Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  Twisting Minds

  Tessonja Odette

  Published by Crystal Moon Press, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TWISTING MINDS

  First edition. January 31, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Tessonja Odette.

  Written by Tessonja Odette.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO | Six months ago

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Now

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Claire, are you ready to talk about Darren?” Dr. Shelia asks in her quiet voice.

  I’m not ready but can’t bring myself to say so. Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and stare at the bright white ceiling of Dr. Shelia’s office. The silence grows heavy between us as my mind spins with anxiety.

  How did I get here?

  How did I become this?

  “Relax, Claire.”

  My muscles are tensed, fingers clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging painfully into my palms. I close my eyes and release a deep breath, shifting my shoulders as I try to relax into the hard couch beneath me. Just as my heart begins to slow its racing, a light whirring sound buzzes past my ear. Irritation courses through me as I fight the urge to swat at it. The microscopic cameras have been a constant in my life for over six months now, circling me like an invisible halo. Still, I’ve never gotten used to the sound of one getting so close.

  Who is on the other side of that camera? Is anyone watching? What do they see? A girl falling apart? Or one being put back together?

  “Take your time,” Dr. Shelia says, drawing my attention back to her. “Think about him from the beginning. Can you do that?”

  I can’t think about him. Not yet. Not when it means letting him go. Because letting go of Darren means letting go of the only man I’ve ever loved. It means letting go of the memories I’ve been clinging to like a life raft for months. It means accepting that I’ve gone crazy.

  Completely, utterly, certifiably crazy.

  What would my mom say if she could see me now?

  How did I get here?

  How did I become this empty shell of a being?

  Dr. Shelia would say I’m healthy now, for the things I’m about to confess to her. But I don’t feel healthy. I feel like I’m losing something. No—that I’ve already lost something. And I have. So many things. My privacy. My rights as a citizen. My mom. My sanity. My happiness.

  Not too long ago, I was happy. Briefly.

  Then again, can it really be called happiness if the thing that made me feel that way was never real?

  I’m not ready to answer that. I’m not ready to let go.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Six months ago

  My mom isn’t coming back. She’s gone forever. I’m completely on my own.

  The realization strikes me so hard it forces me to squeeze the arms of my chair to keep me from careening to the floor. I don’t feel like I’m going to cry. Instead, I feel like I’m being sucked into a black chasm of emptiness. I’d prefer to cry. Or grieve. Even fear would be preferable to this.

  “Claire Harper,” calls a woman behind a long desk at the far end of the waiting room. I see my name flashing above station eight and approach the glass window. Without acknowledging me, the woman stares at the screen in front of her. “Your probation officer will see you now. Room 402, eighth floor.”

  I nod my thanks and head to the elevators at the far end of the lobby. Once inside the lift, I turn to face the glass panel behind me, looking over an expanse of flat ground crisscrossed with rail tracks leading to the Select District. The Select city towers reach high in the distance, jewel-like windows catching the pink and gold light of the setting sun.

  I purposefully avoid looking to the far north end of the city, where the Select housing centers are located. Even at this distance, I could probably pick out the apartment tower where I lived most of my youth. I never appreciated what I had back then. All I wanted was what my parents wanted. To become Elites. To live in the Elite city in a bigger apartment and go to an Elite school.

  If only I knew then how far that wish would make us fall.

  The elevator stops, and I sigh before turning my back on the view to face the dim light of the eighth-floor hallway. The Seattle Public Citizen Probation building is probably the nicest building in the Public District, which isn’t saying much. But since the probation officers working here are Select citizens, the decor and amenities favor their elevated status. Although, they can’t be too elevated in status to be assigned such an undesirable job, working in the Public District. Then again, perhaps the Select citizens enjoy doling out sentences to Public citizens. Citizens like me.

  After a few turns, I find the door I’m looking for. 402. I knock, then enter, finding a modestly furnished office with a single desk, a bookcase, and three chairs. In one of those chairs—the one behind the desk—sits a middle-aged man with a ring of strawberry-blond hair surrounding a bald scalp. His eyes meet mine as I enter the room, and he offers me what looks like a forced smile.

  “Claire Harper,” he says, “I’m Marcus Smith, your assigned probation officer. Have a seat.”

  I take the only empty seat, next to a smiling woman with a black, angled bob streaked with purple. She’s wearing a sweater in an abstract pattern with colors to match her hair and a black mini skirt. Her thigh-high boots sport a six-inch platform and a gold buckle shaped like two linking S’s. Stella Song designer boots. That alone tells me she’s at least a first rung Elite.

  “Claire!” the woman says with far more warmth and enthusiasm than Mr. Smith, extending a hand for me to shake. “I’m Kori Wan.”

  I grasp her hand, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face when I’d rather scrutinize her with the suspicion I feel. Since when is anyone—Select or Elite—so excited about meeting a Public?

  “I have the results of your probationary sentence,” Mr. Smith says, drawing my attention back to him.

  The blood leaves my face. “And?” I think it might be the first word I’ve said aloud all day; it comes out like a croak.

  He leans back in his chair, elbows perched on its arms as he steeples his fingertips. “Before we get started, I am to remind you of the consequences that come with filing Forgiveness. You were read your rights when you filed, correct? And you accepted the terms?”

  I nod, although when I filed, I didn’t think I had any choice but to accept them. Filing Forgiveness was mandatory for me, after all. That’s what happens when your debt exceeds your lifetime’s ability to pay it off.

  Mr. Smith continues. “Then I will just remind you that by filing Forgiveness you are now a probationary citizen and have waived your rights as a Public citizen
of the United Cities of America. You will be given the accommodations of a Public citizen and will remain on probation until you have served your term. Your term will be complete when you have earned enough credits to pay your reduced fine. Until then you will serve an active sentence, which we will establish today. Agreed?”

  “Yes, but...” My words feel like they’re stuck in my throat. Do I even want to know the answer to the question I’m about to ask? “What does it mean to waive my rights?”

  “You should have asked this before you signed.”

  “I had to sign.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  Mr. Smith sighs. “It means what it sounds like. You don’t have rights of citizenship should you step out of line. Follow your terms of probation and you won’t have any problems.”

  I flinch, thinking of the enforcers with their black masks and heavy clubs. Of shouting in the streets. Of men being beaten for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  “Marcus!” Kori Wan says with a playful gasp. “You make it sound so scary.” She turns to me, smiling. “Claire, it’s mostly a technicality. It means that the terms of your probation may be changed at any time, including your active sentence. This would likely only come into play during national emergencies or times of war. You don’t need to worry about it, hon.”

  I look from her to Mr. Smith, who is frowning.

  “What?” Kori says with an innocent shrug. “She’s my client. I won’t have her leaving this meeting scared out of her wits.”

  “Right,” Mr. Smith says. “Let’s get back on track.” He scans his screen for a few seconds, then faces me. “All I can say is you’re lucky you are still underage. That’s quite a hefty debt you’ve inherited from your mother. At your status, it would have taken two lifetimes to pay it off. It’s no wonder filing Forgiveness was mandatory for you. If your mother died after you turned eighteen, you would have had a far more severe sentence.”

  I feel like he wants me to thank him for telling me how lucky I am, but I feel anything but grateful that my mom is dead.

  Mr. Smith continues. “Even with you filing for emancipation, you are still being sentenced as a minor, and your job prospects are far better than if you’d been an adult.”

  A flicker of hope stirs inside me, and I sit forward in my seat. “My emancipation was approved? I’ll be able to work?”

  “Yes, and you’ve been approved for your top three requested jobs.”

  A sigh of relief escapes me, and I close my eyes for a moment. “I was approved for all three jobs?”

  “Yes, although before we make it official, I want you to be sure this is something you can commit to. You’ve never worked before, and you’ve only been a Public citizen for two years. Your file says you’ve been an upper rung Select most of your life, and even lived as an Elite for a year when you were eleven.”

  I nod.

  He eyes me with a condescending stare. “Working three jobs might be harder than you expect.”

  “No, I can do it,” I say in a panicked rush. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to regain my composure, and say more calmly, “I am committed to paying off my sentence as quickly as possible.”

  Mr. Smith shrugs. “Very well, then. Regarding that, filing Forgiveness as a minor brought your inherited debt down from two million credits to 250 thousand credits. With three jobs, you could likely work that off in a matter of years.”

  Four-to-six years. I already did the math days ago when I tried to anticipate all the different possible outcomes.

  He continues. “As for your active sentence, I’ll turn you over to Ms. Wan.”

  Active sentence. My blood goes cold. After the relief of finding out I’ll be allowed to work, I’ve almost forgotten the most daunting part of this meeting. Even with Mr. Smith’s assurance that being a minor will work in my favor, I can’t help but imagine the worst. If I’ve been approved for the three jobs I requested, then my sentence can’t be job related, which rules out any life-threatening line of work. But I could still be sentenced to serve the military, sent to the war zones or the outlands, used as a decoy force like untrained soldiers often are. I could be used to test experimental medicines with lethal side effects. I could be forced to donate my organs or tissues with no guarantee of my survival.

  I’m trembling as I face the woman next to me.

  She clasps her hands to her chest with a wide grin. “You’re going to serve as a candidate for Reality viewing. Congratulations!”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded.

  “You’re relieved, aren’t you? It’s really the best probationary sentence anyone can get. I may be biased, being your agent and all—”

  “My agent?”

  “Of course! You didn’t think you’d become a Reality star on your own, did you?”

  Being a Reality star doesn’t sound much better than any of the other punishments I was imagining, but I don’t tell her this. Instead, I ask, “What exactly does it mean? Being a candidate for Reality viewing?”

  She beams at me, as if I’ve asked what her favorite flavor of ice cream is. “The way Reality viewing works under the probationary program is that you will be monitored at all times, resulting in a 24/7 lifestream. Your lifestream will launch immediately in all other cities to all viewers with access to viewing devices and to the Elites here in Seattle. No Public or Select citizen will have access to your lifestream here and that includes you.”

  I wrinkle my brow. I haven’t had a viewing device in years, but even when I did, I never watched some random person’s lifestream. Reality viewing was pretty much the height of entertainment when I was growing up, but the shows I watched were curated episodes, not lifestreams of some unknown citizen going about their miserable day.

  “Why is viewership restricted?” I ask.

  Kori lets out a girlish giggle. “If you and the people you interact with know you have a lifestream, it defeats the purpose, don’t you think? The draw of a lifestream is that no one knows it’s happening. It’s even more important if your lifestream goes viral and you get a show.”

  I swallow hard. “A show?”

  “That’s my purpose as your agent. If I can sell your lifestream to a producer, you’ll become more than a probationary citizen. You’ll be a star. Forget having three jobs. Being a Reality star could help you pay off your probation in no time. You could rise!”

  Her words send a ripple up my spine. While I have no interest in being a subject for 24/7 surveillance, I can’t help but be reminded of my mother’s last words to me.

  Rise up, my sweet one. You are worth more than this.

  “Oh, don’t be afraid,” Kori says, misreading the look on my face. “Just be you. I’ll do all the work to get your program under the eyes of producers.” She leans to the side, shoulders touching mine as a conspiratorial grin plays on her lips. “But if you could make things—you know—juicy, the chances of your lifestream getting picked up will be much higher.”

  I grimace. Not gonna happen.

  She straightens and takes on a more serious expression. “This could be big. For both of us. I have every intention of making second rung by next year.”

  It all makes sense now. Her enthusiasm. Her friendliness. She’s a first rung Elite, new to the entertainment industry. Entertainment is one of the biggest businesses in Elite society, aside from law, finance, and pharmaceuticals. However, it’s hard to make it past first rung in any of those businesses, and even the best fall hard. Accidents can happen to anyone.

  Like my parents.

  I realize Kori is watching me, an unheard question hanging between us. My eyes snap to hers. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  She raises a brow at me. “I said, do you have any questions?”

  I blink at her, trying to remember what we were talking about. A disquieting thought comes to mind. “Um...will I have a camera crew?”

  “Of course not, silly,” she says with a giggle. “Camera crews are rare these days, especially since Hunter Ellis...well,
you know.”

  I gulp. Hunter Ellis committed suicide live on his Reality show. His camera crew did nothing to stop him, even going so far as to film closeups of the aftermath for nearly an hour. I was ten at the time. Everyone watched Hunter Ellis back then, young and old. Who wouldn’t enjoy the antics of a former celebrity who lost his status to gambling and drug addiction? Seven years later, I can still remember every detail of his final episode.

  Hunter, staring at a gun. A hopeless expression. Darkness in his eyes. Death.

  “His episode is still the highest viewed of all time, both live and replay. Can you believe that?” Kori’s voice is full of yearning, not the disgust I feel inside as I recall the sight of blood and brains splattered over a tabletop. “I wish I’d been his agent.”

  “I bet you do,” I can’t help but say.

  Kori doesn’t seem to catch the bite in my tone. “Anyhow, no you won’t have a camera crew. Even though Hunter Ellis’ crew was acquitted of all charges and the Ellis Law has remained in effect since, it’s just better to avoid them altogether, you know? Plus, it’s cheaper.”

  The Ellis Law. I remember that too. It forbids any crew member from physically interfering with a cast member’s actions during the filming of a Reality show. Subjects are simply to be watched. Recorded. Like the nature documentaries from the olden days that Mom used to tell me about.

  Kori reaches into a dainty purse and removes something flat, circular, and silver. She presses a latch, and it springs open like a compact, revealing six tiny, silver balls, each the size of an insect, surrounding an equally small, flat, silver disk.

  She lifts the disk with her fingertips. “Give me your wrist, Claire.”

  I frown, turning my wrist toward her, eyes fixed on the disk. “What are you—”

  Before I can finish, Kori presses the metal to the inside of my wrist, and with a sharp sting, the disk latches into my skin. I slap my palm over it, my heart racing.

  “Relax,” Kori says without looking at me. She’s pressing her thumb over the center of the compact until six green dots light up next to the metal balls. “It’s so the cameras recognize you.” The balls shoot out of the silver container and into the air. I try to follow them with my eyes, but I only catch a glimpse of one here and there as they begin to circle me.