Clean Slate Complex (a daynight story)

by Megan Thomason

CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Alexa, you’re up in five,” the photographer says to me. “Has makeup touched you up yet?”

  Did makeup touch me up? I can’t even remember. I’m in a foggy haze of nothingness. “Yeah.” I finally respond in a monotone voice. It’s not like I care if my makeup looks good. “I’m about ready. I just need a minute to psych myself up. It’s not like I’m a trained model.”

  It’s only acting, I remind myself. The SCI can make me the face of their “Clean Slate” campaign, but they can’t get me to believe in it.

  To take care of my recent “bad attitude,” the doctor at the SCI clinic put me on a whole slew of mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. Hate to break it to the SCI, but there’s no meds they can prescribe to make me forget what they did. On top of the pills, they’ve got me doing “counseling” with Violet Black. The woman I nearly killed. She claims it’ll be “healing” for both of us. Aren’t therapists supposed to have you talk about your feelings or something? Violet lectures. I keep my mouth shut. She should keep her day job. Actually, she should ditch that, too. Retire. I know a cozy little warehouse that’d be perfect for her. I’ll build a fire and everything.

  When I’m not in fake therapy or choking down pills, I’m being brainwashed to answer any question that may be asked of me by the press in my role as “Chief Liar” for the SCI. The SCI’s really good about changing history. I don’t even recognize the life they’ve trained me to say I had.

  Rage. Grief. Depression. Disbelief. Horror. Fear. Terror. The desire for revenge. It’s all still there, just buried beneath a cloud of medically induced zombieism. I can see every emotion, as if each one is an impeccably kept, first edition novel in a grand bookcase—but one that’s been encased in solid glass to keep me from accessing any of them.

  Joshua fetches me from the dressing room. He gently guides me toward the studio, his hand hovering behind my back, but not touching. Never touching. Forgiveness is caged up with everything else.

  “You remember what to say?” he asks.

  “Yes. I remember the lies,” I say. He frowns, but says nothing. He’s tapping his fingers on his legs, but withholding the tune. I wonder what song goes with the rhythm and if they’re words I’d want to hear.

  The photo shoot takes hours. “Show me happy,” the photographer demands.

  “I can’t. I’m not,” I respond. When the doctor played mood stabilizer roulette, the ball landed on “solemn,” and it stuck there. To get the shot the photographer wants, they have to hop me up on laughing gas. And even then, my smile never reaches my eyes. Hopefully if anyone looks close they’ll see fifty dead bodies reflected in ‘em and run as fast and as far away from the SCI and their Clean Slate Complexes as possible.

  Following the shoot, I return to my dressing room. The stylists tackle my hair and makeup to get me ready for some big fundraiser I’ve got to attend with Joshua. Then I’m placed in a long, black gown. I’m one of those mannequins they dress up in the stores. That’s what they’ve turned me into. I can’t even appreciate my all-dolled-up appearance when they show me it in the mirror, since it’s not me I’m staring at, but the face of the Clean Slate campaign. The “after” shot, that is. They’ll need to see my “before” picture…the money shot of me with a bruised neck and covered in blood to get the full effect. Little will the public know that both were manufactured by the SCI.

  Joshua enters my dressing room. His eyes drink me in, starting at my five inch heels and moving up. When he sees the blank look on my face he says, “You’re not yourself at all.” I stare into his eyes and think of glaciers. Giant slabs of ice, tinted blue.

  “If I was your parents would be dead.” I whisper as coldly as his eyes appear. There are some benefits to having my emotions blocked. One would be not getting picked up for first degree murder. The other’d be not having to feel the full extent of the pain Adam’s death and my brothers’ departure has caused.

  “I see you’re still blaming me,” he says in a hushed voice. “How many times must I apologize?” He has been telling me he’s sorry often. At least a dozen times a day.

  “You turned me in,” I whisper. He turns away and squeezes his forehead.

  He finally turns back to me, leans forward and presses his lips to my ear. “As I’ve told you a hundred times, the security guard caught us at the warehouse and I told the only story that he’d believe—that you followed the bus and I followed you. I did what I had to, to keep us both alive.”

  “Is that what I am?” I don’t wait for a response. I walk away, even though I know he’s telling the truth. He follows a safe distance behind.

  A limo takes us downtown to the big fundraiser. Several bigwig politicians’ll be here to talk up the SCI’s latest campaign. I’m forced to stand in a meet and greet line for an hour next to Violet and Victor Black. They introduce me as the SCI’s “penultimate success story.” Yeah, a real rags-to-royally blackmailed tale.

  My feet are as numb as my brain by the time we’re seated for dinner. I’m stuck between Joshua and his cousin, Ethan at one of a hundred tables in a giant ballroom full of sparkly chandeliers. From what I remember from Joshua’s conversation with Jax, Joshua and Ethan aren’t close. After a few moments of awkward silence, Joshua introduces me to Ethan. Joshua’s sure to give the “party line” about my role with the SCI to Ethan.

  “So, you’re a model?” Ethan asks me. I can tell he’s making polite conversation, as he doesn’t seem to be the least bit interested in my answer. In fact, he looks as downright miserable as I know I am, but can’t feel.

  “A model? Only of restraint.” My response earns me a sharp jab in the ribs from Joshua. I ignore Joshua and focus on Ethan. “So, are you following in the family footsteps and working for the glorious Second Chance Institute?”

  Ethan seems to think over the question carefully before answering. “I’m just finishing up law school. But yes, I have been appointed a permanent position with the SCI.” He looks about as thrilled about his assignment as I do about mine. His word choice surprises me, as he didn’t say he’d been “offered,” or that he’d “accepted,” but that he’d been “appointed.”

  Ethan and Joshua look a bit alike, but where Joshua’s eyes are a so-light-they’re-barely-there blue, Ethan’s are a dark, twilight-blue. Their hair’s similar in color, but Ethan’s got the whole five o’clock shadow thing going. Joshua’s more rugged, where Ethan’s a pretty boy like Jax. Something—whether word or song—is always coming out of Joshua’s mouth, where Ethan seems quieter. Like he thinks before he speaks.

  “Lucky you,” I say with zero excitement.

  “So Ethan, how are things back home?” Joshua asks. “I heard things have been interesting.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ethan responds coldly. “I’ve been here.”

  “Jax said—” Joshua starts, but is immediately interrupted.

  “You’ve seen Jax?” Ethan asks. “When?”

  Joshua shrugs, “Couple or a few weeks ago? I don’t exactly remember.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yeah, he was alone,” Joshua says, but doesn’t give details. Jax had mentioned a bodyguard job, but I don’t care enough to tell him what I know.

  Ethan looks furious. He’s strangling his napkin in his lap. “If Jax happens to pop up again, can you tell him that I’d like to see him? Immediately.”

  “I thought you guys were the best of friends?” Joshua says, obviously looking to make Ethan angry.

  Ethan looks like he’s going to say something, but then shuts his mouth tight.

  As if his mere mention made him appear out of thin air, Jax struts over to our table, grim look on his face and motioning for Ethan to follow him. I watch them head out of the ballroom. The door’s still open so I can see them chatting. They look like they’re having a real doozy of a talk. Nothing friendly about it based on the body language. I’d love to be a fly on the wall…

  I see Ethan slam his fist into Jax’s jaw. Jax’s upper bod
y swings backwards but he stays standing. Rather than retaliating against Ethan, he puts a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and speaks into his ear.

  Ethan collapses to the floor and sinks his head into his knees. Even at a distance I can see his body convulsing. Jax goes down on one knee and speaks to him. After some time Ethan gets up off the floor and walks away, still sobbing. Jax watches him leave, then shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  Joshua whispers to me. “I bet you thought there wouldn’t be good entertainment tonight.” I continue to stare in Jax’s direction and ignore Joshua.

  Jax returns to our table rubbing his jaw and sits in Ethan’s seat.

  Joshua turns to Jax. “What happened to Ethan? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get violent. Ever. What did you do? That’s going to be one hell of a bruise.”

  “He received some tough news. I don’t think he’ll be back tonight,” Jax responds. “In any case, I’m not here to talk about Ethan. I’m here to have a few words with Alexa.”

  I’m bugged by Ethan’s sudden meltdown and exit, but like with everything, my reaction is blasé.

  “What brilliant piece of wisdom do you have for me?” I ask Jax.

  “You can trust Joshua,” Jax tells me. Joshua’s trying hard to act like he doesn’t care what Jax is telling me.

  I narrow my eyes at Jax. “And why would I do that? Why would I believe anything you say? Weren’t you the one that suggested Joshua show me that...place?” My words fail me. An emotion’s caught in my throat, but short of shoving my fingers down there and making myself vomit, it’s not going to come up. “Should we really be talking about that here?”

  “I assure you that no one will hear us. The thing is, Alexa. You can maintain the status quo, which you seem to be doing such a remarkable job at...or while working with Joshua you can achieve an objective you seem so very set on,” Jax says.

  I stare into his gold and blue eyes in search of the deeper meaning behind his words. “What objective do you think I am so set on?”

  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Jax muses. I want to shake him. Hurt him. Why can’t he ever just say what he means? But my hands stay neatly folded on my lap. There’s a disconnect between my thoughts, my desires and what I actually do. I fear for what’ll happen when those are in sync again.

  I’m pretty sure he’s suggesting an eye for an eye kind of deal. “Adam’s dead. All those people are dead. If you’re suggesting we get revenge more people will die. My mom...my brothers. Me. Whether by electric chair or that oversized melting pot the SCI likes to use to get rid of people.”

  “You must see these,” Jax insists. He opens a folder of pictures on his tablet and hands it to me. Pictures of Adam. In an ugly orange jumpsuit. Every picture has a date on it. Yesterday’s date. I shove the tablet back at him. “How could you? You think you can trick me with a bunch of faked pictures?”

  Jax shakes his head at me. “They’re not doctored. Look at the last one.” I take the tablet back. In the last picture, Adam’s next to Jax, holding up a tablet with a note that says, “Alexa—I haven’t forgotten our kiss. XOXO, Adam.”

  I can feel the tears as they fight to be released. It’s physically hurting my eyes to withstand the buildup, but my body won’t let them go. “Impossible,” I whisper. “I watched him die.”

  “Whatever you saw doesn’t properly reflect the reality of what’s happening now. It’s another one of those seeing is believing things. You’ll just have trust me when I say Adam’s working against the SCI,” Jax says. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to be going about the business of giving people a second chance at life. And the SCI...they’re on the wrong path. It’s my job to help get them back on the right path.”

  “Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle. And so we must straighten our backs and work for our freedom. A man can't ride you unless your back is bent.”

  —Martin Luther King, Jr.