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“She’s down the hall. She’s probably sleeping right now. She injected herself with the memory serum so that she wouldn’t be able to tell us anything.” The man takes a step closer to the woman and puts a hand on her arm.
“So, she’s useless to us.” The woman snaps, breaking her arm free from his grasp and heading down the corridor, obviously about to erupt in a rampage. I catch a glimpse of her features. She has flaming orange hair, almost as bright as her apparent rage. She is wearing a professional business blouse and pencil skirt with heels.
“No,” The man runs after her and grabs her arm again. “I know that with time we will be able to crack her. We just need to wait for her to break.”
“There you go with your wishful thinking again. What makes you think it is going to work this time?” She speaks. This time? I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I continue listening for any indication of the meaning behind her words.
“Because I have some different tactics.” He is facing me, and although I’m certain that he can’t see me looking, I can see him. He has salt and pepper hair, weathered features, and stone brown eyes. I know that face. That face is the face of a murderer.
He is the man who ruined my life, and the evil smile on his face proves his cruelty. He is Albert Cunningham, the leader of the CSO.
This answer clearly doesn’t satisfy the woman, so the man adds, “I think she was close to finding something. I know she knows something; I just need to get her to say it.”
“What? Do you think she knows where the ring is?” The ring. The woman speaks of it as if it is some precious stone or jewel. Whatever the ring is, it must be important, otherwise I doubt she would have sounded so interested.
“I think we’re going to find out very soon.” The man replies smugly. He let’s go of the woman’s arm and she rubs it.
“How in the world did she even break into a school?” The woman questions. “She’s not that smart,” she laughs. Why do people keep saying that? Am I really that clueless?
“Come on Rebecca, the Clarkes have always been smart.” The man responds calmly. I am shocked by the use of my last name, as if he is acquainted with my family.
A sharp pain stabs through me and I am brought back to the last day I saw my mum. She left to visit the convenience store and didn’t return. I remember Dad and I going to find her and finding the owner’s dead body on the floor. The shop was a ghost town and the ghost of my mother haunted it.
I remember that we never found her body. We searched for weeks, asking everyone who walked into the shop if they knew what happened. All anyone could say is that the CSO came, they fired, and left the place lifeless. There were no survivors.
I can’t remember what happened to my dad, but I guess he’ll be waiting for me back home when I find a way to get out of here.
“Don’t you dare talk about them in front of me,” the woman’s harsh voice interrupts my thoughts. “You know what they’ve done.” There it is again. They talk like they know me, know my parents. But I would never let myself associate with people like this and I don’t think that my parents would have either.
“I’m sorry,” Albert’s voice softens. “But trust me, she will pay for her crimes.” Whatever that payment is, I certainly don’t want to stick around long enough to find out.
Whether she’s satisfied or not with the knowledge of me receiving punishment for my crimes, I can’t tell, but she confidently strides away leaving the man and I alone.
He walks over to me, and I lay on the ground, pretending to be asleep. The last thing I want is to talk to the man who has locked me up and plans on punishing me for crimes I don’t know I’ve committed.
“I know you’re awake,” he says. I don’t move. I am not willing to talk to him. I don’t even think I remember myself well enough to be able to hold a conversation. He peeps through my window, and I dare not even breathe. He laughs, “or you can just pretend to be asleep. But I know that you know something Emerson. And you will tell me. I have worked too hard to build a perfect society for you to ruin it by withholding information. This is a war, Emerson, and you better pick the right side.” With that, he stands back up again and leaves me wondering what in the world he could possibly mean.
I try to remember anything that might help me understand, but my brain is tired from recalling so many memories after being injected. For now, I need sleep and food. Yes, food would be good. I know I am not getting food, but at least I can try and sleep. So, I begin to hum until I drift off to sleep, solely focusing on the sound of my shaky voice in the dark, dark cell.
Chapter 4 - Emerson Clarke
Iwake with a start. A small light above me has turned on and I can finally see the room I’m trapped in. The walls around me are thick concrete, with the small window that I was looking out of the night before beside my head. In one corner of the room, there is a mattress, and on the other side of the wall, there is a toilet and a sink.
I don’t understand why they couldn’t at least chain me onto the bed so that I would be able to get a good night’s sleep. Instead, they have to torture me by placing it just out of my reach and ruining what little sleep I was able to get.
On the same side of the room as the window, there is a large metal door. I suddenly realise that there is a strong knocking on my door, and someone is calling out a chorus of ‘hello’s and ‘is anyone there’s. I try to look through my window to see if I know who it is, but they are just out of my view.
I stay silent for a few minutes. When the knocking stops, I slowly peer through the window expecting to see a figure moving away to leave. Instead, I am surprised by a face meeting my own.
The face belongs to a boy that looks about my age, with dirty blond hair that drops like a waterfall in front of his intense brown eyes. “So, the sleepyhead is finally awake.” He smiles and I frown back at him. Is this really the reason I woke up? To be teased about my sleeping habits by some teenager.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice still groggy from sleep.
“Calm down,” he laughs, his voice soft and light, “I came to bring you breakfast.” He holds out a tray with toast and, is that an egg? Images flash across my mind of a table surrounded by people my age and two adults, holding out a tray of beans. Something about that image makes me shudder. I don’t think I like beans.
I should know the people in that image, those people are probably my friends. We are probably having beans for dinner, which would mean that I’m Ransacked. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know I’ve hit the mark. I don’t eat eggs, they are too expensive, and can go out of date too easily. Being Ransacked means eating stuff out of cans so that they can be preserved. That’s me. I’m Ransacked. So what on earth did I do to end up here?
“Pass the meal through,” I say, my eyes greedily set on the meal before me.
