The Circle- Taken

by Sage Sask

  Guarded, I watch as the previous group spills out. Their faces are a mix of ashen and relieved. Each one frantically searches for their family.

  “Move forward, single file.” The woman herds us onward like cattle to slaughter. Her fully buttoned white coat matches the stiffly pressed white pants. “You will be scanned before entering.”

  Ordering my feet to move, I follow Kyle to the front. On my turn, I hold out my arm for the familiar scanner. It reads my name aloud.

  “Station twelve,” the woman says, barely blinking.

  Another step deposits me over the threshold. Single beds are spaced evenly apart. Orange insulation peeks out between metal pipes that zigzag across the ceiling. Brown walls covered in grime enclose us.

  An officer closes the door behind the last person and engages the lock. The sound of the metal turning echoes in my head. When I turn back, my gaze collides with Kyle’s. In his face, I see my terror mirrored.

  “Good luck,” Kyle says.

  “You too.” I swallow but the spit lodges in my throat.

  I clasp my shaking hands together. Like a statue, I stand still in horror as students lie down on tables at their stations.

  “Move faster,” the security officer orders.

  My station stands near the end. As I head toward it, I focus on the details. Another habit ingrained from a time that does not belong to me. The man typing into the computer has buzzed blond hair. The name Otis has been sewn into his white jacket with blue thread.

  “Take off your shoes, scarf, and jacket, and lie down,” Otis orders without sparing me a glance. He continues to type. Seconds later, the screen lights up with a scan of the forms I filled out.

  I slip off my shoes and then my scarf but keep on my jacket.

  “Do you have a hearing problem?” Otis demands. “Jacket off.”

  Bile fills my mouth. In one beat I swallow it and drop my jacket over my shoes. He watches me as he slips on a pair of latex gloves. I think quickly. “I’ve been sick.” I lower my voice until it’s gravelly and raise my gloved hands. “I sneezed into them. Earlier I was vomiting with fever. I’ve passed it to others.”

  He considers me, assessing, then pulls on another pair of gloves over the first. With no options left, I slowly lie down. I wince when he grabs my sock-clad feet. Every muscle tense, I braced for the pain, but nothing. Amazed, I swallow my cry of relief.

  I twist my head to watch Otis when I spot Kyle in his bed. A needle is thrust into his arm and attached to an IV. Our gazes hold before Kyle slowly turns his head away.

  “What are you going to do?” I whisper.

  Without answering, Otis jabs a needle deep into my arm. Before I can react, he attaches four electrodes to my head, two to my neck, and one on each wrist. Finished, he types numbers into the computer.

  The computer screen lights up with an image of a dye coursing through my body. It meanders slowly through my veins as it searches for my secret. Above my head, a machine whirs to life. I lean my head back to watch as a cover slides out from the awning to fully enclose me within its darkness. Seconds later, a blue light blinds me.

  The light starts at my head, and then runs slowly down my neck, arms, and toward my abdomen. Like a heated blanket, it burns every place it touches. I refuse to admit my pain. Instead, I bite down on my lip and remain silent. At my feet, the machine starts its return journey from my legs to the base of my skull. Once there, the cover slides backward until fully retracted.

  “What’s the scar on your abdomen?” His back to me, Otis waits at the computer. “It’s listed in your permanent record without reason.”

  My hand slides over the area where my skin was cut and is now shriveled. “I had the scar when the officers found me.” I school my face when he turns sharply toward me. “I don’t have memories of my past.” I glance away, afraid of showing any emotion. “They think I was in a boat accident.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t remember.” Every time the truth rips something inside me. Years of my life are lost inside my brain, refusing me information about who I am. “They say I have amnesia.”

  “You’re an orphan.”

  Knowing it is in my file, I do not bother to answer. Instead, I focus on the students who are lining up at the door. Relief is scrawled across their faces. Around me, others are finishing up. Otis rolls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash.

  “You’re free to go,” he says.

  My heart slows and then speeds up. A joy I have never felt before flows through me. I can find the truth of who I am. With a jerk of my head, I thank him. Quickly jumping off the table, I rush toward the door and freedom.

  “Alexia?” Otis calls out.

  His call freezes me. Only five steps remain to reach the door. Sure he has learned the truth; I ignore him and quicken my pace. Focused on the door, I am nearly there.

  “Alexia,” he says, louder.

  His hand grasps my bare arm. Tense, I begin to beg for my freedom when a red haze covers my eyes and pain radiates from my skull. His glove-free hand pulls me backward. I stumble, gasping for air. His hand falls off. Through my dimming haze, I see my jacket and shoes in his hand.

  “What happened just now?” His narrowed eyes search mine.

  “My illness.” I push the final remnants of the pain away. At the same time, I search for an answer he will accept. “I was dizzy.”

  Without making contact, I grab my jacket and slip it on to cover my arms. Anxious to get to the door, I start toward it, when a little girl in a yellow dress runs toward us. A bright smile lights up her face. Two braids fall over her shoulders. She stops at Otis’s feet and wraps an arm around his leg.

  “Hi. My name is Bryn.” Each word is perfectly pronounced. She points toward Otis and announces, “He’s my daddy.” Before I can respond, she adds, “Yellow is my favorite color.”

  “Hi. I’m Alexia.” I force a smile. If I walk away without saying hello to his daughter, then it could make Otis angry. I try to keep my attention off the growing line at the door. “She’s beautiful.” On Otis’ odd look, I motion toward her. “Your daughter? Bryn?”

  Otis glances at his leg then back at me. His gaze slowly fills with fury. “What are you talking about?”

  A deafening roar starts in my ear and then slowly slides inward until it takes over my body. Every sense muffled, I watch as Bryn slips her hand into Otis’s. Their fingers don’t intertwine.

  “What game are you playing?” With narrowed eyes, he takes a threatening step closer until we are inches apart. His breath ruffles my hair. “My daughter died ten years ago.”

  My scar starts to throb. Otis’ words swirl around me, pulling me in. I search helplessly for an explanation as more students take their place in the line. Yearning to be with them, I shift my gaze to his leg. Bryn’s gone as if she had never been there.

  “I’m sorry.” Scared, I hunt for a reason he will believe. “Someone mentioned your daughter. I was stupid to say anything.”

  I step toward the door, determined to escape. But it is too late. I can only watch with dread as Otis reaches for a button next to the computer.

  “Please don’t.” The words barely get past the fear in my throat.

  Angry, his gaze locked on me, he presses the button. Seconds later, my arms are yanked back by an officer while another stands alongside in support. With an instinct born from deep within my subconscious, I kick my leg out and strike the first officer in the stomach. Surprised, he stumbles back. At an advantage, I pivot and hit the second officer in the neck with an open palm.

  From my peripheral vision, I see Kyle rise off his bed. Shocked, he stares at me. Another tech starts to pull his hands behind him to slap on handcuffs. Kyle’s face drops, but not before I see his fear lined with regret.

  “Fight!” I scream at him. “You have to fight!”

 
; Kyle has a second of indecision before he turns and throws a punch at the tech, dropping him. The first officer who tried to handcuff me rushes Kyle. The second one grips my shoulders. Using a maneuver I cannot remember learning, I drive an uppercut to his mouth. Blood spurts over his face and onto my fingers. He stumbles back.

  Overhead, an alarm sounds, reverberating through the walls and floor. Kyle struggles with the officer as three others rushed toward us. Legs apart with fists raised, I ready for a battle. Kyle gets the officer into a headlock. Another one pulls out his weapon and aims. Before Kyle can react, the officer pulls the trigger and drops Kyle with one shot.

  “No!” My scream echoes inside my head. I stagger toward his still body when the officer turns his weapon toward me.

  “She’s a code red!” Otis yells. “Don’t shoot!”

  The officer pauses, his face filled with confusion. Another one grabs my head and pulls it to the side. As I struggle, Otis sticks a needle into my neck, shooting a warm liquid through my veins.

  I take another step toward Kyle’s still body when my vision becomes fuzzy. I try to shake it off when darkness descends. My brain slowly shuts down. I try to throw an arm out, but it falls, weak, to my side. Through the fog, I yell to Kyle to get up, but no words come. Grief rips through me. I push forward one last time, but my legs buckle.

  Seconds later, everything goes black.

  FOUR

  I struggle to open my heavy eyelids. Searing pain shoots through my skull. My throat is scratchy and dry, as if I’ve swallowed a bucket of sand. Remnants of the test filter through the haze. I wrench open my eyes. The room rotates as objects duplicate. I rub a shaky hand over my face then blink repeatedly to get my bearings.

  I push up and off the mattress using my elbows for leverage. Upright but off-balance, I stare at the four walls that seem to be closing in on me.

  “Where am I?”

  Silence replies. Dizziness forces my head back. I shut my eyes willing it to subside. Anxious to try again, I sit up. The bed springs squeak in protest. Pins and needles dance in my limbs. With barely any strength, I shake them out. When feeling returns, I lower my head between my knees and take deep breaths.

  The clothes I wore at the test now cling to me. After forcing myself to stand, I bounce on the soles of my feet to test my balance. With my returning energy comes stabilizing vision. I study the room. Slivers of moonlight from a small window slice through the darkness.

  My instincts humming, I wrap my fingers around the metal bars that crisscross over the window. The sound of waves hitting the shore filters through the glass. My gut tightens as I grip the bars harder. Where am I? I pull on the metal, but it refuses to budge. Frustrated, I slam my hand against the wall. I search for and find a light switch. I flip it to flood the room with light.

  Wary, I survey the room. A desk sits next to a door. I twist the knob, but it is locked. As I turn, I catch my reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. Limp hair clings to my face. A purple shiner colors the area beneath my eyes. Gaunt cheeks from years of hunger are further thinned out. I run a finger over the bluish green bruise on my neck where they stuck me with the needle. Right after they shot Kyle.

  The immediate grief suffocates me. I drop my head and will the tears to hold at bay. I told him to fight. If not for me, he might still be alive. I grip the desk chair and take deep breaths, but the sob breaks through. With my free hand, I cover my mouth to stifle it.

  Only the weak show emotion.

  I jerk at the voice that sounds so close, but a quick search assures me no one else is in the room. I close my eyes and listen again. A memory with no face speaks.

  Fight.

  Like the other times, I reach for more, but the voice fades faster than it arrived. Angry, I will my mind to give me more, but it refuses. Desperate, I start to rummage through the desk drawers for a weapon. In between sheets of blank paper are two pens and a paper clip. I twist the metal until straight then slip it between the door and wall to disengage the lock. Nothing.

  Unwilling to accept defeat, I break off the pen’s cap and start the process again when I hear footsteps outside the door. My mind racing, I yank the mirror off the wall and slam my heel into the center, shattering the glass. I grab the largest piece and slip behind the door just as the lock clicks and the knob turns.

  With my breath held, I assess the guy who enters. Near my age, he is nearly a head taller than me. His short brown hair leads to broad shoulders. Having the advantage of his back to me, I slam my knee into the crook of his leg. He barely buckles before catching himself. He pivots on one foot to bring us face-to-face.

  My breath comes in spurts. The edge of the glass cuts my finger, but I barely feel the pain. Without a care in the world, his gaze drops lazily from my face to my hand. His eyebrow quirks in question.

  “Are you planning on attacking me?” he asks.

  “Let me go,” I return generously, “and I won’t have to.”

  He considers my request then lazily lifts one shoulder in refusal. “Sorry, not going to happen.”

  Furious at his mockery, I twist my arm and slice the skin on his upper arm. Blood drips from the cut onto the ground, puddling between us. He barely flinches.

  “That hurt,” he says mildly.

  “Good.” My voice matches his tone.

  He carefully watches as I push past him to escape through the open door.

  “No, you don’t,” he says quietly.

  I flinch when his hands wrap around my waist. Before I can fight back, he tosses me into the middle of the room. Refusing to fall, I bend my knees and land on my feet. I rock back to hold my balance. With the heel of his foot, he slams the door shut. The sound fuels my anger. Using the glass as a shield between us, I demand he open the door. “Now,” I add.

  “I don’t think so.”

  There is a flicker of respect on his face, but it disappears quickly. He folds his arms and leans casually against the door. I assess my opponent and form a battle plan. His lean muscle and set jaw tell me he is both strong and stubborn. His steady gaze promises me a battle. I take it all in and dismiss it just as fast. No matter his desire, I need my freedom more.

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  Adrenaline drives me as I lunge for him. Ready, he grabs my wrist and twists my arm around. With the maneuver, he pulls me flush against him. The electric shocks begin at my feet and radiate upward. Oblivious to my pain, his fingers tighten around my wrist, forcing me to drop the glass. He slams his foot down on it, and it shatters.

  “Are you going to calm down?” he growls into my ear.

  His words barely register as the pain accelerates. With it, a vision slams into my consciousness.

  He’s standing on the edge of a cliff, staring out at the ocean. A girl similar in age approaches him. Her long blond hair is gathered together into a ponytail. Her voice is quiet, serious. “Ryan,” she says, but he doesn’t answer.

  “Not planning on it,” I grunt, barely getting the words out.

  Adrenaline pumping, I refocus on the fight. With two deep breaths, I struggle to push the vision to the background. Slowly, I can feel the pain start to lessen. Amazed at the reprieve, I shove at his arms, but they are a steel band around me. I push my left foot backward, kicking him hard. Simultaneously, I bring our joined arms up and bite down. He lets out a surprised grunt and loosens his hold.

  On instinct, I twist out of his arms. With my fingers curled into a fist, I aim for his neck. He ducks, avoiding my blow.

  “You really want to do this?” He spreads his feet apart and rocks back on his heels.

  He smiles lazily, making me want to punch the expression off his face. I quickly reconsider the situation and him. There is no way for me to win this.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are.” Like a white flag, I hold up both hands, palms outward. “This is a misundersta
nding. If you let me out, we can clear it up.”

  “A misunderstanding, hmm?”

  He takes a step closer. In the small space, I can hear his quiet breaths.

  “I didn’t see the tech’s daughter.” I lie effortlessly, trained from years of needing to do it. “I heard about her death before.”

  He smirks while reaching for me. I step back, refusing to let him touch me. On the offensive, I curl my fingers over my palm and strike his nose. At the same time, I raise my knee and hit him in the groin. He catches my foot with one hand and checks his nose with the other.

  “Nice shot,” he compliments me, unfazed.

  He tugs on my foot, and I topple backward. My head bounces off the ground as I land on my back. My foot hits the chair, toppling it. He throws one leg over me and grips my wrists over my head. My shirt protects me from his touch and another vision.

  “This is a battle you won’t win.” His gaze locks on mine and searches my face. I keep it blank, hiding that my head is throbbing. “Are we finished?”

  The war is not won with one act but instead a series of them.

  Like a piece of paper drifting in the wind, the words float through my brain from nowhere. In them, I find the courage to refuse defeat. Rearing up, I slam my knee into his back. At the same time, I twist my arms and push out of his hold to jam my fingers into the vein pulsing in his neck.

  “No,” I finally answer his question, “we’re not.”

  Furious, he pushes me off as he jumps up. With one arm, he yanks me off the ground. With a low growl, I face him, ready for his next move. Both of us are glaring at one another, getting prepared, when the door flies open. He immediately straightens and steps back from me. Curious, I watch a woman older than us enter the room. Her dark hair is pulled back into a bun. Escaped strands frame her light complexion and blue eyes. Wrinkles highlight her unsmiling mouth as she surveys the scene.