by M. A. Phipps
“Wynter,” he breathes.
The confusion I’ve been feeling attacks me from all sides, hitting its peak and overtaking my every thought.
“Wynter.”
I hear his voice in my head. I see his face. I see his tears. Memories, no doubt, attempting to resurface.
The recollections stampede in a circle through my mind, assaulting me but never taking hold long enough for me to remember a single thing of value. They simply dance along the outskirts of my memory, taunting me.
I only manage to grab hold of broken fragments.
I recall his hands against my skin in the dreamlike touch of a forbidden moment together. I see his lips pressing against mine as I hear his voice whisper my name.
“Wynter . . .”
It’s too much. My body convulses in response to the buried memories as a terrible pressure builds up in my chest, growing to the point where I can no longer contain it. Until I can no longer prevent the madness that’s been threatening to take over.
My mind channels that energy to the shackles holding me in place, and within the span of a second, they’re clattering in a loud bang against the floor. In the next breath, I’m launching myself out of the chair and using all my mental strength to pin him to the wall. I throw my body forward before anyone can stop me, gripping my fingers in a tight lock around his throat.
My words cut through the air in a shrill scream. “Why do I keep seeing you?”
His eyes stare back into mine, but he doesn’t appear to be afraid. I tighten my hold, determined to get an answer.
“Why?” I ask again.
Instead of speaking, his lips turn up in a smile. The blatant lack of self-preservation in his gaze is alarming. A single tear begins to trail along his cheek, confusing me even more.
My entire body goes still.
Why? I wonder. Why does he affect me like this?
I peer into his hazel eyes, searching their depths. At the same instant, I focus on my broken memories, desperate to understand the gaps in my life that are becoming more evident with each passing second.
Before I get the chance to discern anything helpful, a cruel darkness washes over me. Black spots dot my vision as something hard slams into my skull, and a searing pain spreads from the back of my head, dragging me to the floor.
As unconsciousness takes hold of me, my fingers slacken, releasing their grip on the man’s neck.
Slowly, I come to, pulled into waking by the distant sound of dripping water. The rhythmic tempo is like a metronome in my ear, repeating the same words over and over.
Wake up.
Wake up.
My eyes flutter open as the rest of my body curls inward, wincing in preparation for the onslaught of light. I relax when the blinding glow doesn’t affect me.
Glancing up, I turn my gaze to the bulb hanging overhead. The glare burns into my retinas, but for some strange reason, I don’t feel the need to look away. The touch of the light is warm. Yet, it never truly reaches me. It’s as if I’m only half-present in this place—dangling in and out of existence.
I cock my head, wondering why that is. Everything here appears real enough, and to an extent, it even feels familiar. In many ways, it reminds me of that peculiar dream I experienced at the DSD. The globe. The computer. That familiar voice.
The memory of what happened since then surges back into my brain. Above all, I remember the blond man from my dream and the face that now haunts my every waking moment.
My fingers tingle as I recall the feel of my hand around his throat.
Lifting my arm, I risk a gentle touch to the back of my head, applying pressure to the exact spot where the object that caused my unconsciousness came in contact with my skull. Although the pain is gone, the recollection of how I got here is crystal clear.
I take a deep breath as the pieces fall into place, allowing me to recognize what this is. What it has to be.
A dream.
The instant that single word enters my thoughts, the door in front of me unlocks with a grinding click. My eyes fix on the growing gap as the steel creaks across the floor, and my body tenses in anticipation as I wait to see someone peek through the opening. The seconds tick by, but no one comes.
I rub my fingers across my wrists where the shackles were bolted. I can still feel them there, holding me in place, even though they’re now nowhere in sight. Taking a deep breath, I rise from the chair, being careful to remain as soundless as possible. I make my way toward the doorway, casting a quick, cautious glance into the corridor before pulling against the handle.
Despite the fact that I’m aware this is only a dream, I’m still somewhat astounded to find the hallway empty. As I look down the length of the passage on both sides of me, my eyes trail along the network of pipes connected to the ceiling. The muted but harsh lighting reflects off the walls where a faint sheen of moisture covers the concrete. My damp and musty surroundings fully convince me that I’m underground.
A rush of déjà vu washes over my body, making me dizzy with the weight it presses onto my brain. I shake my head to clear it, but I’m unable to make sense of the jumbled images flooding my thoughts.
All the while, I can hear that metronomic dripping. The sound is louder now that I’m out of the tiny room, but I have no way to tell which direction it’s coming from. Straining my ears, I listen for its source—hoping I’ll discover why I’m here if I locate it.
Instead, I pinpoint the faint whisper of a voice. A siren chanting my name, beckoning me to come find it.
A soft gasp escapes my lips as my heart begins to race. The familiarity of the voice is powerful—more so than anything I’ve ever felt before. Taking full command of my body, the sensation makes me a prisoner to its every whim.
Without question or hesitation, I follow the distant calls. The lights above me blink with a sinister gleam, and my breaths are deafening in the otherwise complete silence. Near the end of the corridor, multiple passages branch off from my current path. I linger in the crossroads, unsure which one to take.
The voice reappears to guide me through my confusion.
It croons, “Wynter . . . .”
My heart stutters, but I don’t waver. Following the sound of my name, my steps are hurried as I move through the deserted hallways. The entire time, I’m steered by the voice as well as by the faint repetitive dripping.
“Wynter,” it says again.
The voice’s pull is so enticing. So warm. A desperation to find the person it belongs to overwhelms me, and without thinking, I pick up the pace. My feet stumble forward until I’m practically running.
It reaches for me once again as I pass a corridor on my right. Looking up in response to its summons, my gaze lands on a male figure standing at the distant end of the passageway. He’s too far away for me to make out his face, but I know without a shred of doubt that he’s the one who’s been calling me.
As soon as I step toward him, he disappears around the corner.
“Wait,” I breathe.
My feet carry me onward, and I never stop to consider what I’m doing or where I’m being led. I follow the silhouette through the underground maze without fail, only just catching a glimpse of him every time I turn into a new pathway. Regardless of the distance between us, he keeps urging me forward.
The voice grows louder with each step I take, and the recurring echoes of my name creep closer together until I’m swallowed by endless whispers—consumed by the deluge of sound entering my ears. Keeping my eyes set ahead, I cling to the illusion that I’m on the verge of catching him.
“Wynter,” he beckons.
His voice leads me around a corner, but I stop short almost at once. Every inch of my body freezes. Breathing in, my eyes lock on the large metal door in front of me.
As I take a step toward it, a small puddle of water pooling on the floor distracts me. The familiar dripping returns, drawing my attention to a crack in the pipes hanging overhead. I watch the drops as they fall, one after another,
hearing the cryptic sound of their reunion.
Everything about it reminds me of blood.
My eyes spring up when the door squeals open. Propelled forward by the still unclear reason behind why I’m here, I place my palm against the steel and give it a firm push. My fingers tremble as the apprehension and anticipation of the moment collide. Although I don’t feel fear, what I do experience isn’t that far off.
My knees buckle, and my ears ring as I walk over the threshold into the room. As soon as I step inside, my eyes land on the figure closest to me.
Rodrick Nolan.
He sits behind a metal desk with his arms crossed over his chest. The gesture matches the sullen expression etched into his face, and his forehead creases when his lips twist into a disturbed sort of grimace.
Following his gaze, I’m unsurprised to see the blond man is here as well. It dawns on me that he was the figure guiding me through the halls, calling my name, and leading me to this room.
They take no notice of me, but that’s to be expected.
After all, I’m not really here.
“This was a mistake.” Nolan’s knuckles turn white as his hands ball into fists. “You saw it for yourself. She’s dangerous.”
The younger man glares back at him, anger brimming on the surface of his eyes like tears. “She’s not dangerous. She’s confused.”
Confused?
Nolan releases a tired sigh. A sympathetic expression contorts his face, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and paternal. “She’s not the same person anymore, Ezra.”
My heart seizes in response to that name, cutting off the blood supply to the rest of my body. A swelling lump in my throat blocks my airways, and for many long moments, I feel as if I can’t breathe—as if I’m drowning in a wave of unrelenting uncertainty.
The man—Ezra—shakes his head in furious denial. “I refuse to believe that.”
My brow furrows as I scrutinize his face. Why is he so adamant about this? Why does it matter to him or to anyone else here? I’m nothing to these people.
Nothing except maybe a threat.
A pounding ache drills through my head as my brain tries and fails to make sense of what I’m hearing. It ties itself into knots, eager to piece together the fragments that have been gradually forcing their way to the surface.
Together, the visions, dreams, and hallucinations have formed a path of breadcrumbs, leading me to this moment.
So, what have my scattered memories been trying to tell me? Taking a step forward, I lean in close, hoping the two men might provide the answer.
“I’m not sure if she’s even human anymore, and I don’t think you should be so quick to assume she is,” Nolan drawls in a reprimanding voice. “I don’t think I need to remind you what she’s capable of.”
My lips purse, forming a tight seal.
What does he know about what I’m capable of? What does he know about my powers, about what I’ve been through, or about what made me become this way?
A darkness flashes across Ezra’s eyes. “I know I can bring her back.”
“No,” Nolan growls. “She’s too unpredictable. It’s not a good idea to keep her here.”
I flinch when Ezra slams his fist on the table. My gaze trails along the curve of his jawline, noting the visible tension behind his every strained word.
“That wasn’t part of the deal!”
Nolan’s chair groans with relief as he rises to his feet. Pressing his fingers against the steel surface of the table, he shifts forward, looming over the younger man. The movement seems to cast a shadow across the room.
“The deal was that we’d get her back. I never promised to let her live.”
“She’s one of us,” Ezra says, standing his ground.
Nolan’s expression changes when he hears those words. It’s as if the compassion he displayed before was only for show, and he’s now peeled away the mask, revealing the true nature hiding underneath.
“She was with us for less than a month,” he scoffs. “She doesn’t owe us any loyalty, nor do we owe it to her. Besides, you know the other Heads only agreed to her extraction because of who she is.” He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath. The sentiment that breaches his lips is a mere whisper. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, and I’m sorry about that. But you’re a smart kid. You know this is much bigger than us.”
“She just needs time,” Ezra pleads. “Think of what she’s been through. She’ll come around, I know it.”
Nolan lets out an exasperated sigh. Straightening up, he scratches his chin before pointing an accusatory finger in the air between them. A physical warning to coincide with his verbal one. “You have one week to prove that to me. If I’m not convinced of it by that time, or if she loses control again, I’ll shoot her myself. I’ll do what has to be done . . . even if she is Freston Reeves’ daughter.”
My eyes widen at the mention of my father.
The one constant in my life.
The one memory I refuse to let slip away.
A shudder passes through my body as I release a choked breath. The room around me fades into the background, replaced by the sudden visual torment of my past. It displays in front of me like some sick re-enactment.
I see the blood.
My father’s face.
“I’m sorry, Wynter.”
Static overwhelms the picture, interrupting the memory when Ezra’s voice enters my ears. The sound brings me back to the present, grounding me.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Without another word, he makes for the door as if taking Nolan’s assent as a sign of his dismissal.
He closes the distance between us, and for a split second, I swear he can see me. Our eyes connect, and my heart falters as I await the moment when his future and my present will intersect.
Instead, he passes through me as if I don’t even exist. The sensation leaves a foul heaviness in my gut, and the feeling only worsens when I hear Nolan’s voice pulling us back into the room.
“Ezra.”
Pausing in the open doorway, Ezra’s hand grips the metal frame as he casts a surprised look back over his shoulder. His eyes are youthful. Naïve even. Nolan’s, on the other hand, are the polar opposite. Aged, wise, but above all, dark.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he threatens.
My eyes open, reacting as if I’ve been awake this whole time. Cautiously conscious instead of asleep. Lost in a daydream rather than what it really was.
However, asleep or not, there’s no mistaking what I saw. There’s no mistaking that it was real—a moment in time outside of the present. Outside of myself.
A moment that I was allowed to look in on.
I remember everything I saw with an alarming clarity. The long hallways. Nolan. The man from my dream.
Ezra.
The desperation on his face. The anger in his voice as he tried to defend me. Although, for what reason, I’m still not sure.
Then, of course, there was the mention of my father—the most confusing aspect of everything I witnessed. How do they know him?
What does he have to do with this?
I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. My entire body aches, and the agony in my head impairs any attempt at rational thought. The unavoidable pain I managed to escape in my unconsciousness now rushes back to me, reminding me that—in spite of my powers, and in spite of Nolan’s remark suggesting otherwise—I’m still human. At least in the physical sense.
My eyes peer at the light above me, causing the brightness to stab like knives into my temples. The back of my skull throbs, and each pulse only contributes to the splitting headache crushing my brain.
I try to lift my hand, but the freedom I experienced in my dream is now lost to me. Glancing down, I expect to see myself shackled to the chair again. I am, but I can tell there’s something else holding me in place. Something internal.
I try to wiggle my toes.
Nothing.
I try to
shift my fingers.
Nothing.
I can’t flex a single muscle in my body.
The people here must’ve had the foresight to prepare for the limitations of using restraints. I showed them how easily I could break them before, and now they’ve taken steps to ensure my captivity.
In a very Richter-like move, they must have injected me with a drug. That’s the only explanation. A paralytic of sorts, I assume. Whatever would stop me from getting free, or as Nolan put it, losing control again.
I lift my gaze to the camera in the corner of the room. The red light on the side blinks every few seconds, similar to the one back in my quarters at the DSD. They’re watching me, I know it.
Someone is always watching.
What do you want with me? I wonder.
I consider saying something—anything to distract me from the constant surveillance, or at the very least, get answers for it. Licking my lips, I ready myself.
The metal door squeaks open the instant the right words materialize in my throat, silencing me.
A male figure appears in the entryway, drawing my attention. His head of messy black hair peeks almost childlike around the steel, and his every movement as he lingers on the threshold is wary and unsure. Fixing his blue eyes on my face, he builds up the courage to speak.
“Wynter?” He whispers my name as if the word is fragile and likely to break.
Confusion overtakes me as I scrutinize his face. He seems unnerved by my expression.
My eyes fail to blink as I await his next move. For a brief instant, his feet stumble back, but he stops short, catching himself. Finding his resolve, he clears his throat and repositions his stance in the doorway. A moment later, he walks into the room with both hands raised in surrender.
“I just want to talk.”
There’s a trace of despair behind his tone, which is mirrored in his eyes. Like a wave of sadness, it floods his gaze, growing more prominent with each second he waits for me to answer. It’s as if he’s drowning. As if my voice is the only thing that can save him from the emotions threatening to suffocate us both.
The way he stares at me says so much more than words ever could.