Shattered Memories

by Susan Harris

  “You know I have to go, don’t you, Soph? I mean, you won’t even know I’m gone. I’ll be back before you know it.” Unsure whether the words were meant to reassure her or me, I sighed.

  Leaning her head against my shoulder, she replied, “I know Na-Na. I am sad you will miss my recital, but I can tell everyone at school my big sister is an officer of the UPDC and they can leave me alone ’cause you can kick their ass.”

  “Sophia Millicent McCarthy. Wash out your mouth before I tell Dad what you said.” I struggled not to giggle, but when Sophia looked at me with mock sternness, easy laughter fell from my lips.

  “No, you won’t because I learned all my best words from you.” Little minx had me there.

  I dangled my arm around her shoulders, and we remained sitting on the back steps awhile, me enjoying the stillness and the warmth of my sister’s hug. Hopefully, Sophia took comfort in it too. As the inevitable rain began to trickle down our foreheads, I suggested we go inside. I stood, pulling Sophia up by both hands and she wrapped her arms around my waist, her tears mimicked the raindrops as they slipped from her eyes and down her pale cheeks.

  “Don’t forget me when you’re gone, Na-Na. Please don’t forget me.”

  Her quiet sobs shook her shoulders, and I detangled myself from her arms and crouched down in front of her. Looking at her dead in the eyes, I held her gaze as I spoke. “I will never, ever forget you, Soph. I promise. I will be back before you know it, and you’ll be begging me to go away again. Got it?”

  She nodded slowly, and I ruffled her hair before she ducked out of my grasp and climbed the steps, turning the door handle and going inside. I struggled but held my emotions in check. The rain became a downpour, and I stood still in the torrent, closing my eyes and letting Sophia’s words ring in my head. “Don’t forget me when you’re gone, Na-Na. Please don’t forget me.”

  I bolted up in bed as a scream pierced the silence. Sweat beads dotted my forehead, dripping down my face as hair clung to my sweaty skin. My heart pounded against my chest as I struggled to gulp in air. When the door to my cell opened, I realized that the screams were my own. Clasping a hand over my mouth as two of the night guards stepped inside my room, Sophia’s voice continued racing through my mind.

  “You okay there, McCarthy?” One of the uniformed officers asked. The female officer was a few years older than me, with masculine features and hair cut tight to her skin.

  Taking in a few more cleansing breaths, I pulled the sheet up over myself, allowing time to recuperate from the dream. I returned her gaze, but when I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out, so I tried again. Shouts came from other cells, but I needed to answer the guards before they reported me to the warden. Giving her reason for watching me more closely wasn’t high on my to-do list.

  “I’m sorry… Bad dream.” The guards shared a knowing look and I recognized what remained unspoken between them. Dr Costello had warned me that my memories might come back in dreams at first. I had done what he asked by clearing my mind and concentrating on Sophia. When I had fallen asleep, one of the last memories I had came racing to the forefront of my mind.

  “You sure that’s all it was, McCarthy? Do you need to go to medical?”

  What I needed was to speak to Dr Costello, but asking the guards to see my shrink would only cause more questions. At the moment, any indication that I might be suffering from some sort of Stockholm syndrome would surely get me sent to a room with rubber walls.

  “No, no. I’m fine… just some weird dream about a fire and being trapped inside. Suppose it’s to be expected, right?” Carefully trying to brush it off as flippantly as possible, the female guard, Wilkinson, I think her name was, nodded. She eyed me suspiciously before turning and marching out of the cell, her colleague following on her heels.

  As soon as the cell door closed, I couldn’t hold back the tears. In an effort to keep quiet, I stuffed the hem of the sheet into my mouth as a scream inched its way from my gut to my throat. What was the purpose of that particular memory? Why would my subconscious remind me of something that I already knew and remembered? Was I going to gradually remember everything I had forgotten only to run out of time before becoming just another executed murderer?

  I dared not close my eyes again for fear of what I might see. In the darkness of my cell, I heard Sophia’s voice begging me not to forget her. Dear God, how could I have killed someone so defenseless, so warm and kind… one who loved me unconditionally? As I hugged my knees and rocked in bed, I couldn’t help but believe that I was wrongly accused of committing the terrible acts against my family. I loved them all. None of it made sense. And why was I still alive?

  Time passed without notice. I must have sat there staring at the blank walls for a quite a while because before I knew it, light filtered through the skylights brightening the gloomy mood of the cell. It must have been around five o’clock in the morning, still another couple of hours before breakfast. The thoughts of stomaching another bowl of stone-cold porridge made bile poison my throat, but I swallowed it back.

  With the sun barely filtering onto my darkened walls, I slipped out of bed and went to the area of the cell where the sun had actually reached. Facing the rays, I slid down the wall and thought back over the dream, trying to make sense of it. I just couldn’t. Maybe Dr Costello would have a clue now that I had more details. But could I trust him?

  At some stage of my turbulent thoughts, I must have drifted off again, this time into a dreamless sleep because I was startled awake when someone crouched in front of me. I sprang up, taking a defensive position and shoving the person away, then relaxing slightly at the sight of Connors slumped against the bed.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed, rushing forward to help him up. Connors just grinned, dusting off his uniform and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I come in peace. I just stopped by to see if you were okay? I heard about the disturbance last night and when you didn’t come down for breakfast, I wanted to make sure you were good. Next time I’ll knock harder.”

  “Christ, Connors, I could have killed you. I’m all right, just had a bad dream is all. Did you say I missed breakfast? Damn, how will I survive without my scrumptious porridge?”

  Connors chuckled, a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest. He peeked outside the cell and spun back around to me. Carefully pulling out a slice of folded bread from his jacket, my mouth watered. I couldn’t help but think the bread would be in better condition if I had not just knocked Connors on his ass. Plus, if it had been any other guard, I’d have been hauled to solitary for the rest of my days. Connors held the bread out in front of him, and sensing my hesitation, placed it in my hand.

  “Hurry up and eat that before I get caught. Can’t have ’em saying I’m giving certain prisoners special privileges, now can I?”

  I didn’t hear a word he said as I devoured the bread, taking a large bite out of the gift. The taste of real butter burst to life in my mouth and it took all my concentration not to groan in pleasure. When you have spent the last few months eating nothing but bland porridge and even blander meals, it might surprise you at how wonderful a simple treat of freshly baked bread and butter could make you feel.

  Wiping the crumbs from my mouth, I smiled at Connors, who waited for me to finish. “Why are you so nice to me?”

  “Because I happen to believe it when you say that you can’t remember. I worked for your Da, and he always spoke of you with pride and love. He helped me out of a few jams, and I’m returning the favour.”

  My chest instantly tightened as Connors spoke about my dad and I thanked him, even though the words couldn’t truly convey how much his gesture meant. As if sensing my mood, Connors slipped back into his usual flirtatious self.

  “Well, don’t go all girly on me, McCarthy. Come on, it’s time to get showered and stuff before your session with the doc.”

  Gathering up some fresh clothes, I let Connors lead the way as we went in the opposite direction to the door that le
d to Dr Costello. Trying to take my mind off the nightmares, I listened to Connors mumble on about some football game the guards were having after work. Feigning interest seemed rude after he had given me such a nice gift, but my mind was preoccupied with my upcoming therapy session.

  As we scanned through one door, leaving the cells behind us and walking the short distance to the shower room, Connors stood outside. He scanned me in and said, “I’ll be out here when you’re finished.”

  A blush quickly coloured his freckled cheeks, and I couldn’t help but tease. “And here I thought you’d jump at the chance to see me naked.”

  With the most serious face I had ever seen on him, he sputtered. “Hell no… Dan… I mean… the warden would have my nuts. I’m quite fond of them, you know.”

  Shaking my head and chuckling under my breath, I ducked into the room. At this hour, I should have been alone with the exception of maybe one or two stragglers. Each colour designation had a scheduled day for shower room use twice a week. I suppose it was entirely girly of me to admit that I couldn’t wait to wash my hair. Similar to a high school locker room, rows of benches lined the walls in front of a couple dozen showers. Even though male and female prisoners shared most things, showers were thankfully one place the prison officials separated.

  I stripped off my clothes, having lost all modesty during the first month of incarceration. Walking over to one of the cubicles, I turned on the water. While checking the water temperature with my fingertips, I waited until it was a blissful lukewarm and stepped in. Attached to the walls were bottles of shampoo and conditioner, one of the few luxuries allowed. Running my fingers through my mess of hair, I tried to separate the knots before lathering in the citrus smelling liquid, rinsing it through before repeating again. Finally, I used fingertips to apply conditioner to the ends. I had stayed under the stream for a few more minutes before the water turned ice cold, and I quickly turned it off.

  Yanking a towel from the top of the pile on a bench, I had started patting myself dry when I heard the door open. The small Muslim girl entered. Her eyes were hidden behind unruly dark hair that flowed down in front of her face, and she appeared startled at seeing me there. I acknowledged her and went back to drying off as she scurried over to a bench as far from me as possible. Charming.

  I dressed in my black uniform and wished I had some perfume or something so I at least smelled nice for Daniel. The thought surprised me. Damned Stockholm syndrome again, latching on to the one smart, attractive guy in this place. Plus, he was the only one trying to help me, besides Connors.

  While still towel drying my hair, I slipped into my shoes and heard a sharp intake of breath and a cry of agony. Abandoning my damp hair to frizz, I spun around in my seat, shocked at the sight of Veronika holding the tiny mouse of a Muslim girl up, off the ground by her neck. Her feet dangling as she wiggled in Veronika’s grasp.

  Don’t get involved, Alana… It’s not your problem to fix. You have enough of your own problems.

  But did I listen to my thoughts? Nope. Against my better judgment, I stood and closed the space between me and Veronika. She snarled and spoke in a heavy Russian accent.

  “Mind your business. It does not concern you.”

  “Well, when you pick on someone weaker than you, then I will make it my business. Let her go.”

  “Stupid girl. Do you not know who I am?” Her grip tightened around the girl’s neck and the small one’s face turned red under the strain.

  “Yeah, I know who you are, Veronika. I just don’t care. Let her go.” Something told me that, in the long run, I was going to regret my words and actions. Sometimes bullies need to be taken down a peg or two.

  Veronika all but tossed the girl aside, the poor thing hitting the ground with a vicious thump, her eyes falling closed. I made my way over to see if she was alive, but Veronika grabbed a fistful of my hair as I passed her, and she yanked me backwards. Pain lanced my skull, but I fought through it, ducking under her arm as she tried punching me in the stomach.

  Unfortunately, she seemed to anticipate my move and her clenched fist connected with my eye sending me reeling, darkness blurring my vision. Another fist met my chin and I stumbled back, the back of my knees hit a bench. I sat down hard.

  I’m not proud of it, but I saw red. I should have been able to take her down; it’s what I had learned in training, using my speed and height difference to my advantage. Prior to learning those lessons, I’d seen it as a disability. But when you have a hulking, Russian, murdering bitch breathing down your neck, sometimes logical thinking flies out the window.

  I lunged forward almost rugby tackling her, my elbow digging into her stomach. We both crashed to the ground, Veronika digging her fingernails into my cheek as we lumbered to the ground. Veronika’s back collided hard with the tile floor. I dug my knee into her side and bitch-slapped her so hard, my tiny hands left a red imprint on the side of her face.

  She screamed out in fury, and I tried to keep her other arm pinned down with my knee, but she had the tenacity of a rabid pit bull. Frustration and adrenaline kicked in and Veronika struck back with her teeth, biting down hard on my skin. I yelped in pain. Lifting up a hand, I clenched my fist and slammed it into her stomach, and she rolled on the floor in agony. As I jumped off her, the Russian kicked out her right leg, her long limbs able to reach my shorter one. While her foot connected and cracked my knee, a firestorm of pain roared throughout my body.

  Veronika recovered quickly, pinning me in the same manner she had the mousy girl except her nails dug into my skin, and I felt the blood trickle down my neck. I tried to scream out, but her vice-like grip restricted any sound other than a weak cry.

  “Now, you will see what happens when something is not to my liking.” She sneered. Her concentration was so fully on me that she never noticed her first victim crawl to the door and pound on it… hard. My vision became unfocused, and I kicked out helplessly, thinking that I mightn’t even have two minutes of life left… never mind two months.

  As my eyes drifted halfway shut, my lungs screamed for relief. That’s when the door slammed open and bounced off the wall, and I made out Connors’ red hair. I barely heard the guards, their pleas for Veronika to let me go sounded like hearing voices when your head is under water. Soon I would be unconscious, a willing captive of the darkness, the shadows long ago becoming friends.

  Suddenly the pressure on my neck vanished, and I heard a cracking sound as my skull hit solid ground. I opened my eyes for a mere second and watched as Veronika twitched and screamed, her body writhing with the electric shocks of her behaviour chip. Eventually, her eyes rolled back in her head and she was still.

  Take that, you Russian bitch.

  All I wanted or needed was to go to sleep. I offered Connors a weak smile when he knelt in front of me and pulled me into his arms. I felt all floaty and my head pounded in pain. I really just needed to sleep.

  “Stay with me, McCarthy. C’mon doll. Don’t go to sleep on me. You look like shit, by the way.”

  “You should see the other guy.” The words came out in a slur. If I closed my eyes and slept, it would all be over. He knew I probably had a bad concussion, but all I wanted was to sleep off the pain. My lids were heavy and I couldn’t hold them open any longer. I welcomed in the darkness as it wrapped its arms around me in a protective blanket. The last thing I heard was Connors shouting, “Where the fuck is the medic?”

  6

  Alana

  “So I bare my skin and I count my sins and I close my eyes and I take it in.”

  (Imagine Dragons: Bleeding out)

  Waking up was almost as painful as getting my head smashed against the wall. Every inch of my body protested at the slightest move. Groaning, I forced my eyes open, the intolerable light blinding me for a second before I could focus on my surroundings. I suspected I wasn’t dead because the smell of disinfectant and cleanliness smothered the already thick air.

  So this was the infirmary. I lay still on the bed, my
head propped against a firm pillow and staring up at the sterile white ceiling. The need to inhale existed, but my ribs protested, obviously unaware of the requirement to fill my lungs to keep me alive. My head pounded a dull ache that reminded me why I ended up here. Slowly, I turned on my side. Spying a glass of water on the table, I reached for it, ignoring my screaming limbs. When I grasped it loosely in shaking fingers and raised the glass to my lips, I gulped down the ice cold liquid as if I had not had a drink in days.

  “I would suggest you drink slower, my dear, or it might make you sick.”

  The voice frightened the life out of me, so much so that I almost dropped the glass and spat out the water simultaneously. I knew that voice; I dreaded hearing that voice because it meant I had gotten too much attention. Instant regret over helping out the Muslim girl washed over me before I realized it. Looking back, I would have done the same thing again. Me and my stupid moral compass.

  Taking in another rough breath, I returned the glass to the stand and angled my body in the bed so I had a clear view of my unwelcome guest. Standing just under six foot tall, Theresa Lane seemed every bit as imposing as she did keeping watch over her inmates. Even before my memory blackout, I didn’t like my dad’s number two. She looked every bit as surly and hard now as she had back then, and my gut clenched as I fought the urge to puke.

  She was dressed in navy blue again, a pantsuit this time, her hair dragged back into a grip. Her navy blazer displayed the badge of the United Parliament, the UPDC, and the mark of the International Court of Justice. My dad’s uniform had been the same; had I graduated, my own uniform would have been pretty much identical. She sat cross-legged on a plastic chair, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Behind her, through the window, I watched two guards manning the doors. Were they protecting her or guarding me? I raised my gaze to meet hers and bit the inside of my lip hard to keep my mouth from acting without my consent.

  “How are you feeling, Alana?” The warden spoke, her words full of concern but her tone of voice betrayed those words, giving me the impression that she was here out of obligation, not concerned about my welfare.