omni. We’ve since attempted to replicate the golden syrup in factories, but we no longer call it honey, given its artificial nature. It’s only syrup and it does not taste nearly as good as this. It’s quite horrible, in fact. I never waste any credits on the stuff.
Who are these people? How could they possibly have real honey? He watches me, clearly amused with my reaction, but he does not elaborate. I will have to make sure to ask at another time. My attempt at friendly conversation is pathetic at best.
The taste of the sweet joe does remind me of the lovely brown brew I had last night. So I ask, “What was in that cup yesterday?”
“Did you like it?” he asks knowingly.
Like it? I wanted to move into it, I think. “Yes,” I answer.
“It’s hot chocolate,” he says.
Chocolate! Of course. Chocolate is so rare and precious, it costs about three thousand credits an ounce. Wow. First honey bees, now chocolate. These Sorens are much better-stocked than the rest of us ever knew. They are even better-stocked than the Prospo. My head has a difficult time adjusting to that.
“So, nice to meet you Rosemary Mason,” he says after he lets me work through my thoughts.
“Mm,” I reply, pulling the cup of joe from my lips. “I’m Romy,” I say quietly.
“Right,” he nods. “Romy Mason.”
The name sounds so foreign but I play it over and over in my head, and I decide I like it. I am actually a Mason, I am no longer a Fifty Two.
“My name is Eric,” he continues. “Eric Strohm.”
I look up at him, my eyebrows raised. I momentarily wonder what his number is. Not knowing makes me uncomfortable. How could I tell how old a person is, if they are not assigned a number? “What’s your number?” I blurt, before I’m able to stop myself.
He doesn’t answer my question. He merely frowns. “Try not to label people in terms of ‘numbers,’ Romy. It won’t help you accept your name.”
I breathe and watch his face. Is that why the other man wouldn’t give me food until I remembered my name? They’re that important to the Sorens? That’s—bizarre—and when I think about my treatment, it seems needlessly cruel. What’s so significant about a mere name? At least our numbers give us information about each other, important information that’s necessary for the future of Apex. Right?