Page 24 of Good and Gone

Iheard footsteps coming down the hall. His are always the loudest. I can’t tell you much more than that. Everything is so fuzzy. It’s like the edges of my memory are being erased just as soon as any image can form. It’s there and then—poof—it’s gone.

He does his usual thing. Pumps hard and fast. It’s over quick, or at least I think it is on account of the fuzzy thoughts. Time is not linear here. My thoughts are not linear.

“I think it’s time to move,” he says, brushing my hair away from my face. He doesn’t speak much when he first comes in. Only after.

Then he likes to talk a lot. I rarely remember much, but I try to hold on to a few things every time. I don’t think it’s working, because I couldn’t tell you if what he’s saying now should make any sense in regard to anything he’s said before or will say after. Whatever it is they keep injecting me with sees to that.

He’s talking a lot now. He’s telling me how people are looking for me, but how they’ll never find me because he’s always one step ahead. Sometimes he speaks about the search, sometimes he tells me about his day, others he details what he calls my “examinations.” That is my least favorite part, even if I can’t recall most of the details. It involves lots of poking and prodding, which I’d try to block out even without their injections. Sometimes he gives me something extra, a shot in my hip, and it numbs everything the same way the other drugs numb my memory. He doesn’t give me anything today. Drugs, I mean. He tries to give me something else.

I take a deep breath, count to ten. Release it. “It’s okay,” the man is saying, hissing his evil words out, filling the room with them. After he leaves, it takes them a long time to go away, even if I don’t remember exactly what they are. It’s more of a feeling, a knowing.

I’m laying on the cot on my back, staring at the ceiling, as he drones on. “I want to go home,” I say, gripping the thin sheet on top of me so tightly my fingers go numb. Sometimes he hits me when I say this, but not this time.

“You are home,” he tells me with a grin. Again, he says he has something for me. I hear him unwrapping it. “They haven’t been feeding you like they should. But don’t worry. From now on, I’m going to personally see to it that you get only the best.”

He pushes something small and round and hard into my mouth. “Go on,” he says, “savor it.”

And savor it, I do, even if I hate myself for giving into his demands. The only thing I’ve tasted for however long I’ve been here is soup. Beef vegetable or chicken noodle. That’s easy to remember on account of the smell. Scents conjure up another part of your memory.

I suckle on the hard candy, pushing it around in my mouth. I lick my lips and taste lemon. The candy is tart and sour and it’s got something gooey inside. That gooey something oozes out, tasting so perfect that I want to cry. This is one memory I don’t want to forget. I don’t have any good ones since being here. I suck slowly on the lemon drop. I’m determined to make this moment last.

“You like that?” he asks, standing over me. He’s so close, I feel his spittle on my face when he speaks. He has a thick accent, and he wears heavy cologne. The way he smells causes a pit in my stomach.

I nod. The lemon drop sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I suck in my breath and hold it, trying to make it last. Maybe he feels guilty for what he’s just done, or maybe he has something more malevolent in mind, but I don’t trust his motives. He speaks softly, and still his voice is throaty and coarse, like a smoker’s. “There’s plenty more where that came from. Anything you want, it’s yours. We’re going to be very close, you and me.”

He’s already so close, he’s standing over me. “No one else,” he says. “Just the two of us.”

It makes me think of the other guy. Wherever he has gone, the man that normally watches me, the one who’s always watching his phone, he seems very far away. I don’t like him, but he’s better than this guy. He doesn’t touch me unless he has to and even then, he’s tentative about it. He brings a different feeling into the room. Almost like he doesn’t want to be here, but he doesn’t want to leave either. “Would you like another?” the man asks, leaning forward to watch my face. His hot breath brushes my skin and then his lips settle close.

I might never get another chance as good as this.

I’m nervous, considering all the things that could go wrong when I rear forward and sink my teeth into his neck. I latch on like a pit bull, even though the fear almost gets the best of me.

I come so close to talking myself out of it. But then I imagine spending the rest of my life in this room, going through his examinations, or whatever else he’s in the mood for, and I know I’d rather die. I think of Tyler, and I picture my kids’ faces, and I know I have to get out of this room, if it’s the last thing I ever do. I move my head wildly from side to side, biting down, tearing at his neck. I taste blood, and it’s worse than I imagined it would be, but I know this is my only chance to do this right. It’s him or me, and if he doesn’t die after this stunt, I surely will.

He’s screaming and cursing, and I let out several bloodcurdling screams of my own to mask the noise. If the other guy hears, he’ll come back, and then I’m as good as gone.

I don’t know how much damage I’m doing, but by the sounds he’s making, I take it, it’s a lot. He falls onto me. His weight covers me like a blanket. He’s solid, heavy. It makes it hard to move. I probably should have thought this through better, but I saw an opening and I took it. As soon as he picked up one of his instruments, or dosed me up, my chance would have been gone.

He’s grunting, clutching his neck, calling me a bitch, a cunt, and other things. I try pushing him off. As I do, he reaches out and tears at my face with bloody hands. His fingernails dig into me. I pull away before he can get to my eyes, feeling some of my skin go with him. I let out a cry and keep going. He reaches out again, but this time I’m standing upright. He grabs my ankle and pulls on it to keep me from going anywhere. I land a hard kick right at the bridge of his nose.

It seems to work because he releases his grip some, one of his hands flying to his face to stop the outpouring of blood.

They took my shoes and my clothes and all I have is a flimsy paper gown. It makes a terrible scratching noise whenever I move, like nails against a chalkboard.

I kick him again, this time hard enough that he lets go. His face is in his hands and judging by the sound coming out of his mouth, I doubt he’ll be fast enough to stop me from what I’m going to have to do next.

I grab something off his tray of instruments, a scalpel of some sort, shuddering as I scan the rest of his tools. Then I charge down the hall.

The sound of my heartbeat pounds in my head. I don’t hear anything behind me or in front of me, just the low hum of a television coming from one of the rooms. The hallway is long with three doors on either side. I don’t want to know what’s behind those doors, though I have my suspicions. I’ve heard the others. Weeping, shouting. Crying out. I’m tempted to try to help, but I know if I stop, I’m dead.

Once I reach the end of the hall, I have no idea where I am. I don’t know which way to turn. It’s not a mansion, but it’s not a small house, either. It’s old, the kind you see in horror movies—the kind you see on the wrong side of town. I reach what I assume is the living room. It’s just a great big open space. I stood in this room once when they first brought me here, for those first few moments, before they took me down the hall to that room. I barely remember it.

To my right, I hear the other man’s voice, unsure and confused. “Boss?” he calls out. “Everything all right? Boss?”

Behind me, there’s a clattering sound. Someone is coming. The boss has managed to get up. I hear him groaning as he staggers down the hall.

He’s yelling at the tentative guy. “She’s out,” he shouts. “Enact protocol one!”

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