by C, Mitzi
A laugh bursts from my chest. “What happened to me being a ’valuable subject’?”
“Your corpse shall lend much more value to this operation. Keeping you alive is costly, and an unnecessary risk.”
“And Kandi?”
“She is the greatest risk of all, and she will be dearly missed, I assure you.”
Why... is this happening? “Can I at least call my mother?”
Kyle crosses his arms. “Out there, Juan, you are already dead.”
I will walk away from this. There must be a way to escape before they inject me with, as Kyle fondly calls it, ‘liquid death.’ I cannot bear to think of the torture Kandi has been enduring all these years. If I can’t find a way to save her, I will never forgive myself – just as I have never forgiven myself for Destiny’s murder.
Zeke typed in the security code, and Emilio ushered us through a window. The house was enormous and ornate. I nearly stepped on a porcelain vase and quickly maneuvered my hands and feet to avoid disaster. Raul crawled behind me along the walls, while Emilio, Javier, Miguel, Zeke, Mason, and a few others separated to cover more ground. We were expertly quiet and limber, navigating the opulent furniture and ostentatious glass cases full of trophies, medals, and plaques. We were robbing the home of a celebrity.
I peeked around the corner and slowly unsheathed the knife from my boot, then held my fingers to my lips and crawled forward with the others at my tail. There was a man in the kitchen browsing the fridge. A little late for that, isn’t it, man?
At my signal, those tailing me halted while I sneaked into the kitchen and quickly wrapped my arm around the man’s throat before he could scream. He passed out almost instantly. I whispered into my walkie-talkie, “Él está inconsciente. Proceda.” I then looked at my group and nodded to the left, where they were instructed by Emilio to hide until Zeke could meet them at the exit with the security code.
I hoisted the man under his arms and dragged him into the nearest bathroom, placing him in the tub when a voice crackled on my pocket radio: “Juan, hay hombres armados afuera. Abortar misión.” What were armed men doing here? I left the man to escape through an open window, heart pounding. I had a feeling they were my father’s goons. They had followed us.
And I was right. As soon as I stepped out the window, they were upon me.
“¿Crees que podrías correr de nosotros, Juan?”
***
A subtle hum rouses me from a drug-induced nap. Stark white from floor to ceiling to sheets, heart monitoring machines muttering rhythmic beeps, disinfectant, and, of course, handcuffs binding my wrists to the rails of my bed are processed by my olfactory and occipital senses at once. I feel no pain nor desire to escape, but I know that’s the drugs talking. I am so relaxed I could be floating in a bed of clouds.
Is this the Death Room? Why had I pictured medieval torture devices in the place of this austere wonderland?
I begin drifting away when I detect a minor movement to my right. I glance that direction and choke on my heart. “Kandi,” I sputter, convinced I’m dreaming. What is she doing here? “Oh, you’ll see her soon enough, 108. Your executions have been scheduled for this evening.”
Oh, yeah.
She looks as peaceful as I feel, with her hands placed over her heart and her eyes gently shut. Buried deeply beneath my narcotized veins is the urge to get up and run, but I can’t muster the motivation.
Two and a half years I have lived under Blue Skys’ unceasing scrutiny. Now they are going to kill me and all I can think is... meh.
Kandi’s eyelids unveil two glowing jade rings reflecting an immense sense of comprehension. She does not appear dazed nor disoriented, as though this is where she expected to appear when she woke. I notice her arms are not hooked to any IVs like mine. She turns her head my way and blanches, mouth gaping. Apparently she had expected to wake up in the Death Room, but not with me at her side.
We stare at each other for an eternity, until I finally wheeze, “Are we going to die?”
Her exotic eyes flood with tears as she ever-so-slowly... shakes her head. Shock vaguely registers when she lifts her head and removes her medical blanket to reveal smooth bare legs. Her movements are impeccably graceful and methodical. There is little time left. I need to unhook myself from these killing machines, but I can’t.
I must know a few things before it is too late. “Why...” I lick my lips with a dry tongue, “did you write my name?”
Kandi nonverbally shushes me and peers at the door.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out.” Reality is beginning to set in. I hadn’t lived much of a life. No one is going to miss me. If my mother is still around and coherent, she has been mourning my passing since my detainment. I wish I could have at least saved Kandi Levinson before... this.
Then, all at once, the various tubes disconnect from my body, and the beeping machines die. Kandi hadn’t touched me, but I feel a distinct tingling on my skin like she had. Next, the cuffs magically unlatch and dangle against the rails. I groan and sluggishly rub my wrists. The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz above my head.
I look at Kandi’s face. She looks determined, but also unfeasibly exhausted, like she could collapse any moment. Her eyes flit back to the door. Noise outside climbs rapidly. Someone is coming. Panic sparks in my chest when the door bursts inward to make way for a crew of Doctors and security guards, with Doctor Hendricks at the head in a gray suit.
“Kandi, what are you doing?” she swiftly demands from the doorway. I absently flex my fingers in response to her aggression. Doctor L nods to the guards. “Take her away.”
A large man in a black suit steps forward and grabs Kandi with a gloved hand, dragging her toward the exit. She immediately screams and tries to run back to me, but the guard already has two hands on her waist. She is so tiny she stands no chance.
I can’t watch this happen. I attempt to raise my head, but it is heavier than a block of cement. “No, please...” I murmur. “Take me instead.”
The lights flicker as her shrill cries echo down the hallway.
***
CHAPTER 11 – Kandi
The Last Interrogation
Apr. 23, 2017
I meet Juan’s eyes and detect no guile or ill will. Not since Mom and Traci have I ever met someone who doesn’t want to hurt me. My nerves are so complacent that eye contact does not elicit nausea, so I continue gazing into his atramentous orbs until he opens his mouth.
“Are we going to die?”
Hm. Difficult question. I must believe that he will live, despite all the odds against him. The liquid Zidivin deactivate the genes responsible for the host Patients’ supernatural abilities. The Doctors flooded Juan’s bloodstream with the parasite, rendering him an utter vegetable, and eventually he will peacefully perish from it. I wish it would function that way for me. ‘Liquid death’ only weakens me until my body destroys it, which, depending on the size of the dose, could take less than a day.
My eyes involuntarily fill to capacity with emotion as I compel my head to shake. No. Not if I can help it.
I languidly slide off the bed and move toward him on unsteady legs.
“Why... did you write my name?”
I hold my finger to my lips, mentally locking onto each tube in his body and commanding them to release him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out,” he says. The tubes obey me, and his manacles follow. With the last of my dwindling energy, I command the Zidivin to leave his body. The lights in the room flicker. I glance warily at the door, sensing more humans charging our way.
“Kandi, what are you doing?” Ms. Hendricks exclaims. She nods to one of the guards. “Take her away.”
I wish I could say something for Juan’s sake. All I can do is scream as the guard lifts me like a doll. Don’t give up! I want to yell. Keep fighting! You can make it out of here! I try to cast more power at him, but it only disturbs the light fixtures. Run!
***
2 months later...
My pillow is so
aked in tears. I have torn my sheets to shreds. And my mind and body hurt. A profound wave of agony has assaulted every minute movement. There is no relief, and there is no release. If I had a knife or a gun, I would have taken my life hours ago. Or, at least I would have tried.
But I'm still here as usual, surrounded by the people in my life that have directly or indirectly harmed me. Dad is standing in the corner, frowning. Mom is banging her head against the wall and screaming. Traci is dancing around the room in a pink tutu pretending she’s a fairy. Ms. Hendricks is glaring at me from the opposite wall next to Dad. Doctor B is flicking a syringe with his middle finger, an expression of dedicated concentration on his face. Miss Eddington is tapping her foot and glancing at her watch every few seconds.
I hear voices as well – a thousand chants reiterating how worthless and putrid I am, how I should have never been born. Their words have sunk into my psyche and into my heart. They are correct. I am worthless. I haven't made a significant difference in anyone's lives. I have done nothing but inflict misery on the people around me. Mom, Traci, Alice, and Juan have died because of me.
Without medication, every second of my life is replaying in my mind and haunting me so vividly that I lose track of the present. I don’t know why food has been withheld from me for so long.
If withdrawals were measured on the Richter scale, Theratocin withdrawals would rank at 10. Fever; fatigue; nausea; burning, itchy skin; headaches; cramps; body aches; watery eyes; and hallucinations are but a few of the countless symptoms associated with abrupt deprivation of Theratocin. Top these off with chronic shivering, depression, starvation, and violent flashbacks and you get an idea of my current state.
Occasionally I will ask myself why I allow humans to trample over me. I imagine stopping those bullies in school before Sunny Days. I imagine people asking questions. Could I have subtly defended myself without anyone noticing? At the time, these seemingly obvious concerns did not even cross my mind. I was convinced I deserved any punishment I received, no matter the punisher. Perhaps that is the reason I was bullied in the first place. They viewed me as an easy target. I possess an extremely high tolerance for pain, so they sought to test my limits. Every time they threw a ball at my head, or punched or hit me for no apparent cause, I was solely affected psychologically. As a young girl I wondered why other children would go out of their way to punish me. Because I was friendless? No. Because I was different? No.
They bullied me because I showed no fear. They felt threatened by my innate sense of superiority.
I believe that is why Doctor Hendricks and her regime continue torturing me. They feel threatened as well, by something they do not understand. It is human nature to fear the unknown.
My father is a different story, however. He does not feel threatened by me. He seeks to torment me simply because he can. That is his nature.
What do I believe now? If I deserved punishment, why would Mom never punish me? She was a just person. She would have told me if I was doing something wrong.
I wonder what Juan believed. Did he ever willingly submit to pain? Likely not. I was drawn to him because he was a fighter. I’d wanted him to fight my battles for me, honestly because I did not have the courage on my own.
“It is nearly time, Kandi.”
My eyes shot open to reveal a dim room splashed with blood. My head was spinning; my dad had four eyes.
“Daddy,” I mumbled, blood pouring from my lips.
“It's okay, sweetie,” he said, embracing me. “You did well tonight.”
I heard a low woman's voice mutter, “Not well enough. We still have to dump two bodies before sunrise.”
Ms. Hendricks.
“You do that. I have to take Kandi to bed.”
Ms. Hendricks, standing akimbo and pursing her full lips, entered my foggy vision before I blacked out again.
Where does courage come from? Sheer ignorance? Is that all it takes to own bravery – voluntary naivety? That must be true; otherwise Ms. Hendricks would realize working for my father is precarious and attempting to contain me fruitless. She does not see the bigger picture. She is singularly focused on personal gain, and has freely rejected every warning my father gave her. Perhaps I should follow suit. Knowledge is overrated.
Shortly after Alice's death, my uncle forced me to polish the floors and assist him in wrapping and temporarily hiding her body under the floor in the only unused room in the house. When we were finished, he shoved me against the wall, breathing raggedly, and said, “If I can't kill you, then you've got to be useful for something.” He slipped his hand under my shirt. Bile quickly rose in my throat. “Sh, sh, shhhh... Kandi. Look at me.”
When I didn't look at him, he grabbed my face with his other hand and roughly forced my eyes to his. Our gazes infused.
I vomited. Jim yelled more profanity in a single minute than I had heard in my entire life. He threw me to the floor, then pinned me beneath him. The smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and vomit burned my eyes, nose, and mouth. I closed my eyes and blocked the world from my mind.
“Look at me, Kandi!”
I looked at him.
I am completely bereft of Theratocin – I think the effects of withdrawal have finally dissipated. Now all I do is sleep.
I am never fully rested. My nightmares are exhausting because they usually feature my uncle or my dad... or, lately, Juan. Every time I close my eyes, I find myself waking up about an hour later with my heart racing – then I commence the cycle all over again.
Sleeping is better than reality, though. It is one escape that has helped me endure many horrific events in my life. So I tend to do it frequently.
I'm jarred awake by a door swinging open. My dinner nurse walks in empty-handed. That's odd.
I sit up.
“Kandi, come with me. We have decided to let you eat in the cafeteria tonight.”
I've resigned myself to slavery. I follow her out of my room, down an elevator, and onto the bottom floor where the cafeteria is located. I used to eat here during my first two years at Blue Skys. Well, I didn't actually eat. I was mostly spoon-fed. If that didn't work, they'd transfer nutrients into my body intravenously.
This experience is going to be special because I am not half dead anymore. Though I am awfully tired, I’m fully aware of my surroundings and clear-headed for the first time in eight years.
My nightly nurse escorts me to a table and hands me a menu. “Point to what you want.”
I skim over it and choose something I haven't consumed in a long time: macaroni and cheese, two chicken strips, salad, and a brownie. Of course, these meals come in mouse-sized portions, so I don't expect much.
I devour the meal in four bites.
After eating, I glance around in search of my dinner nurse, who is no longer present. The cafeteria isn't packed, but it isn't sparse, either. There are several other Patients scattered around various tables.
I decide to lay my head on the table and take another nap.
I haven't closed my eyes for two seconds when someone says, “Hey.”
I begrudgingly raise my head. A guy a few years older than myself is sitting across the table, smiling warily at me. He has prominent dimples on either side of his wide mouth, and the mop on his head is dark brown, matching his eyes. He is sickeningly skeletal. His skin is stretched across his face, so much so that his eyes seem to sink into his head a few centimeters, casting plum-hued shadows around them.
“So you are the infamous Kandi Levinson,” he says, his Adam's apple bobbing. “My name's Brock. I'm a friend of Juan's.”
The mention of Juan's name instantly intrigues me. I bite my lip.
He grins, relaxing a bit. “Hey, you're really cute. Never would have guessed this is how you'd turn out based on the last time I saw you.” He clears his throat, and the smile slips away. “So I heard Juan was put to sleep.”
My eyes find an interesting red stain on the table. Could I really have any tears left after the weeks I've spent bawling my
eyes out?
“That's a shame. I'm sorry. Juan was a cool kid.” Years spent at Blue Skys have probably chiseled his emotions down to naught. He doesn't sound sincere, but he is not lying, either. His long, bony fingers start drumming the table. “Juan told me you are the smartest person he'd ever met. So, even though you aren't talking to me... I assume you understand what I'm saying?”
Juan talked about me with Brock. Goosebumps appear atop the goosebumps already present on my exposed skin.
“Anyway, uh... I understand it's hard to... to, um... Make friends for you, I guess. Well,” he clears his throat. “I'll be your friend. I'll be here whenever you need me, Kandi.”
Poor Brock... He is just beginning to realize how difficult it is to have a conversation with a mute.
“Hey... Hey, don't cry.” Brock reaches for a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the table and swiftly returns to his seat. “Here.” He passes the napkin across the table. I silently pick it up and wipe my tear-rimmed eyes. “So did you know Juan pretty well? He was my roomie.”
Brock continues talking. “I was born in a small town called Allenwood in New Jersey. My parents were divorced, so I lived with my mom. My dad moved to Seattle when I was eight. I visited him probably once a year during spring break. I began to develop a keen fascination with fire when I was nine. I just couldn't get enough of it. I always had trouble making friends and keeping them, so I considered fire my only friend.” He stops drumming his fingers and weaves them together. “One day the neighbor's dog was barking. The owners were out of town. The dog was leashed to a little kennel and, and it just... would not stop barking. I came to the conclusion that the only solution to this problem was fire. Fire solves all of my problems. It always has, and it always will. Maybe, Kandi, what you need is a friend who can solve all your problems. I can be that friend.”
The last place I want to be is here with Brock. He is making me squirm. I rise and walk.
Brock, not computing the hint, naturally pursues me. I can practically feel his twig-like fingers around my neck.