Page 8 of Reclaimed

It's not perfect, but it's clean and feels so much better already. Now, something to keep it that way…

Reaching for the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, I flinch back with a squeal, hand slapping against my chest as an old toothbrush falls into the sink. Fuck, I thought it was another rat. I blow out a breath, willing my heart to slow as my eyes scan over the contents. A tube of hemorrhoid cream has oozed out on a roll of antacid tablets on one shelf, and a suspiciously sticky looking bottle of lube sits on another.

Gross.

Nothing even kind of useful right now.

The door clinks shut behind me as I head off to rummage through the kitchen. All I find in the cabinets are a few plates, some takeout menus, and a very expired tub of protein powder. I check the drawers, too, finding most of them empty– but one sticks on something inside as I tug on the handle.

“C’mon, open up,” I coax, wiggling and yanking until a pair of pliers springs free and clatters to the floor. Without them, the drawer glides the rest of the way open with ease.

I shuffle through a few appliance manuals and uncapped pens to find a plastic box beneath that looks promising. But it’s only full of keys– not helpful.

I'm about to give up when I pull out a tangle of cords and uncover a travel first-aid kit. Jackpot.

There's no antibiotic cream, and the alcohol wipes are dried out, but there's gauze. Only half a roll, but hey, I can work with that.

Bumping the drawer shut with a hip, I twist around, looking for a place to wrap my bicep. The arm of a sofa juts out from behind an overturned bookshelf across the room. Sidestepping a broken ceramic pot and the carcass of a house plant, there’s an uncovered spot practically begging me to sit. I sink down on the cushion, tucking a leg beneath me. The suede surface may look worn, but there’s still plenty of padding to mold around me.

God, how is this more comfortable than Commander Martin's overpriced furniture?

Not that I'll ever see any of it again.

My stomach drops at the realization, a strange sense of sadness washing over me. Commander Martin wasn't the nicest, but there are definitely worse men out there.

When I was at the infirmary having my jaw reset, another Asset was brought in. Old bruises littered her arms and neck, a bloody cloth wrapped around her hand. I overheard the nurses talking about her as I was leaving– apparently, she lost a fancy fork down the sink and her guardian made her retrieve it immediately, not even letting her turn the disposal off first.

I wasn’t delusional enough to think living like that was normal, but I hadn’t developed Stockholm Syndrome, either. He bought me, for god’s sake, and he could be cruel. But after losing my dad, Commander Martin was the only constant in my life. There was never going to be peace for me inside those walls, no comfort to cling to, but it was all I had. It was familiar. And sometimes, that’s as easy to latch onto as the feeling of being safe.

Tying off the gauze, the sleeve of my t-shirt falls back into place as I slouch over the arm of the sofa. There’s a pang of sadness in my chest as I take in the room around me. It’s in worse shape than the bedroom was. I wonder if it's from the Enforcers ripping people from their homes or from the raiders that came after. Either way, I blame The Registry.

They taught us to work hard and save our money. “You can have it all,” they said. A nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a yard for your 2.5 children and golden retriever to play in– the American dream. But they didn’t teach us what to do when corporate greed took over and the basic cost of living became a luxury.

When they took over, they promised what they were doing was for the best. This place was going to be great, we’d see. They even started an assistance program. My father and countless others got fucked over by their supposed “economic relief” funds. They hid the asinine interest rates deep in the terms. No one living in the Fringe could fully repay those loans in thirty days– so by design, when you defaulted, that's when they really turned a profit. Repo men were contracted to collect, and people became assets for auction, stripped of their dignity and rights just so someone with too much money could own another person.

Desperate people needing to repay their own loans or just lowlifes looking to make a quick buck came next. Raiders would pick apart homes and have the stuff pawned within hours.

A sick feeling heats my throat. It doesn't matter if this was my building or not, it's all the same story. Another grotesque display of the moment someone's life was destroyed by The Registry's overpowered hands.

My jaw tightens as hot tears prick behind my eyes.

It's not fucking fair.

I have nothing, no one, no…

I shudder a breath, shaking my head. I've already mourned the life they stole from me. I even came to terms with the life I was sentenced to. That's all they’re getting from me, because I'm getting the hell out of Northbrooke.

Pushing to my feet, I snatch up a flowered duffle bag from beside the door and stalk down the hall. The dresser is mostly empty, but there's still containers in the bedroom closet. I pull off a lid and timidly sort through a pile, pinching and tossing each piece of clothing on the off chance the rat had friends. I manage to find the basics– a pair of too-long jeans, an oversized hoodie, socks, and a pair of beat-up hiking boots that are only a half size too big.

I grab the letter opener from the nightstand, my thumb tracing over the ornate pattern as I turn it over in my hand. The dried blood on the blade proves it's as good a weapon as any. I slide it into my hoodie pocket and unzip the bag. Shoving my clothes in first, I start scouring the apartment for anything left I can pawn. Whatever appears to have value goes into the duffle– and while it isn’t much, at least it’s a start.

Get some money, get out of Northbrooke.

Let’s just hope I don’t die trying.

4

TALON