by Marina Epley
In the corridor, I sit down on the floor and begin reading to distract myself. I can still hear Kitty crying, but her sobs seem to be lessening. The book I picked up is about survivors of child abuse and those who had to witness domestic violence in their childhood. I’m reading it to hopefully gain some understanding of my sister, although I don’t know whether it’s going to help.
The book is written in an official language. But I can vividly make out familiar, disturbing images behind the words. I remember my sister and me hiding under the blanket, listening to the commotion going on in the next room, scared to raise our heads. I recall our living in a state of constant turmoil and aggression. It seemed Emily was constantly fighting with her boyfriends. She frequently changed them out, always finding new ones, but nothing in our situation ever seemed to change.
The book suggests that children exposed to domestic violence and abuse may become fearful and anxious. They become guarded, always watching and waiting for the next event to occur. The range of problems for these children can include anxiety, fear, shame, self-blame, guilt and even thoughts of suicide. Growing up, they’re at higher risk for alcohol and drug abuse, self-harm and becoming runaways.
I stop reading for a moment. I remember seeing scars on Marian’s arms and legs. I recall her outburst of anger toward me and her questioning whether I ever thought about killing myself.
As for myself, I remember fantasizing about smothering or gunning down Vogel. And I continued stabbing Butcher’s corpse, even though it was obviously overkill. I had always thought I was unaffected by Emily’s hatred. But why then is it so easy for me to kill people? And why don’t I seem to have any regrets?
***
My sister approaches, distracting me from my thoughts.
“She is asleep,” she utters softly.
“Thank you,” I answer.
Marian shrugs, smiling slightly. She plops on the floor beside me and places her head on my shoulder.
“What are you reading?” she asks.
“Just a book,” I say, quickly putting it away. But Marian snatches up the book and glances at the cover.
“Oh, you’re worried about your little sister, now are you?” she asks. “That’s so sweet.” She pauses, thinking, “It was a history book about the twentieth century.”
“What book?”
“The book I threw at you back in Oliver’s camp when you asked what I was reading. It was a book about the history and culture of our country before the Eruption.”
“You like history?” I ask.
“I’m curious as to how things were before,” she answers. “Want to know what else I’m really curious about?”
“Sure,” I encourage, happy to learn something new.
“The human brain,” she says. “That’s what I’m currently obsessed about. I’ve read how all the different parts of a brain work. I’d like to study it further. And I’m also interested in learning about mind breaker phenomena. I’m very curious about your kind.”
I remain quiet, listening attentively. I can’t quite figure her out. She’s cruel yet kind, rude yet compassionate, shallow yet intelligent. I admit I’m fascinated by this strange, messed-up girl.
Marian misinterprets my astonishment.
“Yes, I truly love science,” she says defensively. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“I never thought you were stupid.”
“Holtzmann often spoke about his research back in the camp,” Marian continues. “And he didn’t seem to care whether anybody was listening or not. Typically, a few recruits would come to hear his lectures, and I was always amongst them.” She frowns, averting her eyes. “You think I could assist Holtzmann in his research in the future? I’d love to work in his lab. And I swear I’d behave decently around him. I know he’s a no-nonsense type of guy.”
She looks at me hesitantly, as if fearful that I may begin laughing.
“Why not?” I say. “He could probably always use another good assistant.”
Her eyes sparkle as she flashes a wide, pleased grin.
“Let’s do something together, Alex,” she suddenly offers. “It’s late, but I don’t feel like sleeping. Let’s go for a walk just like the old days.”
“It’s already dark outside,” I remind her.
“So what? You used to tell me that you’re a breaker and could protect us from anybody. Remember? So let’s go! Please!”
Gripping my wrist, Marian leads me toward the exit doors. I follow. Outside, we walk side by side along the dark empty street. I gently hold Marian’s bandaged hand.
“Thank you again for calming Kitty,” I say.
“She’s my friend,” my sister answers. “I never had a friend like her before. I mean, there was always lots of girls around me at school. And I was their leader. But they were happy to stab me in the back the first moment I slipped up. Kitty isn’t like that. She’s genuine and loyal. Sometimes I wish I could be more like her.”
“That’s funny,” I comment. “Kitty wants to be more like you.”
“Oh really?” Marian smiles. “Well, I guess we’d better remain ourselves in that case.” Her eyes suddenly grow distant. “Like to know who I’d really like to become?” she asks. “Myself. The way I used to be when I was little. Remember? What about you, Alex? Who would you like to be?”
“Myself as well, I guess,” I say. “The way I was a year ago.”
“Why?”
“Well, I used to be really nice. Never robbed or killed anybody.”
“Do you think you’re so bad now?”
I don’t answer. I’ve done a lot during this war.
“You happen to be the nicest guy I’ve ever met,” Marian insists. “You haven’t so much as slapped me even once, although I suppose I’ve truly deserved it.”
“C’mon,” I say. “You haven’t done anything so terrible.”
“I spit in your face!” Marian reminds me.
“It was far better than shooting me in the face,” I answer.
We both fall into an uncomfortable silence.
“I still can’t believe she did that,” my sister finally whispers.
“Me neither,” I admit.
We continue walking, passing through debris left from the bombing. It’s a cold and cloudless night. Moonlight illuminates the street, making everything appear unearthly. I get the sensation of being in a dream world.
“Do you think I’m like our mom?” Marian asks. “I do. I’m always looking for trouble, you know. Because if you let someone hurt you, they’ll love you for it. Nobody would punish someone they didn’t care about, right? You know what I’m trying to say?”
“No, not really.”
“Do you like hurting people, Alex?”
I linger with my answer. I recall enjoying beating Dr. Carrel. I think about killing Guardian’s soldiers during the attack, and smashing Cynthia’s face into the floor.
“Not the people I love,” I say.
“All my boyfriends beat me,” Marian states. “It was the same way with Emily. Remember how she was? It was impossible for that type of guy to not beat the hell out of her. She’d act all sweet and nice with her new guy for a couple of weeks, and then she’d open her big mouth. And I imagine you still remember the kind of crazy crap she would say when she lost it.”
“They could have just left her,” I suggest.
“Well, they didn’t,” my sister answers. “They must’ve enjoyed all that stuff. I guess Emily liked it as well because she always put herself in the same situations.”
“There was nobody to help her,” I argue. “And she was still very young.”
“But aren’t we the same?” Marian asks. “Can’t you see how it works? Your father hurt Emily, so she in turn hurt us, and now we’re going to hurt somebody else. And it will just go on and on, forever.”
“We’re going to break the pattern,” I say.
“You think we can?”
“We have to.”
“Did you really be
lieve her story?” Marian asks. “You know, the one about her uncle. She told you something different, didn’t she?”
“I believed her,” I answer.
“Do you forgive her?”
“I was never really angry at her.”
“She began hurting me right after you left.”
My sister starts telling me about those ten long years of living alone with Emily. She goes on how our mother would lock her up in a dark closet whenever she misbehaved. She informs me how Emily hated it when she began transforming from a child into a young woman. How she continued to make Marian wear childish dresses. How Emily slapped and yelled at her.
“She wanted me to wear stupid ribbons in my hair,” Marian says. “And when I told her I wouldn’t do it, she grabbed a handful of my hair and cut it short. I was only twelve.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“I loved her anyway,” Marian sighs. “Sometimes she could be so loving and wonderful. We’d crawl into bed and pillow talk for hours. She’d tell me how great I was. I guess, you didn’t get to see much of that side of her. But I always knew she had a lot of love in her. And she offered all this love to me. But in return, I’d have to let her control me. I’d have to give up my own free will. She wouldn’t tolerate anybody else in my life accept her. No friends, no boyfriends, not even you.”
My sister pauses, looking away. I remember Emily holding me tightly, crying and sobbing. She’d slap or shove me, only to afterward express her love.
“I ran away once at thirteen,” Marian continues. “I met a guy who had a house, so I went to live with him. After three weeks he began beating me. So I had to leave him for another, but it wasn’t much better. After a couple of months I returned home. Emily was furious. She slapped my face and called me these horrible names. I ran away a few other times as well, but always returned. I could never strike back at her. I begged her for forgiveness and swallowed the humiliation. And it’s weird, because I could easily get in a fight with others, but never Emily. I could never protect myself against her.”
I remember freezing up myself, letting Emily do as she pleased. I could never put up much of a fight against her either.
“I’m very sorry,” I repeat.
Marian shrugs.
“I guess I deserved it,” she says quietly. “I know I’m a horrible person.”
“Everybody around here thinks you’re very nice,” I protest.
“Only because they don’t know the real me,” she interrupts, turning to face me. Her lips tremble. “They have no idea of the things I’ve done.”
“What could you possibly have done?”
“Everything!” she exclaims. “Everything you might imagine. I even experimented with drugs a few times. And when I was living on the streets…” She gives me a piercing stare. “Just imagine what I did to pay for my drinks and drugs. Just think about it, Alex.”
“How does any of that make you a bad person?” I ask calmly.
“What?”
“Have you ever killed anybody? Have you tortured or gunned down falsely accused inmates? Have you burned kids alive in hospitals? Gosh, Marian! You’ve no idea what bad really means. You didn’t hurt anybody, except maybe yourself. So how could you possibly be a horrible person?”
Tears begin rolling down her face.
“Thank you,” my sister whispers, hugging me. I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair. “Do you truly love me, Alex?”
“Of course I do,” I sigh.
“No matter what?”
“You’re my sister.”
“But you do realize how I can be mean and nasty sometimes, don’t you?” she asks.
“You can be as mean and nasty to me as you wish,” I answer.
I’m not lying, because I fully accept Marian the way she is. She’s no longer that funny five-year-old who used to be my best friend, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the fact that my sister loves and needs me just as much as I love and need her.
“Thank you,” she repeats.
We continue walking, keeping quiet. We somehow wind up on the boardwalk. I point at the beach and tell Marian that’s where we’re going to celebrate our victory after the end of the war.
“Cool!” she exclaims. “I love parties. But I should warn you how I usually get so drunk I can’t remember what I did afterwards.”
She winks at me, chuckling. Holding my hand, she leads me toward the beach where we sit on the wet sand, watching the waves. It’s peaceful and quiet. Suddenly, my sister shrieks and falls flat on her stomach, grabbing something off the sand.
“I caught it! Look!” she exclaims, holding up a large frog. “I love frogs,” Marian states. “Remember how you made me kiss a frog one time, telling me that it would turn into a prince?”
“Well,” I say, averting my eyes. “I honestly don’t recall that.”
Marian kisses the frog and carefully puts it back down on the sand.
“It never works,” she sighs. “I guess I’m not a real princess. I think I need a real kiss to turn into something good myself. What do you think, Alex? Would it work on me?”
“Let’s check it out,” I offer.
“Okay,” Marian agrees, closing her eyes.
I lean into my sister and kiss her lightly on the forehead. “That was a true love kiss, Marian.”
“Did it work?” she asks. “Do you notice anything different?”
“It might take some time,” I answer. “It’s a slow process. And you’re not a frog anyway.”
We both start laughing. She shoves me and I push her back. She stick out her tongue, and I yank her hair, pretending to be angry. It’s the same silly games we used to play as kids.
Then Marian and I walk back toward headquarters. This night will soon end and another day will come. Day one of a new stage in Holtzmann’s project, where Kitty and I will begin injecting the dangerous drug in ever larger quantities.
Chapter 25
Kitty and I stare intently at the box of matches inside Holtzmann’s lab. Developing our skill with telekinesis is tiresome work. A good hour passes before the box finally flips onto its side and moves a few inches toward the edge of the table. Kitty lets out a shriek of excitement. Holtzmann assures us that we’ve achieved an excellent result.
“Oh sure,” Kitty says, laughing. “Moving matches could definitely help us kill Guardian. We can probably stick a lit match right in his eye.”
Holtzmann hypothesizes that moving matches is only the beginning. Developing a more advanced skill level will take time.
Kitty and I return to the exercise. I still don’t fully understand how telekinesis works. I just gaze at the box, trying to synchronize my thoughts with Kitty’s. And at some point I can almost physically sense how I’m touching the box of matches without actually touching it, as if some invisible thread is attached from my mind to the object. And when I can concentrate hard enough, the object begins to move.
Unfortunately, it’s really hard to concentrate for long on the task. I feel woozy and nauseated. My joints ache and I’m suffering from a pounding headache. These are all side effects of the drug injections. We’ve been receiving an increased dosage for the last five days and our health has subsequently worsened. We now have to deal with decreased immunity, blood thinning and permanent weakness. My throat is sore and I suffer the symptoms of a moderate cold. Kitty isn’t doing much better. I know this well enough. Being so telepathically connected, I’m usually able to tell exactly how she feels.
I share my concerns about Kitty’s health with Holtzmann. The professor assures me that according to our blood test results we’re both doing fine.
“But she’s not eating,” I protest. “She feels nauseous and lightheaded. How can that be fine?”
Holtzmann mumbles something about the importance of our experiment and saving humanity. He can’t seem to comprehend that Kitty is much more important to me than all the rest of mankind.
Fortunately, our health struggles aren’t the
only effects of the injections. Our abilities for telepathy and telekinesis have increased significantly. We’re as close to reading one another’s thoughts as possible. That may appear to be something interesting and good in theory, but in reality it causes us some trouble. Because whenever I now suffer a flashback, Kitty sees the same images in her mind. Whenever she feels depressed, I feel down as well.
Another side effect is our unconscious use of telekinesis. There are instances when we walk together along a prison passageway and all the doors begin to swing open. Light bulbs occasionally explode above our heads. We accidentally break a few windows and even turn a table upside down in the dining room.
“I don’t get it,” Kitty says with exasperation. “Why can we do so much damage unwittingly, but struggle to so much as move a box of matches when we consciously try to?”
Holtzmann offers us a long, scientific explanation. He theorizes that we are subconsciously preventing ourselves from using telekinesis. The ability isn’t natural for us, so it will take a while to fully unlock our full potential.
That is of course, if the drug doesn’t kill us beforehand.
***
I wander the prison passageways after it starts getting late. Kitty and I can’t stay on the same sleep schedule because she still suffers my nightmares whenever we dream at the same time. The nights are long and boring. It’s too dark to read out in the corridors. My good eye quickly becomes tired when trying to read anyway.
I wonder why in the world Elimination prisons are so dark. Are they trying to reduce their usage of electricity? I descend the staircase, approach the main exit and go outside. I stroll around the prison grounds, breathing in the cold air while passing by a dozen or so protestors. They immediately begin calling me a terrorist, although they don’t sound quite as enthusiastic these days. It’s winter now and the temperature drops below freezing. The protestors are obviously cold, but continue their watch well into the night.
I approach their group and invite them inside for a few minutes to warm up.
“Come on, guys. Take a little break,” I offer. “It’s warm inside.”
The protestors hesitate, watching me suspiciously.
