by Marcus Sloss
Copyright © 2019 Marcus Sloss.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ASIN: TBD
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
CHAPTER 1
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head you desperately wanted to fade away? Welcome to my little slice of torture. My leg bounced to the beat that was stuck on auto-repeat. My back popped with a twist as I shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. I calmed my agitated state with a deep breath and inspected the room.
A diverse selection of positivity posters plastered the walls that featured no windows. Recessed lighting brightly illuminated the small space. An aged chalkboard displayed stains only frequent use could cause. Six comfortable chairs formed a half-circle that faced an older woman in a five-wheeled office chair. I was outside the circle of recliners because an important call from a former war buddy delayed my arrival to the meeting, hence the cheap, aggravating seat.
Normally, awkward situations did not bother me. The military had forced me to get over any minor anxiety I had regarding speaking in front of others. My apprehension arose from making myself vulnerable to truths I generally kept hidden. After coming home from war, I had become a recluse, outside of attending classes, where I frequently avoided conversations. The dire need for me to abandon my inner shell of isolation added to my current displeasure. Yesterday, a fated call to my Gpad revealed a horrific truth that forced me into action.
There would be no further chance for me to break through to the special someone that sat next to me. The amount of mandatory preparation over the coming weeks would pull me away from this important woman. My one chance to win her to my side was right now, at this counseling meeting.
Willow was a lovely young woman who tried to conceal her true internal struggles. At least, my assumptions told me this. The fact I had access to what most considered restricted data might have helped, too. The last meeting, which had been my first, revealed a woman fighting conflict behind her bright blue eyes and vibrant pink hair. She was a hidden beauty under the heavy, unnecessary make-up, awkward turtle-neck sweaters, and oversized men’s shoes. Willow Hanks struggled to adapt to campus life; this was evident from her earlier half-truths that she disclosed in our group counseling session.
The venue name for this open therapy session was called ‘struggles’. I had laughed at the name at first, because what did college kids really consider a struggle? A gentle hand patted my shoulder. My scrutiny shifted from Willow’s resting hand until our eyes locked. Her batting lashes and wide smile allowed me to open up. I returned her smile and felt the chemistry between us brewing. She lifted a curious eyebrow at me. I was about to compliment her when our interaction was interrupted.
“Excuse me,” the student counselor said. I let my intrigued gaze shift from Willow, who exhaled the breath she held. “You were unable to give an introduction last session… Hmm…”
“My name is Eric, Eric Yang. If you are trying to retrieve my files.” I tapped on my forearm against my Gpad. The Gpad was the phone replacement that hugged your wrist with an auto-band. Slightly smaller than a phone, it had a holographic, three-dimensional display that projected vivid details. Years of operating the device resulted in a quick unlock of my records. “There you go, Mrs. Teller. You should be able to see my information now.”
“Wow! You can block your data? Are you a hacker?” A pimple-faced young man asked.
I frowned at him while staying silent. If he was expecting an answer, he would not get one from me. A squeak of chair legs sliding across the tiled floor allowed me to shift my chair until I faced Willow. I held out a hand in a basic gesture with my left-hand palm up.
“What is he doing?” the young man asked.
“Yes, Mr. Yang, what are you doing?” Mrs. Teller asked with a hint of authority in her tone.
“Mrs. Hanks needs to know something vital to her future,” I said. Willow’s interest was piqued. She raised a single eyebrow before placing her left palm over mine. I enclosed our flat hands with my right hand, completing the stack. She shifted immediately, the whites of her eyes flaring in shock. I figured she would react to the feel of my fake silicone hand. “It is okay, Willow. I hope my disfigurement does not startle you. I cannot help the wounds I returned home with. Do you want to inspect my arm while I talk?”
“This guy is hitting on Willow, Mrs. Teller,” the vocal lad said with jealousy.
“Frankie, please. A man came to our session today that…” Mrs. Teller pause with a huff. “I have an open-door policy as to who can come to these sessions. If you are able to read Willow’s expressions, she is interested not frightened.”
“True. I do find the brooding handsome man vying for my affection endearing. Me and Eric have a bit of a history. We have a few classes together. There has been a brewing chemistry between us over the last few months. A patient man who has been nothing but polite and respectful. The last time we talked, he almost got the courage to ask me out for coffee. I would have said yes, Eric. There was pain in his eyes and he retreated instead. Yet here he is. Willing to brave the group to talk about his struggles. How about we hear him out?” Willow said to the group.
“I guess,” Frankie said with disdain.
“See, perfectly fine. All I ask is,” Mrs. Teller gasped and covered her mouth. She likely was reading my file right now based on her reaction. “Are you… serious?”
“What is causing your fright, Mrs. Teller? Sure, he is big and muscly, but that man is old. I mean, he has gray hairs!” Frankie said with a snicker.
I ignored Frankie and the rest of the room when Willow’s soft touch etched the seam running the length of my forearm. My arm fired a signal to my brain, and my Gpad pinged with an authorization request. An approving nod was enough for the device on my forearm to flare green. The seam splitting mimicked a banana being peeled. The tanned silicone covering my right cybernetic arm was gingerly removed by Willow. Her eyes shined with delight when the mechanical appendage underneath was teasingly revealed. I bounced my fingers to spin the whirling gyros. The hum of the components from the futuristic creation always brought fresh reminders of the horrific reason my arm was not flesh and blood.
“What are you?” A new voice said.
My eyes went from watching Willow to darting to the geeky girl wearing a retro duckman shirt. Her black hair was entwined in twin braids, and her chubby face glared disapprovingly at my arm. I studied the background of the other attendees after my first visit. Her name was Reba, and she struggled with trust issues. She was hostile and prone to quick bursts of anger. My analysis indicated to avoid her.
“We are here to talk about struggles. If I talk about my struggles, it will help to answer a lot of questions. I think I have a few minutes, if that is okay? Please excuse me if I ramble. I tend to not talk much, but when I get going…”
Mrs. Teller scooted forward to the edge of her seat, plopped her hands into her lap, and eagerly nodded her head. My attention swung to Willow. Her fingers traced the metallic details of my mechanical arm. Willow’s nails lacked polish or flair, and her soft hands spoke of an easy life.
“I did not struggle growing up. I was raised in southern Florida on the outskirts of Miami. My height comes from my father, or more appropriately, my grandfather. The man was a soldier, one of many who did a tour in Korea and retur
ned home with a wife. My father was half black and half Asian. I am a mutt by race standards. A bit of everything, if you ask my gene mapping, and I accept that fact.”
I paused to study Willow. She decided to hide my cybernetic arm behind its cover. The silicone melted together until only the tiniest of seams were visible. Before her hand could retreat, I waved my fingers, enticing her to keep her hand with mine. She smirked at my request while giving in to her temptation. Our eyes locked allowing me to sense her interest. She smiled brightly and I became lost in her beautiful tender blue eyes. Some might not understand what it is like to be alone when you need that other to complete you. I certainly did and hoped she could help me feel again. There was a fiery twinkle in her gaze highlighted by a blush. I sensed the others growing bored with watching our staring contest.
“Struggles. Those started after high school. I decided to tour the world. Well, I learned an incredible amount of useless stuff while burning a lot of my parents’ hard-earned money. I also learned how to buy party drugs. If a bouncer wore a star pin, sticker, or fake tattoo of one, they had the drugs for you. If there were none or two, the cops were around. When I returned home, I contacted my old dealer. We concocted numerous fantastic plans while high on opioids. The winning idea was I would become a bouncer at a popular nightclub. I had a clean record, decent employment history, and was able to be accepted as a minority hire while looking mostly white. Told you! I did not struggle as a kid, teenager, or as a young adult.
“Okay, at this point, you are still probably wondering why I am rambling a backstory to you all. I need Willow to understand the man that is about to ask her to trust him…”
“Yeah, about that. Why are you perving on Willow?” Frankie interjected.
“Both of you stay on topic, please. Frankie, Willow is an adult, and your complaint is coming off as passive aggressive. Her body posture is relaxed, and like me, she was enjoying the story. Please continue,” Mrs. Teller said.
Reba gave a scoff and folded her arms because the attention was staying on me. A gentle sigh escaped before I continued.
“I… This next part is difficult to tell due to my shame. Selling drugs is worse than doing drugs. I actually got sober as money became my high, and as it turns out, when you fall into an excessive amount of cash, you tend to spend it. Digital surveillance is bad in 2032, it was significantly worse before the privacy laws President Hansen enacted. Every transaction I completed was monitored. Flags were raised and my club was monitored. Three years slinging drugs to kids wanting to have the night of their lives ended suddenly. I was facing thirty years for possession and tax evasion. My money never touched a bank, there were no physical records, and they never needed any. Spoiler here, these gray hairs and worry lines on my dashingly handsome face are not from old age. I am actually only thirty-two.
“I went into jail. Twenty-year sentence and the judge said I was lucky for his leniency. Some kid had overdosed on narcotics and they vaguely tied the incident to me. That accusation actually never stuck, but the possibility that I had sold him some of his fatal cocktail resonated in me. I accepted my punishment and knew in 2037 I would be a better man. Obviously, something happened since I am sitting here in the room with ridiculous posters. A cat hanging in the tree never motivated… Sorry, my mood tends to sour in these reflective moments. Where was I?”
“Jail,” Willow whispered softly. “You seem so scruff, yet normal. Not the typical man I get hit on by, that is for sure. I am enjoying the attention. Please continue.”
“Thank you. Your eyes are so beautiful I find them mesmerizing. After this session, I want to learn more about you,” I said. Willow nodded casually with an indifferent smirk. Her hand held mine with genuine interest in her eyes. “Jail sucked. I read and read some more. I bulked up to stay healthy, and to pass the time efficiently, I dove into learning about survival. Actually, I struggled with astrophysics first before turning to simpler subjects. Spoiler, when you ask Eric, the man doing time for porch thievery, about how hydrogen combusts. He generally tells you to bleep off. My goal was not to become an outcast among my fellow prisoners, and at the same time, improve myself. I struggled to learn anatomy to improve my health, the wilderness to know how to live off the land, and farming. Ironically, the best conversations I ever had were about horticulture.
“Fast forward to 2029 and the Saudi-Israeli war breaks out. America, in its infinite wisdom, decides to maintain peace after the Israelites demolish the Saudi infrastructure back to the stone age. The Israeli soldiers went home to relax while Uncle Sam went to rebuild and secure what was left. Now, we can get into politics, but that is one struggle I want to avoid.”
The soft laughter echoed in the room. Some of the reverberating noise was obviously fake, but when I paused, no one interjected. They clearly wanted to hear about how the Saudi war was relevant to me.
“Uncle Sam did not give privacy to prisoners, even when new laws were enacted. Every book, Gnet search, and medical exam was packed into a neat file for all non-violent offenders. I had two visitors on an abnormally bright day in that Houston jail. I remember the extra gleam of the buffed white floors. Even the guard’s cuffs that hung off her hips wanted to reflect light into my eyes. Moments like those tend to stick with you when everything becomes stale and mundane. I was sat in front of little ladies who gave glares that Reba wished she could give.”
“Hey, I never said my name,” Reba interrupted.
“It was mentioned on my way into the room. You were going over your struggles when I arrived late. Let me finish the story, and then you can have the attention. These two little ladies were intimidating with their hard eyes and scowls. They wore the uniform, ‘US ARMY’ was etched over their hearts, and dulled American flags flew backwards on their right arms. I want everyone in this room to understand something. This happened before the Saudi war broke out. Yup, the early spring of 2029, I had my first sit down with Uncle Sam. Sergeant Donivan and Staff Sergeant Beckers were ornery short black ladies I never wanted to cross. I will never forget those two sour suits, as I nicknamed them. They gave me an offer, one I could easily refuse.
“I was on track for early release with good behavior. With knowledge as my current high, I was not a fighter or troublemaker. Jail... while not easy, had become a mundane cycle I could deal with, and serving in the military was not appealing. To me, or the majority of the kids that the military needed to recruit, there was no reason to join up. Plus, as I would find out later, Uncle Sam needed to beef up troop numbers without telling the public there was an impending war. Well, I told the two sour suits no thank you. Politely, mind you. They tried to barter with low-ball incentives of early release and measly amounts of bonus cash. What they offered increased until it hit a ceiling that made them flustered. I had a feeling I was not the only potential recruit scoffing at their offers.
“I had another physical exam slated for the following day. My blood work was extracted from my right hand and…”
I paused while dancing my fake fingers with their pretend skin covering. My mind instantly returned me to a moment I will never forget. The grunted sigh escaping my lips contained frustration and anger. The next parts of my tale were dark.
“If you trust the government, you should not. Within eight hours, the injection site from my routine blood work morphed into a horrendous black mark. The frightening coloration was indicative of decaying and included gnarled shriveling skin. Those vile bastards were waiting. When I screamed for help from the sudden overwhelming tormented pain, the response was instant. This is where I struggled to accept my fate. I lost my hand from the wrist up less than an hour later. I was given a nub cover and told that would be the extent the jail would provide. They blamed my most unfortunate accident on a bad needle that a rat must have mysteriously contaminated. The investigation came back inconclusive, and the file was sealed.
“The procedure was painless, and ironically, I was given a single dose of the very drugs that landed me into jail. A week la
ter, the two military suits arrived for my follow up appointment. My deal had been sweetened. Imagine my surprise when I was offered a hand worth more than what my high-priced lawyer father earned in a year. Frankie, before you pester me that my father should have saved me from jail, he disowned me when he reviewed my case. Literally threw me to the prosecutor wolves with a fresh under-schooled and overworked public defender. The two sergeants were serious, and I was terrified. I may have gone down a path that was dumb, but I was not an idiot. The cause and effect of the situation were evident and if they literally were willing to kill my hand… What was next?”
Willow placed her hand on my thigh to get my attention. “You want to get coffee? I see the pain of this story,” she said assertively. “I think I understand you are here to woo me. Consider me interested.”
A mischievous grin spread across my face. This was exactly what I was hoping for, and earlier than I expected it.
“That would be lovely. The rest of my story is very interesting, but I want to know more about you also,” I said, while getting out of the horrid chair which deserved to be sent to a torture camp.
“Your story is so compelling, please continue,” Mrs. Teller pleaded in an attempt to get me to stay.
Reba folded her arms, rolled her eyes, and scoffed. “This old man just said he is leaving. Why do you want to hear his story?”
“Damnit, Reba!” Mrs. Teller shouted, letting her anger slip. The red-faced woman was clutching her fists tightly while checking her reactions. “I read his profile. That old man is a war hero. He is ‘The Captain Moostache’. Yes, that one, Reba. Even I watched his videos and he was about to tell us what really happened to those pour souls left behind in Saudi Arabia. The fact that he said Willow needed to hear something vital and we were grateful leads me to believe he knows something important. I personally want to hear what is so important. The government has concluded his cognizant predictability of probable outcomes are at the top of the charts.”
