"Could you describe her behavior as she left? Did she act peculiar in any way?"
Ethan nods. "She finally approached me then. Before I could stop her, she grabbed one of my arms and held it firmly in both of her hands. She pulled me close to her and told me that when she returned in a few minutes, she wanted me to—"
The door to the security room opens without warning and the tech pauses the digivid. Sophia enters, bearing a digital reader in her hands, which she hands to me. The screen is black, the power button in the off position.
"Here are the logs of Emerson's visitors," she tells me. "It mostly contains a list of nurses entering his suite periodically to ensure that his vitals were normal. He had to be healthy to produce an offspring during his scheduled ritual with Ava Suarez. He also suffered from a disorder that could prevent him from participating in the ritual in the first place. On the evening before his death, a familiar doctor provided medications to help his disorder."
I accept the reader from her and she turns to exit again.
"Where are you going?" I ask her.
"One of the Amber Army soldiers has requested my presence." She opens the door and leaves without a backward glance.
I wonder what the Amber Army wants with her but I try not to think about it. I have an interrogation to critique. Telling the tech that I will view the logs later, I toss the digital reader aside and tell him to play the digivid.
"—alert security." Ethan finishes. The new tone of voice he has adopted—his pitch peaking slightly at odd moments—is indicative of confusion. "I couldn't comprehend her words. She spoke as if she was insane, definitely someone who had abandoned the Purge. I complied with her request because I didn't have another choice. There was a surge of something foreign inside of me. A voice in the back of my mind told me to do as she said. Then, she disappeared into the nearest elevator, only to reappear from the same elevator not even a minute later."
"A voice spoke to you inside of your head?"
Ethan shifts uneasily suddenly. He's very nervous. What he just revealed to Ramos could have negative consequences. As it was in the past, hearing voices means that a person is mad.
"Yes," Ethan replies calmly.
Ramos falls silent and studies Ethan for a moment. Ethan holds his gaze. I study his tight facial features and detect a lingering anxiety beneath it all. Ethan keeps his nerves at bay very well, the Purge assisting him.
Then, Ramos continues. "When she returned, was her behavior different or the same?"
"Different. She seemed a lot more composed. She glanced at me briefly and headed straight for Emerson's suite. The moment I saw her, I phoned security like I was told to do. They couldn't understand my alert but they sent a team up anyway. Before they arrived, the woman exited Emerson's suite, definitely in a panicked state. She ran in the opposite direction, only to return to the suite a third time. I told the guards that she was inside and they pursued her until she escaped. That's when we all found out that she had killed Representative Emerson."
"While the killer was inside of Emerson's suite, did you hear anything to suggest foul play?"
Ethan shakes his head. He still appears confused. "No, sir. I was too far away to hear anything."
Ramos ends the interrogation there. The tech silences the digivid and I sit there for a moment, deep in thought. The interrogation baffles me and I understand why Ramos couldn't get anything out of it. The interaction between the killer and the witness travelled to an unfamiliar realm of weirdness. Why would she tell the concierge to call security when she returned? Why did she return? My brain is addled, unable to come up with a logical explanation for the killer's peculiar actions.
I think long and hard. The camera glitches—possibly a technical malfunction or the results of deliberate tampering. The silenced Grid—either by a hack or by an attempt to contain Emerson for some reason. An off the hinges killer. Then, a normal, composed killer . . . at least until the arrival of the guards. The killer left Emerson's suite, possibly after killing him, and fed the concierge a confusing instruction. She exits via elevator only to return. Why would she return after murdering a government official? The only reason is—
It's only a theory. I need more evidence to back it up before I can tell anyone. Nonetheless, I'm almost positive I figured out why the killer came back.
Because she didn't come back.
I take a look at the logs Sophia brought me then. The tech exits the room, leaving me alone.
I click on the reader. Sophia was right. All of Emerson's visitors were nurses, except for two. His last visitor is listed as Ava Suarez, but of course, she never arrived at BioLife this morning.
But the previous guest, the doctor that Sophia mentioned, visited Emerson yesterday evening. She left her all-day shift at the hospital to administer two drugs, an Epimedium extract and sildenafil citrate. She was Emerson's personal physician prior to his death, meaning she had a security clearance to enter the Core. I never knew this about her because the government doesn't go around revealing information about the people who maintain their health.
The visitor was none other than the criminal, Dr. Emilia Cato.
Chapter Eleven
Charlotte
Currently Listening To: "In Regards to Myself" by Underoath
I face the two cops with as much bravery as I can muster. I'm in trouble and all I can think about is my relief that neither my father nor Abigail is here to witness my arrest. Abigail witnessed Scarlett being taken away in handcuffs and the event has traumatized her.
I opt to play innocent when I respond. "I don't know why you would book me, Officer," I say calmly, my voice purged of all emotion—no pun intended. "I'm unaware that I have committed a crime."
The female cop who frisked me down has moved a few paces away from me. Her hand grips the handle of the Rain Discharger at her side. She looks like a man, so I'm a bit offended that she touched me. She has very short hair that doesn't look very flattering, especially stuffed beneath a patrol hat. Her eyebrows are so thick that they almost kiss to form a unibrow. Her eyes are as dark as the far reaches of space, twin black holes that reflect no light.
Her companion stands near the mouth of the alleyway, his pistol removed from his holster and trained upon me. I'm glad that I'm used to having guns aimed in my general direction, or I would have reacted in a way that would certainly strengthen the charges against me.
Shadows conceal half of his face. From what I can make of the half that I can view perfectly, I find that he's also not very pleasant to look at.
He has a scrunched face, as though he rammed himself repeatedly into a brick wall. His green eyes are sunken into his skull and resemble dying vegetation. His nose is large and crooked and his skin tone borders on plum colored. He's short and squat and his uniform does nothing to hide his bulk.
I wait for a response, my body so numb that I'm surprised I'm able to stand. My wrists start itching, curiously anticipating the shackles that will bind them soon. I'd rather the cops hurry up and get this over with. I might topple over soon if they don't.
"You should know perfectly well of the crime you've committed," the male cop insists without actual insistence in his voice. "It's been broadcasted across all news feeds today."
For the second time today, I chide myself for not tuning into the news channels regularly. Apparently, I missed seeing the public portrait of myself that everyone has to take every year for government records. How could I have been so stupid? If I watched the news today, then the segment would have confirmed that the cops were on to me.
But then again, Lilly watched the news. She told me that my mug shot wasn't on television today. So could that mean—
"I've missed the news because I've been running errands all day," I slip easily into the lie.
"Did you not go to school?" Scrunch-face asks.
Crap. I shake my head automatically, thinking. "My father is ill," I concoct another lie by telling the truth. "I had to stay home and give him his sch
eduled medications before he sent me to run errands. I have several excused absences from school for such occasions."
Scrunch-face eyes me hard, never lowering his weapon. I know what he's searching for but he won't find it on my face.
"She's telling the truth," Almost-unibrow speaks up suddenly. I glance at her and notice the scanner in the opposite hand of the one ready to withdraw her Discharger. She must have read my vector while patting me down. Everyone has an invisible electrical field, or vector, that surrounds his or her body. Like DNA, vectors can reveal a lot about a person. "Her father has Black Death."
That convinces him. Whenever someone mentions cancer, the conversation usually takes a more serious and somber tone.
"So, you don't know anything about the new law?" Scrunch-face questions me, finally lowering his gun.
"No," I retort simply. I say nothing more because internally I'm relieved that this chance encounter has nothing to do with Emerson's murder. I'm not too relieved however because I've still broken the law, although I have no clue why.
Scrunch-face holsters his Discharger. "Effective immediately, bright colored clothing of any sort is illegal to wear, in accordance with bill number 462-B of the Social Constitution."
"I beg your pardon?" The words tumbles out of my mouth like crumbling blocks. My world is suddenly at a standstill and I feel my previous numbness returning to me.
Scrunch-face repeats his words with this addition: "It's because a group of teenagers like yourself have formed some kind of silent revolutionary force at a local high school. They call themselves the Free Spirits, and before things get out of hand and this group joins up with SAFE, Parliament passed the new bill yesterday. The absolute way to end a revolt is to destroy it before it can even fester."
I feel like someone has crushed me with a rock the size of Europe. The Free Spirits? Someone mentioned those words before—the purple-haired girl whose name I still didn't know—and now it all makes sense. The Free Spirits is the clique at school that I inadvertently created because of my unique and colorful attire. I always knew that something like this would happen. All I wanted was to create my own style, but now I'm to blame for this new law.
I really want to retort sardonically by calling the law stupid but I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood. That's when Scrunch-face speaks again, his words distorted at first, until I focus on what he is saying.
"—to allow you to leave this once. You are to head straight home and get rid of any articles of clothing that are not on the approved list, which you can find online. I shouldn't even have to tell you that failure to obey the new law will result in disciplinary action up to a ten-year prison sentence."
Another surprise. He's letting me off the hook. I didn't know leniency existed here in Paradise.
I leave without saying anything more and I wander home throughout the city, lost in my own thoughts. I can't believe it. The heartless government strikes again with another unnecessary rule to keep all of their precious citizens in line. I always wondered why brightly colored clothing wasn't banned a long time ago, along with outfits that stimulate sexual desire. I was always surprised that the government hadn't forced us all to dress conservatively like Mormons by now.
Slowly but surely, they're heading down the route towards extreme modesty and that angers me.
Everything about Paradise upsets me. This place is a cesspool of inhumane practices that reeks of a need to change. By seeking a perfect society, those elected to be in charge have conditioned us through various means, whether scientifically, psychologically, or physically, to become nothing more than slaves.
They have stripped away our basic rights as human beings. They have destroyed our absolute freedom by perversion. They have taken away our individuality and transformed us all into machines. We're all one unit, a program, and they're the programmers. Those who resist are treated like viruses, an infection to be cured, when the programmers themselves are the real threat.
They have caused us to forget what it's like to be human. Babies don't even cry anymore when they're born because we're not allowed to feel pain. The true meaning of family no longer exists, lost to the fabrications that the government creates so that we can reproduce, replicating the programs already engineered by society. The Purge prevents us from enjoying life's pleasures or even triumphing over hardships. We simply don't feel anything anymore. No happiness. No sadness. No grief. No pity. No fear. No love. I'm thankfully off the Purge but even I don't know what it's like to really experience an emotion. When I think I feel ecstasy, am I really happy? I don't know. When I think I feel scared, am I really afraid? Again, I don't know. Emotions are psychophysiological responses to internal and external experiences. Externally, there aren't too many things around here to evoke feelings from those of us who have stopped taken the Purge. At least not positive feelings. We tend to view Paradise as Hell on Earth, a bleak world where we exist but not live. We mostly react negatively to the world around us. Happy moments rarely happen here.
That's why some of choose to rebel, no matter the scale. We are treated like viruses and so we can never be completely destroyed. That's the one good thing about a virus—it's capable of mutating like out of control cancerous cells. People have a lot in common with viruses. We adapt. We survive. We evolve.
I think about the girl I could be if the Purge didn't exist and the government didn't corrupt people's minds by telling us that emotions are evil if left unchecked. I could have many friends. The purple-haired girl and I could spend a lot of time hanging out with Lilly, doing something or absolutely nothing at all. I could have a true family, where I didn't have to hide the joy or sorrow I feel whenever my eyes find Abigail or my father. I would still have Scarlett around and she wouldn't be spending most of her life trapped in a jail cell. Perhaps I would even have a mother alive and well. It saddens me that I can't even say goodbye to my father and sister in public because I would be arrested.
I could even fall in love—like Scarlett. I think about the boy from the monorail. He wouldn't be a White Agent then, so maybe we could have some kind of future together that was more than casual glances during an aerial ride across the city. Who knows how he might feel about me? Who knows what I might feel about him? He has already captured my attention, captivated me somehow. It sucks not understanding how I truly feel about him. Do I have a crush on him? Am I in love with him? I scoff. Love is a four-letter word that I can't comprehend because society won't allow me to. But if the world was different, then I could understand it a little bit, like the characters in the stories I've read.
If the world was different . . . .
On my way home, I pass familiar places and even though my mind is elsewhere, I notice that several boutiques where I used to shop have been closed indefinitely. All of these places tended to sale clothes that were unfavorable to most of the population. The new law has caused people to lose their businesses. This upsets me even more. I am now incensed.
I hurry home, shocked that I actually make it. I march right inside and past Abigail, who's lounging on the couch, studying.
"Hey, Char—" She starts to greet me but stops abruptly when she realizes that I'm not pausing to listen to her.
I climb the steps two at a time. Enraged, my head pounds like a bass drum, an incessant thumping against my skull. I give in to rage, unleashing a plethora of emotions that are the least bit positive. Tears pour from my eyes as I tear open my bedroom door. It bangs against the wall. If my father was asleep, he's definitely awake now. But I don't care. I don't care about anything but losing myself for a while to my anger.
I pull open my closet door and start gathering up armfuls of clothes that are now illegal to possess. Carrying as many shirts, pants, dresses, skirts that my arms can hold, I storm back downstairs and out into the backyard. I dump everything onto the grass and return to the house, heading back upstairs for more.
Abigail sits up on the couch and watches me as I pass. I ignore her, my body shaking uncontrollably
. I'm not even fully aware of what I'm doing. My body acts of its own accord, driven by my wrath, as I snatch up more clothes from my closet and make another trip to the backyard.
Abigail follows me to the patio door. She observes me quietly for a moment before asking, "What are you doing?"
I don't reply. I drop the second batch of clothes and stroll back inside. Abigail steps aside and allows me to sweep past her. She knows I'm pissed and she knows not to get in my way after I snapped at her earlier. She's only seen me in this state twice before. The first was during the beginning stages of my withdrawal. The second was after Scarlett was taken from us.
Emptying out my closet takes about six trips, up and down the stairs. I hear movement in my father's bedroom when I go to work on my dresser during my seventh run. He's on his way to investigate the ruckus, making his way slowly towards the door. I feel awful for waking him but I'm lost completely to my rage now. There's no turning back.
I carry more clothes out into the yard and when I return for more, I find that my father's bedroom door is open. "Charlotte?" He calls in a barely audible voice. Just like with Abigail, I ignore him too.
I grab more and more clothes, spilling socks and underwear everywhere. I don't pause to pick any of them up from the floor. I'm oblivious to everything. What am I trying to accomplish by my little act? The hell if I know. All that matters is carrying out the deed, destroying the last vestiges of my personality.
It's all my fault. I'm to blame for this and now I must suffer.
More and more clothes. The pile out in the grass grows larger and larger with every armful I bring to it. I never realized how many different outfits I had until now. I really loved clothes, especially those with bright and wonderful colors. Or did I? I don't know. I'm so confused. I believe that I loved clothes but I don't know what love is. I don't know what anything is anymore. Am I really angry or am I just putting on a show? If it's the latter, then whom am I trying to entertain?
I don't know. I don't know anything.
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