Forgotten

by Kristin Smith

  I shake my head a little. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Trey nods to the shawl in my hands. “Your shawl. There’s a place to hang it.” Before I can protest, he grabs the shawl from my arm. “Come. I’ll show you where it is.”

  I follow him across the room, my eyes sweeping the space, searching for Zane. When we reach the coatroom, an attendant is in there, taking coats and giving stubs. Trey hands it to the girl who’s working, a girl with mousy brown hair and light eyes.

  “Sienna Pr—” Trey starts to say before I interrupt him.

  “Shauna Tate,” I say quickly, flashing the girl a smile.

  “Yes,” Trey says slowly. “Shauna Tate.”

  Wordlessly, the girl hands me the stub, which I put into my clutch. As we’re walking away from the coat check, Trey’s fingers latch onto my elbow and pull me to the side, to the base of one of the columns. “I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with the blonde?”

  “Well…” I shrug. “I’ve always heard that blondes have more fun.” I’m keenly aware of his hand still touching my elbow, burning a hole through my bare skin.

  He smirks. “Is that why you’re here? To have fun?”

  “Maybe.”

  Trey’s eyes narrow, analyzing me. “Why are you really here, Sienna?”

  “It’s not because of you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I retort.

  His hand drops. “No—I mean, I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “You sure? Because you act like my whole life revolves around you. And it doesn’t.” Okay, so maybe I’m stretching the truth, but I can’t stand his smug look.

  His eyes soften. “I’m sorry. Truth is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what you said to me at Zane’s house. Before I left with Rayne.”

  The rhythm of my heart changes. “What do you mean?”

  “I keep thinking about what you told me. You know…” He looks uncomfortable. “About how you feel about me.”

  Ah, so he feels guilty. Guilty that he pushed me aside so easily without a thought or care for my feelings.

  His eyes find mine. “I’ve also—” He stops and glances around before leaning in. “I’ve been having these dreams.”

  My breath catches. “What about?”

  “Weird things. The desert, underground rooms.” He pauses for a second before he says softly. “You.”

  My heart pounds like it’s about to come right out of my chest. “Me?”

  Trey nods. “And I don’t know if these are dreams or if they’re…” He lets the idea hang.

  “Memories,” I whisper.

  “Right.”

  The hired orchestra plays in the background, a low, soulful tune. I notice that a few couples are already slow dancing to the music in the open space of the main hall.

  Trey glances around. “Care to dance?” he asks, holding out his hand.

  For a long moment, I stare at it, not sure what this invitation entails. “Where’s Rayne?” I ask.

  With his hand still outstretched, he replies, “She wasn’t feeling well. Decided to stay home.”

  I place my clutch on a nearby table and fit my hand in his.

  He leads me to the dance floor, turning me until I’m facing him. With gentle fingers, he lifts my hand, placing it on his shoulder while his other hand finds mine, fitting our hands perfectly together. When he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, we’re chest to chest. He’s so close that I’m scared to breathe. It’s all so familiar, yet it’s foreign at the same time.

  I would never have guessed that Trey could dance, but surprisingly, he’s really good. I’m probably awkward and stiff, but I try to follow his lead as we step and twirl around the room. I’m not sure what dance we’re doing—or if it even has a name—but I do like being in his arms, the solidness of them around me.

  As we move around the room, my fingers inch toward the base of his neck, wanting to confirm what I already know to be true. He raises an eyebrow as I pretend to play with the hair curling against his neck. “I’ve always liked the way your hair curls back here,” I murmur, running my fingers along his hairline. And that’s when I feel it—the puckered skin so similar to my own. Trey’s mouth moves into a half-smile before he dips me low.

  The orchestra plays an even slower song and then we’re moving ever so slightly, more like a sway than a dance. I’m staring at a fixed spot across the room—a painting of a bowl of fruit—but when I feel Trey’s eyes on me, I look up. Big mistake.

  He clears his throat and says, “You look beautiful tonight.”

  My cheeks flame, and I’m suddenly self-conscious of my exposed skin. My pale skin with the million freckles. I wish I still had my shawl.

  “How are things with you and Zane?”

  “Complicated.”

  Right then, static buzzes in my ear and Zane’s voice comes through. “Sienna, I have eyes on your father.”

  Trey and I are standing so close that I panic. Could he hear that? I step out of his arms, and Trey gives me a puzzled look.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Of course.” I smile. “Do you want to get some air? I heard there’s a garden in the back.”

  “Sure,” Trey says.

  I grab my clutch from the table, turn my ticket stub in at the coat check, and retrieve my shawl, draping it around my shoulders. As we’re walking through the hall to the door that will lead to the gardens, my mind is racing. I can feel myself drawing closer to Trey, and now might be the time to give him some proof about his memory loss.

  Twilight has turned to night, and as we step outside, I peer into the darkness. There are a few hanging lanterns that light the path through the gardens, but instead of taking that path, I motion for Trey to follow me to the darkest corner of the garden. He seems hesitant at first, but when I say, “Come on, I want to show you something,” he relents.

  We walk through a vine-draped trellis and take a seat on a wooden bench. I turn to face him, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I’m sure he can hear it. Now is the time.

  “Trey, have you noticed the tattoos on your arm? A tree? A flower of life?”

  He eyes me. “You know about those?”

  I let my shawl slip off my shoulders, showing him my internal tattoos that glow in the darkness. The purple light seeps through my skin, creating an intricate web of butterflies. I run my hand up my arm and point to the Fringe tattoo.

  “See. I have one too.”

  Trey leans closer, his eyes narrowing. His fingers reach out, but stop when they’re only inches from my skin. He glances up at me, like he’s asking permission. When I nod, his fingers trace the outline of the Fringe tattoo and the interconnecting circles creating a geometric flower-like pattern.

  “What is it?” he whispers.

  “It’s my Fringe tattoo,” I say. “All members have one. It distinguishes us. Sets us apart.”

  Even in the darkness, I can see his body go rigid. “Why do I have it?”

  “I told you before, Trey. You’re the leader of the Fringe.”

  “This can’t be right,” he mutters. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking, before his fingers trail down my arm, sweeping over the glowing skin and sending a volt of electricity through me. “I like your butterflies.”

  Tears well in my eyes when I think of the last time he said those exact words, the night the Compound was bombed. “I know,” I whisper.

  Surprised, Trey glances up. “How?”

  “Because you’ve told me before.”

  Trey stares at me for so long that I almost forget what we’re talking about. And then in a voice that sounds like an apology, he says, “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “It’s okay,” I say in a rush. “I’ll explain everything. All you have to do is come with me—”

  “No,” Trey says firmly. For the first time, I see something in his eyes I don’t quite understand. It looks like fear.

  “No,” he repeats. “You have to go.”

&n
bsp; “Trey,” I plead. “Please. Give me a chance to explain what happened to you—”

  Trey grips my arms, hard. “Go. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say stubbornly.

  “Dammit, Sienna,” Trey says, his voice fierce. “They’re here. They’re coming for you, for Zane. You need to run. Now.”

  My body turns to ice. “What?”

  Trey shakes his head. I’ve never seen him look so angry, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at himself or me. “It’s a setup. Can’t you see that? I lured you in.”

  The sound of a heavy door flinging open reverberates through the night. There’s shouting, and my mind becomes a dizzy blur of emotion. He tricked me. He pretended to care, and he tricked me.

  “Sienna,” he says, fear clouding his voice. “Run!”

  Adrenaline kicks in. I gather my skirts and take off running through the dark garden, hoping and praying there’s another way out. Pressing my finger against my ear, I say in a choked voice, “Abort, Zane. Abort. Get out of there now!”

  I only hear static on his side of the line. I’m on my own.

  I weave through bushes and fruit trees, rose bushes and flowerbeds. This part of the garden is darker and more overgrown—like someone became too tired to walk all the way out here to care for it. I hear the pounding of footsteps behind me, still a little ways back, but ever gaining on me, and the shouts of the Enforcers. I’m waiting for one of their laser bullets to whiz past.

  My breathing is hard and shallow, and my lungs feel like they’re about a second from exploding. My hair clings to my forehead, a tangled, sweaty mess. I kick off my heels, and now I’m running blindly over rocks and acorns and tiny sticks that litter the overgrown path. My feet scrape against the concrete pavers. Each step I take, one rock or another becomes embedded in the soles of my feet.

  Tears and sweat mingle and run down my cheeks, the saltiness of both stinging my face. Just when I think I’m about to collapse because I can’t run one more step in this dress that drags me down, I see it. A seven-foot brick wall lines the property, but there’s an iron gate at the far left corner. Hurrying over, I try to open it with trembling hands, only to discover that it’s padlocked shut.

  No.

  The Enforcers are gaining on me. I can hear their labored breathing, their guns slapping against their thighs. As soon as they round that last tree, they’ll see me and all it will take is one shot to the chest to lay me flat.

  I curse my dress and hike the skirts up to my waist before placing my foot on the first foothold I can find on the gate. My foot slides off. I try again. This time, I get a good grip and continue to climb, the curved ironwork digging into my feet. I’m halfway up when I see the Enforcers. They’re shouting and raising their guns in warning. Without stopping to think, I scramble up the rest of the way, my dress getting caught at the top. I pull hard and tumble backward as a laser bullet narrowly misses my head. I land on the other side of the fence on my back, the breath knocked from me like a sledgehammer to the chest. It takes a few seconds to recover, laser bullets whizzing through the decorative ironwork, before I limp to my feet, crouch low, and take off running again. I’m in the middle of the city, though. And running through the city in a dirt-stained dress, twigs in my wig, and barefoot, not to mention my internal Fringe tattoo that glimmers on my skin, is like asking for the Enforcers to pick me up.

  As I’m running, I rip off the wig and drop it on the ground, leaving it behind. I’m in an alley when I’m certain I’m caught. An Enforcer vehicle pulls up, blocking the entrance and the exit, and two black-clad men hurry out with their guns drawn. I think they’ve found me but I still try to hide, hunkering down behind a large trash incinerator. But it isn’t me they’re after.

  “Enforcers! On your feet and in the vehicle!” Their guns are pointed at a figure huddled on the ground, one I hadn’t noticed. It’s a man, and he’s rocking back and forth, holding something in his hands. One Enforcer shines a light on the man and the item in his hand.

  A toy truck.

  “Sir, we need you to get up and come with us. You can’t sleep out here. It’s illegal.” An Enforcer with a gentler voice tries to reason with him, but the man continues to sit on the ground, rocking back and forth, holding his truck. He then begins to hum softly.

  The Enforcer grips the man under his arm, producing a wail unlike any I’ve ever heard. “My truck! My truck,” the man screams.

  “Shut this guy up,” the other Enforcer says, putting his laser gun to the man’s head.

  The man stops screaming and whimpers like a confused puppy.

  “We need to take him in and put him with the others. Those are our instructions,” the nicer Enforcer says firmly.

  “This guy? He’s a nut. There’s no way he’ll be beneficial. I think we should just put him out of his misery.” But even as he says it, he lowers the gun.

  “We’ve been told to round people up from the streets, including the mental cases. Do you want to disobey orders?”

  The man babbles again. “My truck, my truck, my truck.”

  In one swift movement, the Enforcer raises his gun and shoots the man in the head. The truck falls to the ground and rolls a few feet.

  I cover my mouth to stifle a cry.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” the nicer Enforcer hisses.

  “He wasn’t any good to us. In order for the procedure to work, a body still needs working brain cells.”

  “That wasn’t your call to make.”

  The Enforcer shrugs. “Maybe not. But who’s gonna miss him?”

  The two men get back in their vehicle and drive away, without a second glance at the innocent man they killed. Once I’m assured they’re gone, I come out of my hiding place. Creeping along the wall of the alley, I make my way over to the man. My stomach heaves when I see him, the smell of burnt flesh penetrating the air. I don’t need to check his pulse to know he’s dead.

  Picking up the truck, I place it in his hands and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  I stick to the alleys, cutting a path toward the ocean. The steady hum of Enforcers’ vehicles and the continuous whirring of their alarms grow louder and softer as they search the streets of Rubex. And as I move, never stopping to think about the dead man, the blood on my feet and pain shooting up my back, or Trey’s betrayal, I tell myself, The ocean. I only need to make it to the ocean.

  ***

  When we lived in the suburbs and owned a pool, I’d swim laps every day until my arms ached. It was my exercise of choice, and I loved the way my body skimmed the surface of the water, making me feel unburdened and weightless.

  When I crest the top of a hill and see the pier and ocean in the distance, I only hope my arms will remember the strokes and my body won’t give out. By the time I reach the bottom of the hill, I’m limping so badly I can barely walk.

  Twenty feet.

  Ten feet.

  The sand is cool, but it digs into the cuts on my skin, grinding and rubbing against the tender wounds. It also slows me down as I now have to hobble, fully dressed, in a ball gown.

  Five feet.

  At the water’s edge, I find the zipper in the back of my dress. With shaking hands, I unzip it all the way. Glancing around to be sure no one is on the beach, I slide out of my dress and fling it into the ocean. Let them think I drowned.

  The air is cool, and when it hits my bare skin, I shiver. But it’s nothing compared to the water I’m about to immerse myself in. I breathe deeply a few times, psyching myself out for the swim that will get me to safety. This was Zane’s plan, his emergency exit strategy should anything go wrong. At the time, I’d thought it was ridiculous to moor a boat one hundred yards off shore, but now, I’m incredibly glad he did. I can barely make out the beacon of light in the ocean, a tiny speck of red against an otherwise black backdrop.

  I wade into the water, wincing as the saltwater touches my feet and then laps up my bare legs. Each step takes me further into the ocean, the sixty-degree water
stinging my skin, numbing my toes. The water laps against my underwear, and then my belly button. I step on something sharp, a rock perhaps, and that’s when I decide to swim. Letting my legs float up behind me, I keep my gaze focused on the red light in front of me. If I lose sight of that and get turned around in the ocean at night, I’m as good as dead. I decide on breaststroke because it allows me to keep my head above water. As I swim, my heart beats fast, pumping blood through my veins, and warming me enough to keep swimming despite the numbness creeping up my legs. I try not to think about what else is in the ocean, what else might be swimming right below me.

  When I’m halfway to the boat, something brushes against my leg. I go completely still, floating in the water. I bite my lip to stifle the scream that surges up from my chest. It’s a shark, it’s a shark, it’s a shark.

  Something bumps against me again, testing me, and this time, the scream fights its way out. Putting my head in the water, I begin to kick and swim as fast as my arms and legs will go. I glance up every few seconds to be sure I’m on the right track. I keep waiting to feel sharp teeth and strong jaws latch on my arm or leg, but I continue swimming, praying I will make it to the boat. But when I glance up again, I don’t see the light. Frantic, I turn, scanning the blackness, searching the horizon. But there’s nothing. I turn to look back toward the shore, but in the dark, everything looks the same. There is no end and no beginning to the sea, only a never-ending backdrop of water and blackness.

  “Please, God, help me,” I sob. I turn again, my eyes searching. I’m frantic, desperate. I don’t know how long I can continue to swim before the cold gets to me, an ocean creature takes me down, or I sink from pure exhaustion. My legs kick out, keeping me afloat, and I can only hope that whatever was testing me before is long gone now.

  Then, when I’m on the brink of despair, I see the light, glimmering like a beacon off to my right. The current has steered me in the opposite direction, and I’ve actually overshot the boat. I’m further from shore than I should be. I now swim parallel to the shore, keeping my head above water, never taking my eyes off that red beacon of light.