Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

I remember him standing in the Cross, smoking his cigar, and I realize what he wanted. It’s obvious; it’s what he’s wanted from the beginning: to protect me. Trembling, I ask the next question, though I’m terrified of the answer. “What happened?”

  He flips a screen in front of him around to face me, and I see myself there, swaying in the crowd. When the two men surround me on either side and begin to grope me, the foggy memory seeps back with a sting, and I’m numb, because I know what I’m about to witness.

  The Grace on the screen turns with a left hook to the guy’s temple, then she proceeds to smash his face in with her steel-toe until Jade pulls her off of him.

  But that’s not how I remember it.

  “It was Murray,” I say, aware of how insane that sounds. Maybe I’m most devastated by the fact that my suspicion—that I knew deep down all along—has been officially proven valid. Murray’s not real. I’m insane as fuck. I might as well chalk up Missy’s death next to Eve’s and Corbin’s, because there’s no way I can get through this with broken machinery.

  “Is he dead?” I whisper.

  “No, thank goodness, otherwise you would be in trouble.”

  “I’m not in trouble?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s a reason we have cameras everywhere, dear. We have rules here in the Tunnels, and rape is not an allowance of any sort.” He taps a code into a button pad on the wall beside him. “Would you mind if I recorded our session? It’ll help for future treatment approaches.”

  “Sure.” I’m being watched everywhere I go—why not recorded, too?

  “Great.” He repositions himself in the chair with notepad and pen, and suddenly, I feel right at home. “So, I’m going to ask you a few questions, as well as give you a few instructions, and I want you to answer them, and follow them as best you can, even though some of them may strike you as odd. Okay?”

  He turns his notepad around where I can see it, the scribbled words he’s written there:

  Do exactly as I say if you want me to help you.

  Answer YES to all questions.

  Do NOT take the pills I give you before you leave.

  “Do you understand?” he asks me, flipping the page over to a new sheet.

  “Uh, yes. Okay.” My heart pounds inside my chest at the prospect of help, though the fear of the unknown monster hunting me is too real.

  “Great,” he says. “So, let’s begin . . .”

  Behind him, mounted to the wall is a camera. I sweat in my clothes, and my head spins from whatever I ingested earlier, not to mention the confusion of what the fuck is going on.

  “Let’s start with a series of questions, Grace. I’m going to ask you them one at a time, and I want you to answer simply ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Got it?”

  I rub my clammy palms together and exhale a nervous breath. “Yes.”

  “All right, question one: Do you sometimes feel like others have control over your thoughts and actions?”

  I give it a second before answering.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  After another few seconds of dramatizing contemplation, I answer “Yes” again.

  “I see . . . And is this with men only?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy being submissive, Grace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it because you feel safe, not having to make decisions for yourself? You feel . . . taken care of? I’m just throwing these out there, so stop me if I’m wr—”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Okay . . . Do you like to engage in sexual activity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like when you’re handled aggressively?”

  Though my skin burns, and there’s an urge to say what the fuck? I answer “Yes” instead.

  “Hmm . . . interesting.” He taps his chin with his pen. “This makes me wonder if perhaps . . . well, it seems you have some dualistic thinking happening here, which may be due to past trauma and your dissociative identity disorder. And when large amounts of drugs and alcohol are involved, it seems to throw you off course.”

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “What I’m saying, Grace, is that, well . . . sitting here talking to you now, I see no issues. You’re right where you’re supposed to be, in terms of what is expected of you here in the Tunnels. The possibility of your disorders throwing you off track is real, and it seems that’s what needs to be addressed here. Have you ever been on medication for this?”

  “Yes, plenty of times.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you’re in luck. We have some of the best doctors in the world right here in the Shield. We should have no problem getting something to level you out.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. I really need that.”

  “Now, just a few more things, and we’ll get you those pills.”

  “Okay.”

  “I would like for you . . . to undress.”

  I almost say “What?” but then remember the note: Do exactly as I say if you want me to help you. Of course I don’t trust him—there’s not a man left in the world that I do. But, at a loss for other options, looks like “total compliance” is the only way.

  I unzip my boots and stand, kicking them off to the side. On the verge of tears, I tremble as I remove my bustier. But when I notice his eyes turned downward out of respect, I get a renewed morsel of hope. I peel off my skirt and panties and stand, stark naked before him, the camera, and the world behind it, hands to my sides so they don’t shake.

  “Good girl,” he says, still not looking at me, so I know his words are scripted. “Now, I want you to touch yourself.”

  Utterly humiliated, I raise a shaky hand to my breasts, another to my vagina, and rub, fire building in me.

  Someday, I’m going to kill these fucking bastards.

  “Very good,” Dr. Rezner says. “You may get dressed.”

  Twenty-Six

  Doctor Rezner’s “help” came in the form of pills he also instructed me, secretly, not to take. And I won’t, unless it’s all at once. He lets me out of his office and a nurse walks me down a long, gray corridor with equally gray doors all along its length on both sides.

  After two rights, a left, and another right, we arrive at a front desk, where a guard awaits.

  “He’ll show you out, ma’am,” the nurse says.

  “Thanks.”

  I follow the heavyset guard through more winding gray corridors, and with each step, my reality becomes more and more apparent. Not only am I powerless over my fucked up situation, but there’s something majorly wrong with my brain. I’m in no way prepared to take on this place and get my family out. All of these broken pieces will never add up to be enough.

  When I leave the guard at the Shield, crossing through one last corridor to get to the Cross, my feet take me toward the Lounge. I don’t stop to see if the beats being spun are by Syd, or if Jade’s pigtails are bobbing in the crowd, nor do I stop at the bar. I can’t bear to face them. They all now know what a lunatic I am, so why would they want to leave here with me anyway?

  My feet carry me up the stairs to the Alley, past OM’s, and they stop in front of the skull-and-crossbones sign, still hanging cockeyed. Only when I’m standing there do I remember it costs four hundred ration points. I can’t even afford to properly kill myself in this place.

  Eyeing the pill bottle in my hand, my vision blurs with tears. I unscrew the cap, stifling the sob that wants to escape.

  “You okay, Grace?”

  Jay stands at the doorway of OM’s, hands stuffed into his pockets.

  “Uh, yeah—I was . . .” I wipe at my eyes, fumble for a lie, but the truth is: it’s hard to lie about what I was contemplating, standing at the doorway to the deathshop, in tears, with a pill bottle in my hand.

  Jay nods. “So, what I’m hearing you say is t
hat you’re ready to get some work done tonight?”

  He smiles, holds out his hand, and I take it.

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  “I thought so.” He leads me into his studio and releases my hand to move some magazines off of the loveseat so I can sit. “This one’s on the house.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. If anyone needs a break, it’s you, sweetie. So, consider yourself broken.” He pulls on a pair of black latex gloves and turns to face me. “Now let’s get you built back up again.”

  §

  Jay suggests we do something that would give me a fresh start, something that would keep me strong, grounded—and at first, I didn’t know what that would be. But then, it came to me, thinking back over my life, adding up all of those fragmented pieces.

  There was that time, when I was still pure, about seven years old, when I’d sit by the pond at one of my foster homes. There was a willow tree there, and I’d sing under it all day, just being a little girl, playing with bugs and picking flowers—the things little girls do. And after that little girl was slain before me, the music ripped from her chest along with her beating heart, that willow tree was all that was left to remind her of the time when there was still music inside of her.

  “So, what are we doing and where are we putting it?” Jay asks me.

  “A willow tree. Could you do it over this scar on my back?” I lift up my shirt to show him, and too late notice the camera across the room. Shit. But whatever. I’m in too deep to know which way is up right now, so who knows if it even matters anymore.

  He traces the scar. “Yep, sure can. We’ll draw it on you first, then the inking in shouldn’t take too long. You have anywhere to be?”

  “Back in the dorms. But just whenever you’re finished.”

  Even if I’m there for Missy, who’s to say I’d be able to stop them from taking her if they wanted to? I’m powerless. I remove my shirt and bra and lie on his black, cushioned tattoo table, gripping the edges to help secure me from the cyclone inside.

  As he draws, gentle hands touching the areas they should and nothing else, I begin to relax, though the sorrow is a heavy burden in my heart, still. Soft tears drip from my cheeks to the leather. I can’t stop them, nor do I really even care. At one point, probably when he sees the snot dripping from my nose (again), and dangerously close to contaminating his table, Jay hands me a tissue without a word, then goes back to drawing.

  After about thirty minutes, he stands back to inspect his work of art. “Wanna see it?”

  “When it’s finished.”

  With a nod he begins to remove items from drawers, lining up his tattoo supplies. He shakes a bottle of green ink, glances at me from his peripheral and raises an eyebrow. “Is this a good green?” He holds the bottle in front of me.

  “You’re the artist.” I grin up at him. “But yeah, it looks great to me.”

  “Awesome. Let’s do it.”

  Once all necessary items are appropriately dispersed beside him, he picks up his tattoo machine, steps on the floor pedal connected to it, and the buzzing sound I haven’t heard in a couple years awakens an apprehension. I brace myself against the onset of pain.

  “Relax,” he tells me. “Breathe in and out. That’s all that’s expected of you here.”

  I’m not sure why—they’re simple words—but they’re exactly what I needed to hear. My body relaxes as I focus on my breath.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “No,” I say with a grin.

  He returns the grin before leaning over me to begin. It hurts at first, but then, the pain takes me away from this place, and that’s all I could ask for. Pain with a purpose.

  Is this my alchemy?

  For the next hour or so neither of us speaks. While he works, I do my best to clear the garbage from my mind, eventually settling into a zone-out, a calm amidst the storm. I’m surprised when the buzzing of the machine stops.

  “Finis,” he says.

  “Really? Wow, that didn’t take long.”

  “Nah, not too bad. Ready to see it?” He offers me a handheld mirror, holding a second one behind me to reflect the image on my back.

  “Of course.” I take the mirror from him and sit up. “I can’t wait.”

  When I catch a glimpse of the masterpiece—long, delicate branches swept in a circular pattern over the scar, as though the wind were blowing—I weep, but not because of how beautiful it is. I feel the same. The beauty of this art has been wasted on undeserving skin.

  “Sometimes,” he says, cleaning up his workspace, “the seeds we plant take a while to grow. But we have to water those seeds, believe in nature’s ability to do what she does best—survive; grow; evolve. Don’t lose hope.”

  His sage words comfort some, but they don’t heal. “Thank you,” I say anyway. “And thanks for this beautiful artwork. It really means a lot to me.”

  “Hey, no problem” He smiles. “Clean it twice a day, and it should heal just fine. I would give you ointment, but I’ve been out of that for a while.”

  “That’s okay. And I’ll keep it clean. Thanks, Jay.” I give him a hug, and he returns it with a firm embrace, as if he were a long-lost friend.

  “You bet. Hang in there, Grace.”

  “I will.”

  §

  The fresh pain between my shoulder blades sparks a flash of memory, ropes around my wrists, face down. And though I know the new symbol means I get a fresh start, the hope for one is a dying seedling. Jay had told me to water it, but I’m not sure how. Numb, defeated, I descend the last two steps to the bar, where all new women occupy the cages, and I find Jade and Logan sitting together at a table.

  When they see me, they stop talking and stare. And though I want to avoid Logan, the need for help of any kind is too strong to let a little jealousy and anger sway me. I join them at the table, and for a few seconds, no one says anything.

  “Grace, I’m sorry,” Logan finally says.

  “For what?” I take the brown bottle from the center of the table and sip it, the burn from sweet bourbon drizzling down my throat. “Fuck whoever you want—I don’t care.” I gulp from the bottle this time, until every last drop has disappeared into my mouth, then set it onto the table with a clank. “We need to get Missy and get out of here. That’s all I care about.”

  But my words and actions don’t add up—I’m aware of that—as I leave the table to the bar to order another bottle of bourbon. Only twenty ration points. Well, thank goodness I have plenty of those now. And maybe that’s why. By giving me the means to fuck myself, they keep me weak, docile . . . compliant. They know I have no self-control, and they’re playing all their cards right.

  Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. So my desire to save Missy, the urgency attached to it, is overshadowed by my own, wretched truth—I’m not good enough to save her. This is what I’m good at. Getting fucked up. Fucking things up.

  I go back to the table and sit with Logan and Jade, gulping from the bottle until my face, nostrils, esophagus, and belly burn with fire.

  “Damn, slow down, muchacha triste,” Jade says. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Don’t you already know?”

  They both fidget, avoid my gaze.

  “The dude you attacked is in ICU,” Logan says. “He’s in a coma. He may not make it.”

  “Good. Serves the fucker right.”

  “What . . . happened, exactly?” he asks.

  But the words won’t come, drenched by another guzzle of whiskey.

  “I have to go to Missy. We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?” they both ask.

  “I just . . . need to get us out. And I want you both to come with me. Syd, too.”

  “What?” Logan raises an eyebrow. “Why would you possibly want to leave? This place is fucking amazing. Are you nuts?”


  The words come at the wrong time, because—yes, I am—therein lies the problem. But I can’t say anything else, because I don’t know what I can, or can’t, and even how to say it all in the first place. I’m trapped, and mere words can’t fix that.

  They hop from the table and follow me as I descend the ramp, drunk as shit and stumbling. I wave them away, tell them I’ll see them again soon, and I head toward the dorms. It’s three a.m.

  §

  Sheryl-Dean is at the desk when I arrive, thank the goddess. I trust her. Though she won’t tell me everything, she wants to. She greets me, scans my eyes, and inspects me. I’m obviously drunk, but she sighs, shrugs, and pats my shoulder. “Rough night again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But go get some rest. You’ll feel better once you’ve had some sleep.”

  I nod, relieved to see a Missy-shaped lump beneath the blanket on her mat. The slightest creak in the floor tiles, though, and she rolls over. She’s wet-faced, with puffy eyes, and snot plastered to her cheek and in her hair. I bawl at the sight of her, because I can’t help her, can’t save her. All I can do is love her, but that doesn’t seem like enough. I lie beside her, hold her against me, and her tears stop at the sudden outpouring of mine. She studies me as I confess my inadequacies, drifting into drunken darkness.

  “You deserve better than me, Missy,” I whisper, tears falling from my cheek to hers. “You’d be so much better off without me. You deserve someone who can protect you, and keep you safe, and I can’t, Missy.” I sob, holding her tightly, and I feel myself being pulled away. “I should just go . . .” I murmur.

  Missy kisses my cheek, puts her mouth by my ear, and like the breath of spring, or a rosebud opening its petals for the first time, she whispers words that follow me to that dark dreamland.

  “Don’t go.”

  PART II

  PLANES

  Twenty-Seven

  When I wake up, the room is empty.

  Startled and disoriented, I panic and jump from my mat too fast. I get a fierce head rush, followed by a dizzy spell, the telltale signs that Grace had too much to fucking drink last night.