by E. L. Giles
The chair gives me an idea. I’m unable to walk properly on my feet, but with the chair acting as a walker, I should be all right. I lean forward and pull the chair closer to me, turning it slightly, and grip its backrest. Slowly I stand up again, putting my good foot on the floor first, and wait to find my balance. Then I lay my other foot on the floor. The pain is there, but it’s bearable, and I start moving. I push the chair forward, then move my throbbing foot, lay it on the floor, put my weight on the backrest of the chair, and bring up my good foot. I take another step and another one. Aside from the scratching and creaking noises of the floor, which threaten to reveal my presence, I find the idea quite a good one. And it’s not like I had any other options anyway.
Now that I think of it, I hear nothing in here. No sounds. None at all. Is the place empty? Are all the people gone?
I hold my breath and listen. Some faint, faraway voices can be heard, and my heart competes for my attention as it pounds in my ears. It’s impossible to decipher the words, but I can tell they come from outside the house. I wait several seconds and risk another step. And another one. And another.
In no time, I get to the door and lean my head over the chair to look through the gap between the door and the frame. There’s no one in sight, though there’s a blind spot, and I can’t see the entire space. Should I risk venturing farther, knowing someone could be hidden somewhere? Again, do I have any other option?
I find that I do. There is the window on the side wall at my left. It’s not that far. But is it worth it? I start to feel dizzy again, and my ankle aches, reminding me of my injuries. Do I turn back or try my luck with the window?
I must get out, murmurs the little voice in my head. It could very well be my best bet. Then, outside, I could find a walking cane, like I did before, and make my way…I don’t know to where, but I need to go.
I turn around, and the teeth-gritting scratching noise of the chair legs on the wooden floor brings a shudder down my spine. I push the chair again and move toward the window at a slow, careful pace. After four painful and exhausting steps, I finally stand at the window. I touch the wooden frame, and there’s a pleasant, cool draft passing through an open space that makes me want to get outside immediately.
I push on the window with all my strength. It doesn’t open. I keep trying and trying but quickly realize it won’t open that way. It’s not like the window in my apartment. Maybe it needs to be slid up? I slip my fingers into the tight gap and try to push it up, but it remains closed, unmoving. One last thought crosses my mind. Maybe I could break it? No, that’s a stupid idea. It would alert the people outside. I try to slide the window up again. I battle with it. I don’t want to let the window win. I won’t give up.
I feel I must be going crazy after such wasted effort. I want to shatter the window to pieces and then sit there and cry. I won’t win this battle. I’m exhausted, out of breath, trembling. I must get out. I must escape. I come to the conclusion that I must revert to my previous plan and make it to the door, no matter the risk that there may be people hidden there. I inhale some of the cold outside air and turn around, starting toward the door again. I don’t take care to save my strength. I want to get back to the door and forget about that damn window. I want to get the lost time back. It’s stupid, and I know it, but I make it to the door so fast that I feel like I’ve almost retrieved that lost time. It brings a smile to my face.
I lean over the chair and crane my neck to see through the gap one last time, in case someone came into the house during the time I was fighting with the window. Again, I don’t hear or see anyone. And then I see it. There, a few steps forward, in the open space outside this room, I see something I absolutely need.
It should be quite easy. No more than five steps, six at most. I push the door open, and it whines loudly on its hinges. I step out into the unknown of the open space, focused on my goal. I don’t care what lies around me. I just want to make it there. By the third step, I start to reconsider how easy this task is. It’s like I’ve crossed no more than a foot, and the table is still far out of reach.
“Dammit!” I grumble but then remember the people outside. I shouldn’t have spoken it out loud. I’m such an idiot…
I hear a woman’s voice outside. Then two or three men. Three-on-one doesn’t seem a fair ratio, and I feel at a severe disadvantage against them—unarmed, stunned, and already in so much pain. I must hurry, but in such bad shape, what are my chances of succeeding? What are the chances I can escape this place? I don’t know, but I have to try.
I raise my head and focus on my goal again—the table. The people seem occupied outside for now, so I push the chair with all my strength, not caring anymore about how noisy I am. I don’t have time to be careful. One step after the other, I bring myself closer to the table. One step after the other, the world around me turns blurry. All of a sudden, the smell I didn’t recognize earlier registers. I smell chicken! It gets stronger, and my stomach growls loudly, feeling emptier than ever. Everything starts to spin, setting me off-balance. I must focus elsewhere. The table. That is my goal. Still a few more steps.
One step. A second one. Nausea grows inside of me. It doesn’t matter. I keep going. A third step. I feel faint, dizzy, and sick to my stomach, but I can nearly touch it. The knife, there on the table. If only I could stretch my arms a few more inches.
I rise up on my tiptoes, leaning over the backrest of the chair, and stretch forward. The tip of my fingers brush against the edge of the table. I’m nearly there. I must hold on. I empty my lungs of air and use the very last bit of energy I have left to cross the remaining gap, gritting my teeth and suppressing the scream of pain that threatens to burst from my mouth. My hands fall flat on the table. One hand slips off the edge, but the other finds its way to the knife.
My fingers clamp around the handle just in time. I sway dangerously, but at the very last moment, I manage to shift my body to the right and sit on the chair before I fall to the floor.
The world around me disappears behind a halo of black—only for a moment—before I open my eyes, blink, and focus on my hand, on this object I hold with white knuckles.
I’m holding it. I’m really holding it—the only thing I’ve ever held to defend myself. Now is the time to get out of here.
I turn my head and see no door other than the one that leads outside, where the people appear by the window in front of me. They are all standing around a firepit. Do the officials in Kamcala have special permissions? Okay, stupid question. Sure they do. They have a whole district to themselves. I remind myself that this is no time for such useless thoughts.
I must find a way out.
But it’s too late, because at that moment, the door opens and a cold breeze enters the house, crawling over the floor and to my feet. A person materializes through it—a woman with straight brown hair that falls just over her shoulders, wrinkles carved into her rough face, and wide eyes that stare at me. I draw the knife. I’m ready.
Chapter Twelve
The woman stops instantly at the sight of me, standing half in the doorframe, half in the house.
“Now, calm down,” she says slowly. “Drop the knife. Everything is all right.” She raises her hands, palms facing me, showing me she’s unarmed.
“Who are you?” I shout. “And what do you want?” I think I sound convincing. I hope she doesn’t notice the terror growing inside of me.
She tries to move toward me, one careful step after another. I draw the knife higher, its tip pointing right at her.
“I promise I won’t hurt you,” she says. “You’re safe here. Trust me.”
Trust her? She won’t mollify me with her soft and tender voice. Trusting her is the last thing I will do. The threat that comes with the word “trust”’ still floats through my head. Trust always ends in death.
“I asked who you are,” I say, spitting the words like venom across my clenched teeth.
“I’m Dolores. And I cared for you after my son—”
In what world have I landed? It can’t be Kamcala. Impossible. How can she have a kid of her own? How is such a thing even possible?
“This is not Kamcala, is it?” I ask.
“You’re right,” she says. “We’re not in Kamcala. But I did come from there.” She pulls the hem of her sleeve back, revealing a pale tattoo where her PIN is inked.
The knife I brandish feels as if it weighs a ton, and my arm trembles under its heaviness. I can’t hold it any longer. The firmness of my conviction vanishes slowly as I weaken, but I’m still unsure what her intentions are.
Her shape—Dolores, she said her name was—sways dangerously before my eyes. What is happening to her? Is she sick—or is it she who sways at all? I notice with horror that everything around me is starting to spin—the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the door. It’s me, not her.
The lights vanish, and it all turns black. The very same darkness I shoved aside earlier. I can’t fight it back now. It’s too strong, invasive, and too heavy of a pressure as I feel the very last strand of strength leaving my fingers, which contort in one ultimate attempt to keep holding onto the knife. But I fail, and the knife falls free, clattering to the floor. And now I’m going to meet it; I begin falling to the floor. I simply can’t sit up anymore. I wait for the impact of my body on the hard flooring. I wait for the pain that will surely come with the impact. I wait, but it never comes. My heart pounds in my ears. I open my eyes.
Dolores stands there, right there. My head rests on her chest, and her arms are wrapped around me, one hand pressed against the back of my hair, the other one behind my right shoulder. I could move away—I should move away—but I don’t want to. Strangely, I feel safe. Safe and reassured. I want to trust this feeling, so I stay there. My breathing calms, and my head stops spinning.
“Thank you,” I say, a murmur above a breath.
“It’s all right, honey,” she says, combing through the strands of my hair. She speaks soothing words softly, and I’m consoled. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt this comforted, and I let myself drift into complete contentment.
“Feel better now?” she asks after a while.
“I think so,” I say. I’m not sure how I feel exactly. I’m still shaken, but I do think I feel good.
“Think you can hold yourself up then?”
I straighten my back and nod. She slowly releases her hold on me.
“You must be hungry.”
Hungry. Food.
My stomach growls at the thought of it. I am hungry, beyond hungry. I’m starving and I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten something substantial. In fact, I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.
The smell that fills my nose brings an instant rush of saliva to my mouth, and I can’t wait to sink my teeth into anything that resembles food. Even the damn plaster-like rice bowl we had on Mondays back in Kamcala is tempting. I’d eat anything right now, and anything materializes on the table in front of me as an entire cooked chicken.
I hadn’t been crazy earlier then. It really was chicken that I had smelled. I’ve never seen a whole one, cooked and dressed on a table, ready to be devoured. Its skin crackles, and steam rises off of it. Tears pool in my eyes as I take in the sight.
It must be the nerves; otherwise, how could a chicken make me want to cry?
While the chicken cools off on the table, I feel thousands of questions rushing around my head and building in my throat, but I can’t express any of them. It’s like they are all jammed in a lump, stuck there in my throat.
“Tea?” offers Dolores, handing me a steaming mug.
My jaw nearly hits the floor.
“Tea? But how is that possible?”
Tea is rare in Kamcala. Sometimes we are given a cup on special occasions, like when they elect the newest Justice Minister. The most recent was two years ago. Yet, right now, there’s this woman I don’t know anything about, in a place unknown to me, handing me this cup of tea. I’m beyond words.
She laughs gently. It doesn’t sound mean. It’s clearly not meant to hurt me or make me feel stupid for asking. It still upsets me at first because I do feel stupid, ignorant, and naïve. But it isn’t her fault, and soon I’m calm again.
“Sorry,” she says, patting my good shoulder. She must have noticed my reaction. My cheeks burn now. “You know, it’s nothing special, really.” Dolores sets the cup on the table, right in front of me. “It’s a shame that they make it a rare treat in Kamcala. Anything to own you.”
I lean over the mug and smell it, fruit aromas filling my nose and then burning their way down my throat as I bring the cup to my lips. I think I taste strawberries…and apple? No, there are more flavors than that. It’s refreshing despite how hot the liquid is.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Wild berries, apples, mint leaves, and green tea leaves,” she says.
Mint? I didn’t know it could be used anywhere other than toothpaste.
When I’ve emptied half the cup, I turn my attention to the chicken.
“Can I?” I ask, reaching for the fork beside the plate of poultry.
“Sure, but eat slowly or you’ll get sick,” she says, but I’m already digging deep into the soft, white flesh and barely hear what she said.
I don’t gauge the first chunk I bring to my mouth. I’m so hungry! It nearly chokes me. After a few taps on my back and a minor coughing fit, I am up for the next bite. And the next, and the next until I have devoured both thighs and part of one breast.
“Nothing like what you ate back in Kamcala, huh?” she says as I lean back in the chair, massaging my overfilled stomach.
I shake my head. I’ve definitely eaten way too much. I think that’s what she warned me against. I can’t talk for now; it’s as if I’m filled with food up to my mouth. Regardless, it’s a pleasant feeling not to feel the emptiness down in my stomach after every meal. I wonder for a moment if I’m not dreaming and am about to wake in my bed in Kamcala, an empty stomach and a boring bowl of oatmeal waiting for me. I don’t want to.
“Why?” is the only thing I can manage to ask Dolores.
In a sense, it’s the perfect question. Why help a complete stranger? We don’t know each other, so why does she show this much compassion toward me? And at the risk of being caught…
Being caught?
Glimpses of my memory come back, creating anguish as they grow in my head. Shivers of fear crawl up my spine as I recall the voices and the crackling of footsteps near me.
“The military!” I exclaim. “You must leave. They will find us.”
Dolores jumps in her chair, startled by my outburst. “What military?” she asks, her eyes creasing in puzzlement, worry in her voice.
“They are after me.”
“There were no soldiers around when we found you. Just you, unconscious and in really bad shape, I must say. I don’t even know how you managed to walk that long, since the closest border fence is quite a long distance from where you collapsed.”
“Oh,” I say. “And you’re absolutely sure there weren’t any of them around and that they won’t come here?”
She moves a strand of hair behind her ear that fell over her eye, revealing her fine jawline and more wrinkles around her eyes. “I am. In twenty years, they’ve never ventured here, and we constantly make sure no one finds us, so it won’t be any time soon that they will. You can relax.”
“Twenty years? How is that even possible? Where are we exactly?”
“Well, that is a long story. For now, let’s say you are in the remains of the ancient world.”
I turn my head in every direction, inspecting what she calls “the remains of the ancient world.” I’m certain there are no such places like this in Kamcala. There’s the wood flooring that reminds me of the rooms in the Justice Building or Marcus’s office, but the narrow stairwell that
connects the second story to the main floor, and the bizarre lamps that illuminate the room, make this place very unique. There is also the weird heating equipment from which Dolores pulled the chicken. It’s like an oven, but with a small fire burning inside of it. Never have I seen a place such as this. Maybe it’s nothing compared to the mansions the ministers or the president himself must have, but still, it is way more than any citizen would have dared dream of.
“Why are you helping me?”
Dolores takes the chair across from me and reaches out to place her hands on top of mine. I jerk at first. Apart from what is medically necessary, touch is forbidden in Kamcala, but we’re not in Kamcala. I force myself to be calm and let her do as she likes.
“Would you have let someone else die out there, or would you have helped him or her?” she asks.
I consider it for a second. If Anna had been a stranger to me, and I’d found her dying in front of me, would I have helped her out or not?
I nod. It was stupid that I had to think about it.
“So,” Dolores says, her eyes wide with curiosity, “what’s your name, honey?” I stare at her. It’s definitely not honey. “They must have assigned you a name at birth, or have things degenerated that far in Kamcala?”
“I—I’m Lisa,” I say.
She smiles, as she clenches my hand tightly. She’s much stronger than she seems.
“Nice to meet you, Lisa.” She smiles at me, and I smile—or try to—back to her. “Tell me, what happened to you that we found you in such state? How did you escape?” she asks with great interest.
“Uh…” I scratch the top of my head and try to remember as many details as I can, but I find myself short of memory and shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t recall anything correctly. It’s all confused in my head. The events are all scattered with black spots. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”
