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He lets the girl go and she crumples back onto the couch. Only this time, she stands right back up, as if a switch has flicked in her mind.
Albert takes her to a room, and the girl mindlessly goes into it. She sits down in a chair while the man straps down her arms and legs. She doesn’t even make a sound when the man yanks her hair out of the way to fasten a strap around her neck. He walks out the room, turning off the light as he goes and locking the door behind him.’
Chapter 5 - Emerson Clarke
I’m lying in a bed that’s so comfortable I almost don’t want to wake up. My eyes betray me, however, and flicker open anyway. I am lying in a stark white room with monitors beeping all around me. A hospital of sorts, I guess. Jasper is sitting on a chair besides the bed, drawing in what seems to be a notebook. But it couldn’t be a notebook. No one even uses paper anymore.
When he sees me, he shuts the book immediately and slips it in the pocket of his jumper. “Well look who decided to rise themselves from the dead,” he smirks.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Well, you stood up, I teased you about being short, and you had a full-on spasm on the floor. Someone is clearly a bit sensitive about their height.” He laughs.
“Don’t try me, Jasper.”
“I had to carry you all the way here. If I were you, I would be thanking, not threatening me.”
“You carried me here?” I repeat, my face contorting with embarrassment.
“Yep. Luckily, you’re small though, if you were any taller, we’d still be stuck there. Maybe your height has some perks.” He winks and I frown at him. I wish he had left me in the cell. At least then I would be alone to think about how I am going to get out of here. I would be able to think about how to escape his watchful gaze that brushes over me like a paintbrush on a canvas.
“Are you going to tell me what happened back there, or are you just going to leave me guessing?” He asks, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“No,” I reply, hoping it will deter him. I am trying to convince him that I don’t belong here. I’m pretty sure telling him about delusions that I’ve been having about a girl will not help my ‘I’m-not-mentally-insane-please-let-me-go’ case.
“So, I carried you out of your cell, all the way to the elevator, through the crowds of people, and ran. I repeat RAN to the med ward, yelled at people to get you a bed and to make sure that you were alive, for a ‘no’? Not cool, Emerson. Not cool.” He’s being dramatic, and I know it. He’s also trying to guilt trip me, and it’s working. But I’m not going to fold that easily. The more I deter him, the less I’ll see of him, and the quicker I’ll be able to get out of here.
I don’t reply. Instead, I stare back at him, daring him to challenge me. After a while of silence, he stands and wipes his hands on his pants.
“Well then,” he says, clearing his throat. “I guess I’ll let you rest.” With that, he simply walks out the door and I am left alone. Finally.
As soon as I am sure that he is gone, I get out from under the silky, white sheet and put on some white slippers that are beside the bed. I look down and find that I’m in a white hospital gown, although I have no idea how I got in it.
I wish I had some normal clothes, but it doesn’t concern me too much. I’ll just have to be more inconspicuous when I snoop around this place for a way to escape.
Before I exit, a picture to my left captures my eye. I walk over to it, disregarding the door. I stare at the window that shows a large tower. It has four metal posts on its base. The metal has twisted itself into intricate patterns around the base that rise up to one point high into the sky. Some of the metal is curved, some is straight, but all of it is breathtakingly beautiful.
I shake my head, knowing that it’s not real. I have never seen them before, but I remember someone telling me once about them. They are just projections, like large computers that show a particular image. It’s all fake.
And yet, I am so transfixed by the window, that I hardly notice the soft footsteps closing in behind me.
“Emerson?” The tender voice hits me with the weight of a dagger. It is trying to stab through the cloud of serum that has shrouded my memory. It is so familiar. So so familiar, like the words of an old friend, whose voice is always there in the back of your mind even after you don’t see them for years.
It hits me sharper than any dagger, digging deep into my heart and twisting it in my flesh till the blood comes pouring out. I know who the voice belongs to. But it can’t be, I tell myself. I don’t want to turn, because turning would be like unleashing so many memories that I would rather keep buried deep down.
It’s too late. Memories are flooding my mind, overwhelming me with their grief and sorrow. Images of myself crying, sobbing, howling out in pain. Images of me lying on a mattress on the floor, not having the energy to do anything but grieve over my mum.
But I don’t need to grieve anymore.
Because I turn around, and there she is.
She has long brown hair that seems to be freshly dyed, hiding the stains of grey. She is wearing a fresh looking, blue dress that matches her unbelievably blue eyes. It is almost like looking in a mirror and seeing an older version of myself on the other side.
It can’t be her. This must be some trick by the CSO to try and torture me. This can’t be my mum; this is just the shell of her. But seeing her right there in front of me, I can’t help but fall apart. “Mum?” I whisper, as if speaking any louder would make her disappear.
“Emerson,” She runs up to me and pulls me close. I feel her tears soaking the hospital gown, but I don’t care because I can feel her tears. I can feel her. Which means that she is real. This is real. Which means that she wasn’t dead for all these years. Which means she’s been lying to me.
I pull away suddenly, viciously wiping my eyes dry. I suddenly realise her features aren’t worn out or tortured but she looks healthy. Youthful. Her skin looks clean, her eyes aren’t red with bags under them, there isn’t even a speck of dirt on her dress. She doesn’t look like she’s meant to be dead.
