Shattered Memories

by Susan Harris

  I had pondered my thoughts carefully before answering, “Like I got beat up by a psychotic Russian, who can’t play nicely with others.”

  The warden laughed, a harsh bark of a sound that hurt my ears. “Indeed my dear, indeed. Unfortunately, Veronika’s issues do tend to lead to physical altercations. For your last few weeks here, I advise you maintain a comfortable distance from her. We would not want any more harm to come to you before your big day, now would we?”

  Was this woman for real? She made my impending execution sound as if the days were leading up to some big celebration, like a wedding or something. I narrowed my eyes and rubbed my forehead, avoiding her question and hoping she would get bored of me and leave. Just my luck she thought today was a good day for a chat.

  “I had been hoping that your time here would lead to you finally admitting what you did, Alana. Your poor father was one of the best men I ever had the pleasure of working with and your lies only sully his reputation. Come now, do you not think that confessing and lifting that terrible weight off your shoulders would make facing death easier? I am a woman of science and can admit freely that I struggle with this little story of yours. It’s difficult for me to believe you do not remember your actions. How could someone lose a year of her life?”

  I shifted uncomfortably as Theresa continued talking down to me.

  “Alana, I don’t want to hear excuses, but I must abide by the rules of the Grand Masters and keep you safe until your birthday. Confession is good for the soul, Miss McCarthy.”

  Wishing I could tune out the sound of Theresa’s incessant droning on, I remained silent.

  “Your father spoke out many times against the death penalty for minors trying unsuccessfully to convince the council of Grand Masters of Justice that young offenders could be reformed, given the right opportunities and time. He introduced most of the programs now run in this department. Did you know that? Cormac told anyone who would listen that there needed to be some leeway with certain offenders in order to prove that society cared about our future. Your father was an idealist, but the good he may have done died the night you murdered him, Alana, and because of you, his beliefs will never come to pass.”

  I sat up in the bed, a lump forming in my throat upon hearing my dad’s name spoken so casually, and I pulled the sheet with me so my body was covered. It was difficult enough being subjected to a verbal tongue lashing by this woman I didn’t trust. My only defence was holding onto what little dignity I had by keeping my battered body out of sight.

  “He always spoke of how proud he was of your achievements, Alana. Always said what a fine officer you would make. Willingness to do what is right is a tremendous attribute to one’s character. I find it repulsive that your father’s opinion of you, along with his work, now remains stained by your lies. You won’t have many more chances to come clean. Think about that until you are returned to your section this afternoon.”

  “As I have told every single person who has interrogated me since that night, I really can’t remember. My last recollection was of heading off to the training centre. The next thing I knew, I was being dragged out my own front door covered in blood. Goddammit, I want to remember. Either way I want to remember.”

  Theresa drummed her fingers against her thigh. “And your sessions with Dr Costello. How are they proceeding?” Something in her tone bothered me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Regardless, warning bells rang in my already pained head.

  “Dr Costello holds onto his faith that he can trigger my memories. He believes that I may have blocked out the year in order to protect myself from what happened. He seems to know what he is talking about, so I have to trust him, don’t I? It’s not as though I have many other options left, right?”

  Something crossed the warden’s face but instantly disappeared. Theresa studied me, running her steely gaze from head to toe before she rose, her heels click-clacking against the tiles as she did. Smoothing out her jacket, she looked at me with a pursed smile slipping onto her lips.

  “Dr Costello speaks highly of your progress, as well, Alana. He is by all accounts a rare commodity in this day and age… a man who absorbs knowledge and wants to use it to better the world. Be thankful that he wants to spend his resources on you, even when it seems to me to be a waste of his talents. If I had my way, you would spend the rest of your sentence in solitary, but the Grand Masters have ruled in your favour this time. Enjoy the reprieve.”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond because the warden swept from the room like a tornado, pausing and looking over her shoulder. Her smile transformed into a sneer and her obvious hatred for me written all over her face. She snapped her fingers and one of the guards followed her, leaving one to watch my door.

  A sigh escaped my lips, and I rested my head against the cool, metal frame headboard. This was all I needed. Sure, I might as well paint a target sign on my back. More than ever it seemed as if the vultures had begun to circle my dying body, ready to pick it apart at the first sign of weakness. Someone really needed to give that bitch a swift kick somewhere it was bound to hurt.

  While trying to relax, I shut my eyes and listened to the sounds around me. Shoes squeaked as nurses passed by my room. Hushed conversation between colleagues, far too soft for me to hear or fully understand. A nurse briefly entered my room and checked my vitals, failing to utter a single word before she promptly exited again. She left the scent of her overly floral perfume behind. I tried unsuccessfully to empty my mind of all these conflicting thoughts, willing the warden’s words away. Was she right? Had my memory lapse happened because I was guilty? If I were guilty, then what kind of horrible stimulus would make me kill my entire family and leave me marked for death?

  Continuing to mull over things in my head brought back the headache that had barely begun to subside. Tears welled up and I let them fall, wishing the salty streams rolling down my cheeks could magically return to me all that I had lost and allow me to die with some semblance of peace.

  Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall, halting outside my room. Murmured voices floated across the almost silent infirmary, and I kept my eyes closed. I rubbed my tear-stained face with the sheet, wanting to avoid any show of weakness, unsure of who would come in next and try to have another go at me.

  Finally, the voices uttered a goodbye and the heavy footsteps entered my room. I felt the presence watching me before the scrape of metal legs on the floor indicated the chair was being dragged closer to my bed. Trying to regulate my breathing, I waited until my visitor seemed to settle down before opening my eyes.

  Connors sat slumped in the chair, his usually mischievous face sombre. His eyes travelled over my face, observing me as I winced trying to sit up in the bed. Concern darkened his eyes, and his ever smiling lips clenched together awkwardly as I struggled to get comfortable.

  “It looks worse than it is. I swear.” I tried, but the situation must be dire if I couldn’t drag a grin from Connors. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, I began again.

  “Hey, Connors, this isn’t your fault. You know that, right? I got involved in something I shouldn’t and had my ass handed to me. No big deal.”

  “No big deal? You gotta be kidding… McCarthy, you could have died. You understand that, right? I’ve been pacing the corridor for two damn days waiting for you to wake up, and you tell me it’s no big deal.”

  “Two days? Wow, that’s the most sleep I’ve had in months.”

  Shaking his head caused his ginger hair to slip into his eyes before he swiped it out of his face again. “How can you joke about this, McCarthy? It was my job to keep an eye on you. Some protection I’ve been when you end up unconscious after getting your skull cracked.”

  Why was he so upset? He just happened to be the guard on duty. Maybe I was wrong and Connors took his job way more seriously than I thought.

  “Connors, it really is okay. I’m fine. Well, not fine, but I will be. Don’t beat yourself up about it, you hear me? Veronika has h
ad it in for me since I got here and eventually would have used any excuse to try and take me out. I think she wants to be the one to kill me… doesn’t want to wait for my birthday and see the pleasure of my last breath belong to someone else.” I managed a weak smile, but Connors’ face remained impassive.

  “So are you here to take me back or what? I hate to admit it, but I’m starving.”

  The chair screeched as he stood, and Connors rose to his feet, reached into the bedside cabinet and tossed my clothes on the bed.

  Yeah, ’cause I was in a hospital gown and getting up would show Connors parts of me I did not wish for him to see. Ever the gentleman, he turned his back as I dressed, slowly pulling my jumper over my bandaged midsection, the weight on my left leg burned as I forced myself to stand.

  As if hearing my unspoken question, Connors said, “You have bruised ribs which will heal in time, a nice shiner on your right eye, bruising along your jaw and cheekbone. You’re lucky to have only a slight concussion. Amazingly, you avoided any broken bones. Apart from that, your injuries will heal in a couple of weeks.”

  “Just in time for my execution.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  When I struggled through the pain of putting my shoes on, I said, “I’m decent, Connors. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t answer, just mumbled something before turning around and letting me pass as he followed me out. The activity stopped in the infirmary as I hobbled through the corridors, keeping my head down in order to avoid any looks of pity anyone might decide to throw my way. I was a big girl; I messed up and would deal with the consequences but didn’t need or want their pity. Maybe I was proud and stubborn, but, hell, I didn’t have much left to hold onto.

  We exited the infirmary and walked in silence down the long corridor. The stillness was almost deafening, and I longed for Connors to say something inappropriate or witty to take my mind off things. The eerie awkwardness and strange unease between us irked me, causing my mood to darken and the hopelessness of the situation to bore down harder on me.

  “Veronika returned to the wing this morning after two nights in solitary. She’s bragging about what she did to you.”

  “And so she should. I would have beaten her as badly as she did me.”

  Connors shook his head again. “You really are a little ball of mischief, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged, cringing as the movement pulled on my sore midsection. As we rounded a corner and arrived at the door leading into the main mess hall, Connors put a hand on my elbow, and I looked up at him. Face grim and drawn as if he were thinking too hard, Connors leaned in close and spoke softly.

  “They have eyes on you now, Alana. Nothing will stop them from making sure you are held accountable for what you supposedly did. Watch your step. Trust no one.”

  As I opened my mouth to reply, Connors keyed in a code. The door rattled open, freezing the words on my tongue. I stepped into the mess hall and immediately everything ceased. Nobody spoke or ate or made even the slightest noise. I was starving, and we had entered the mess hall at the far end, meaning I would have to shuffle all the way up to the serving area, passing dozens of rows of inmates who knew what had happened between me and Veronika. Nothing added more to your celebrity status than getting beaten up by the resident psycho.

  I nodded to Connors and held my head up as I struggled across the floor, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. From the smells wafting at the front of the room, minced something was on the menu. Finally managing to reach my destination, I kept my eyes forward and muttered a soft thank you under my breath as I collected my meal. Sitting on the nearest available free seat, my legs threatened to cause me more embarrassment, and I almost nosedived into my mince concocted meal.

  Once I was fully seated, people returned to their own meals. I dug hungrily into mine guessing that two days of being unconscious and not eating would take away any reservations one might have about institutional food. After I had inhaled the meal, not tasting anything but needing the sustenance, I looked around and my eyes lead me to Veronika. Of course, she was staring daggers at me.

  Some might say I had acted stupidly. Others might call it arrogance, but something lurking deep inside me made me flash a satisfied grin at her as if I were goading her because she hadn’t quite finished me off. Her face lit up a glorious shade of red as fury danced in her eyes, but I simply inclined my head and shrugged. I was already dancing with death, what harm could it do to antagonize her? If she didn’t kill me, I was dead soon anyway.

  She sat taller and straightened, rising to her feet, but one of the Russian boys put a hand on her arm and yanked her down. They each repeated the action like some kind of strange dance, the sound of angry Russians gaining an audience. Veronika used her favourite intimidation technique, picking up her knife this time and running it along her neck. I waved a hand dismissively in her direction and pulled my eyes from her gaze.

  My heart raced faster than it did while poking fun at my Russian psychopath. For a moment, the world seemed to disappear and I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Standing at the far end of the room with Connors stood Dr Costello, Daniel. His steely eyes firmly focused on me as Connors leaned in and spoke to him. Daniel nodded in agreement, but his eyes never left mine, and I shivered under the scrutiny of his gaze, not wanting pity or sympathy, especially from him.

  Theresa’s words came back to me, and I wondered why he wasted so much time trying to help me remember what I had lost. Connors nudged him slightly, and he broke from our stare, a hint of red tingeing his cheeks. It gave him a certain boyish charm, and I scolded myself for thinking of him as anything other than my shrink. Don’t be stupid, Alana. You are merely a means to an end, a way for him to advance his career by retrieving the memories of the girl who protests her innocence way too often.

  Something must have registered on my face because Daniel looked at me once, blue eyes narrowing and his eyebrows almost meeting as he frowned. And then, with a quick turn, he patted Connors on the shoulder and made a quick escape out the door.

  A sick feeling tensed in the pit of my stomach, and all my glory at taunting Veronika vanished, leaving me anxious and worried that I had somehow disappointed Daniel by my actions. Pushing my empty bowl away, I stood and made a quick escape, wincing with every step I took up the stairs.

  My exit seemed to alleviate most of the tension in the mess hall, and the inmates returned to their chats and laughter. Life would go on, even if my own didn’t for some godforsaken reason. Daniel’s facial expression tonight had brought me to a dark place… where I stayed. I would never grow old, fall in love, have kids or have a quiet moment to drink life in. I would be dead, and the world would continue on without me until the people who once knew me regarded me in the distant corner of their minds. Probably sooner than later, I would fade from existence altogether.

  A sob threatened to slip free, but too many eyes remained on me to allow myself to break down in front of them. Once in the safety and familiar surroundings of my cell, I crawled into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. When the cell door clicked into place, I allowed myself to cry until I struggled to breathe from the pain in my chest. Salty tears lulled me to sleep.

  7

  Daniel

  “He had the eyes of a fighter, never did nobody harm.”

  (Jack Savorretti: Once upon a street)

  The last two days had been excruciating. It was way worse than having to wait months and trying to get relocated to this section of the prison. At the time, the apprehension I had felt waiting to meet Alana’s family for the first time, or waiting for the official letter to say that I had been accepted to the program was pure agony. Achieving this could leave the stigma surrounding my family’s name behind me and carve out a life for myself that did not revolve around my rebel parents.

  I told Alana all about my family that day over coffee, my need to get the dirt out in the open before she wasted any more time on me. You see, my great grandfather wa
s one of the rebels who stormed the government many years ago. My grandfather was a very vocal man who had spoken out at rallies against the United Parliaments and what it meant for the country. In true family tradition, my father continued on in that legacy until my mother died in a rally gone wrong. The United Army fired on civilians and my mother had been crushed in the fray. I was twelve.

  Later that night, my father fled the country, leaving me behind with my aunt. I never quite understood my father’s need to rebel, but I suppose doing what I was doing in the current situation made me a chip off the old block. Eventually, my father moved to a ranch on the Free Islands of Australia where he remarried and had more kids. He never once suggested I come join him. I am unsure if I’m sad or happy about that.

  But Alana hadn’t cared. She assured me that I would not be judged on the actions of my father, and I told her the same. During the rest of the date, she had asked me about my studies and what I hoped to achieve in life. Once we discussed our families, it was done, never to be asked about again unless we brought it up ourselves. We were both lost souls trying to shine under the umbrella of our individual family histories, but to us, we were just Daniel and Alana, students of the centre. I fell for her that very day.

  When Chris Connors had shown up at my door two days ago, the boy had guilt written all over his face, and his voice cracked more than once as he explained what had happened to Alana. I longed to go to her. What psychologist would visit their unconscious patient? I had to wait on tenterhooks for Connors to update me on her condition, knowing full well that I would not be satisfied until I saw Alana myself.

  Connors explained the extent of her injuries to me, blaming himself for not checking that the shower room was clear before he sent her in. I tried to reassure him that Veronika’s actions were not his fault. Neither Alana nor I would hold any blame against him. My light-hearted friend took too much on his shoulders, and I believed it really was my fault in the end. He had watched out for her from day one and every day after that until I could get positioned to be there myself. I knew he still cared about her.