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The first week was used to create my background. I chose my new name. I was told why this job is important and even taught about the Fallen Angels’ history, who it was created by, and what they’ve been working on.
The second week started training. Every day I would be training with someone, learning to fight. There were multiple days when I was taught about torture. I was waterboarded, prodded, threatened, and almost beaten to death.
But I came out of it okay. Stronger.
Mentally ready for what was to come.
The rest of the month was a mix of it all. I met with various people from the project and was placed with the DC Fallen Angels.
So far, there’s really only one person there full-time. Others are coming soon, but they come and go as they wish.
Jerry Flannigan.
I wasn’t sure what to make of her initially, and I’m still unsure. I hope living with her proves different than our first meeting, as that went, well, poor.
Jerry has a knack for being an asshole, I was told, but she means well.
Means well, my ass.
Unlike most of us, Jerry never got her memory wiped. She had a choice, they said.
I haven’t entirely made up my mind on whether I’m jealous of this or not. On one hand, I think it’s incredible to understand where you came from. Only having a month of memories makes me feel like a ghost. Like I’m not a real person. I’m almost twenty, and yet I know nothing.
Nineteen years of memories are just gone.
Who am I? Who was I to others back home?
Why am I here?
What happened to me?
Part of me desperately wants to know, while another part doesn’t. Another part of me understands that there’s nothing natural about this.
I was told that I died. That the CIA found me and gave me a second chance at life.
But who are they to play God?
Who are they to determine when someone can get another chance? When they can breathe another breath.
Sometimes if someone was meant to die, they were meant to die.
And I was meant to die.
I was told that this would be a natural thing to think about. To ponder. To stress about. But I’m not sure. This doesn’t feel natural. This doesn’t feel good.
This feels like I’m suffocating.
Veronica leads me through the large metal doors of the compound. The place is empty except for a small kitchen space in the middle and a makeshift living room in front of it.
There is only one floor with what looks like hurriedly made rooms to the right. The walls are plywood, the doors just cutouts covered by a tarp.
The place looks absolutely insane.
“This can’t be real,” I mumble, swiping my hand through my short hair.
“We’re working on it,” Jerry says as she steps out of her room, the crinkling noise of the tarp echoing through the large space as she does.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep here.
