by Kayla Krantz
After the last session, I’m in no mood to admit defeat just yet; not if there is the slightest possibility that I can find a way out. The need to escape is stronger than my reasons to stay and hide, and before I know it, I’m creeping into the hallway one again. I hear the voices in the Common Room, and after toying with indecision, I go the opposite way in the corridor.
It leads to a dead end.
I swallow heavily. Dread creeps down my spine. Escaping this way is impossible. The exit must lie in the same hallway as the torture room—and the sliding door. I have this unsettling feeling that I’m being watched, so I turn and walk back down the hallway, past the open door of my prison cell, and on to the Common Room. Unlike the first day, I study the hallway in detail, noting the locations of the other cells along the way. I peek into one, and I see that it looks exactly the same as mine, right down to the metal pan in the corner.
I store that sight as evidence that the others are prisoners as well. Finally, I’m on the edge of the Common Room, peering in shyly, like a baby deer. The others are chatting to one another calmly, just like yesterday. It’s like they’re catching up with one another—on what, I have no idea. They move like peaceful clouds, and I feel oddly at ease as I walk among them. That feeling shouldn’t exist in a place like this. A thought strikes me—if I stand with them, maybe I won’t stand out to our kidnappers.
Or would they be content to think I had already lost my will to fight, just as they had done?
I circle the room once, observing the walls. A door is perched on the other side, between the door that led to my torture, and the hallway that I had come from. I slink towards it, scared that if I move too fast that I’ll draw attention to myself. I wonder if this door is a way out. Standing beside the knob, I cast a quick glance around before testing it. As I suspected, it’s locked. I let out a hefty sigh and turn back towards the others, wondering what my next move should be.
I circle the outer edge of the group before I hear the familiar booming voice again. I move quickly into the center of them, shrinking down a bit to blend into the crowd.
“Miss Rosita, it’s your turn,” he announces, flipping through the papers on his clipboard.
“No!” a voice shrieks, slicing through the silence.
I whip around, surprised at her protests. She’s probably a year or two younger than me, and struggles as a man in white grabs her and drags her away. She fights back, but just as they had done to me, they stick a needle into her neck, and she becomes helpless. I’m desperate to help her, but by the time I reach the door, it’s too late—the door is sealed shut and the guard is gone.
I turn to the others, desperation clawing at my insides. “We have to help her!” I say, running from person to person. Panic crosses on my face as I watch the emotionless faces of my companions. “Please! It might not be too late!”
“We can’t help her,” a woman says.
I’m surprised to get a response, and even more so by the look of compassion in her eyes. I trot up to her.
“Why not? Why not fight!? There are more of us than there are of them!”
“It’s best to not fight it, they’re easier on you if you don’t resist.”
“Wh-what? Who are they?” I ask, suddenly curious about the woman before me. How long had she been here? What kind of torture had she endured?
She turns away as if she hadn’t heard me, filling me with a new surge of disappointment and frustration. Why did the others pay such little attention? Did they know what was happening and simply not care?
I purse my lips. Stockholm Syndrome. They’re suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.
The thought of the months and years this woman might have been contained here makes my skin crawl. What about my future? How long did they plan on holding me for, and why?
Beyond the obvious torture, of course.
I look at the others in the room, but I give up on confronting them. I’ve wasted too much effort on them already. They are too far gone to redeem. I vow not to end up like them. Wandering the room, I pound on the walls, hoping to find an escape that way. Nothing gives under my hands, but I’m not sure what else to do. My goal—useless as it is—helps me keep a tiny bit of sanity. The eerie sense of calm that the others emit drives me further into frenzy than they would if they shared in my panic.
During my lap around the room, I watch the door to see if the men will return Rosita. I imagine they are torturing her, like they had me, and that, also like me, she would fight. Would they kill her to shut her up?
I have to know if she’s okay.
I walk to the sliding door and run my fingers along the line in the wall that marks its outline. I try to poke my fingers in the slot, but the space is too thin. I keep trying anyways, until my fingertips begin to bleed. Frustrated, I hiss and reluctantly abandon my latest mission, resorting to pounding on the door instead. A red light fills the room, followed by a blaring alarm that assaults my eardrums. I clamp my hands over my ears as my eyes narrow. Relief overwhelms me when I notice the others do the same—I’m glad they are not completely dead to the world around them. I have a feeling the alarm is directly related to what I had been doing. Perhaps our captors aren’t immune to everything after all. The closed door opens, and one of the men who had taken Rosita looks at me.
“Everyone, to your rooms. Now!”
No one protests, or fights. They’re docile as lambs as they line up to leave the room. But not me—I’m furious. I march up to him, hands balled into fists as my side as I confront him. “Where is she?” I demand. “What have you done to Rosita?”
“It’s not your concern,” he says, pushing me back to step around me. I will not be swept aside so easily—not without answers.
“Tell me, now! You won’t get away with this you—”
My insult is interrupted as he grabs my arm and drags me down the hall. My heart races again at the thought of another torture session, but if the thought sinks in, my strength will leave with it. I’m far too small and weak to do anything. The others take no notice as I snap my teeth and shout insults at my captor. His face is stiff as steel, oblivious to my pointless attempts to fight back as he thrusts me into my personal Hell and slam the door with a loud clang. I climb to my feet as fast as I can, but it’s too late. A scream escapes my lips as I tangle my hands into my hair, sinking to the floor where I rock back and forth in frustration. I can’t imagine living the rest of my life here in this cell, waiting for my turn to once again undergo their torture.
Would he kill Rosita tonight? Would they eventually kill all of us? The man was clean of all traces of blood, but that doesn’t comfort me. My questions remind me of the most important one; the one at the center of this maze.
Why am I here?
Why are any of us here?
I stay on the floor, lost in thought for hours. Finally, I give in and climb onto the bed, staring up at the annoyingly white ceiling. My willpower begins to slip away. I see my life—in this room and on this bed for years. Not only is my hope gone, but so is my will to live. The depressing scenes in my head are almost guaranteed to be my future —there is only so much I can do. Resourceful as I am, I’m rapidly running out of ideas.
I hear a tiny whirring sound. I freeze again, overtaken by uncertainty. Is it coming from something implanted in me? Or is it some new form of torture? I pat myself down before I realize that the sound is coming from the furthest corner in the room, beside the metal pan. I clutch at the edge of the bed while I peer at the floor, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.
That’s when I see it —a mouse.
Creeping easily through a small gap in the wall, it sneaks to the center of the room before it stops short. It senses I’m watching it. Holding my breath, I watch a small antenna sprout from its back with an ugly red light flashing from the tip as if to scan the room. I flinch away from the light, paranoid that it’s trying to hurt me. For a moment, I’m too stunned to think. The scan doesn’t last long, and the second the last
of the red light fades, I spring on it, trapping the creature under my hands. I pick it up and flip it over. There is a panel with different buttons on it. I stare at it in confusion, before I poke at it, its tiny arms and legs flailing, as it tries to escape from my grasp. I don’t let it go. I can’t. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess they’re using it for surveillance—to monitor the results of their experiments, no doubt. I smile at the mouse, hoping they see the smugness in my eyes before slamming it to the floor, crushing it against the white tile.
The whirring sound stops, and I stare at the cold pieces—the mouse’s “remains.” I take in a breath before I plop down on my bed, staring at it, without the slightest clue of what I should be thinking. The event was just too confusing. My amnesia hadn’t worn off yet—much to my annoyance—but whatever my life had entailed before this, I’m sure it didn’t involve destroying robotic mice.
Hours pass. I’m still in that deep state of thought, making sleep hard to come by that night. I keep an eye on the mouse as I toss and turn, certain it will put itself back together and wander off during the night to return its findings to my captors. Despite the agonizing stress, I manage to catch a cat nap, and in the “morning,” the pieces of the mouse are still there—along with a fresh tray of food.
I look between the two, noticing that the other tray is absent. They had come into my room again while I was asleep. Had they noticed their device? I laughed to myself, wishing I had stayed awake long enough to see the looks on their faces. The laughter leaves, and I’m once again left with the weight of my reality. As usual, I guzzle the juice and eye the sandwich, starting to feel hungry now. I don’t know how long it’s been since my last meal anymore, and the rumbling in my stomach is hard to ignore. A hunger strike won’t be the best move for me—especially if fight or flight becomes necessary, which I can almost guarantee.
I wolf down the food without a second thought. Then, I turn my attention to picking up every scrap of the mouse. I don’t want to leave any of it in my room. I clench my hand shut, the oddly soft pieces poking at my palm. With my free hand, I go to work banging on the door. When it opens, I run to the Common Room, my pride evident in my every movement as I take my place in the center of the others.
“Look! They’re watching us!” I shout, holding up the remains to the others whom I pass in the room. “They’re experimenting on us, and this is how they watch the results when they lock us up! Don’t you see we aren’t safe here!?” I show the handful of scraps to the nearest woman, but she looks away in disgust—a reaction I don’t understand. I look down at the pieces in my hands, and then I look up at her with my head tilted. Is she upset about my attitude, or that I’m exposing our captors for what they are?
“Do you all not care?” I ask, my shoulders slumping in disbelief. Out of everything I’ve tried, I was positive this would spark some sort of reaction. Instead, they’re as deadpanned as ever.
“Avera! What have you got?” I recognize the guard’s voice. I clench my hand around the bits, feeling protective of my find.
“Look! I found your spying equipment. Tell me, what did you do to me that you want to see? Poison? Or did you shoot me up with some rare disease? Some experimental drug?”
“Manny!” he calls over his shoulder. I pull back my arm, intent to throw it at him, but before I have a chance to move, the men in white pull me down the hallway to the torture room again. They strap me to the board, and I scream out, waiting for the torture to being.
The next minute, however, everything goes black.
When I wake again, I’m back in my room with another pounding migraine. I swallow hard, and stare up at the ceiling, tears in my eyes. I punch at my bed. I wonder if I had been tortured again, but I’m glad for the absence of memories this time. I’m on the verge of hopelessness. All my methods of escape aren’t working, and I feel like I’m only digging my grave deeper. For a moment, I understand why the others don’t try to escape anymore. Maybe at one point they did, but they hit a wall and ultimately came to the same conclusion. I wonder if they’re treated better for losing their willpower—allowing themselves to become somebody’s pet.
I hardly notice when the door opens a few hours later. Deep in agony and illness, I hear a sharp whisper. Fight or flight kicks in at the thought of someone in such close proximity. I bolt upright, only to see Rosita peeking in at me. She’s battered. I can only imagine the horrors she has gone through. Deep, purple bags sit under her eyes, and her curly brown hair is wild about her head. It looks as though some of it was torn out.
“What happened to you?” I manage to ask, despite the nagging dryness in my throat. Rosita purses her lips and hands me my usual glass of juice, which I down reluctantly.
“The same thing that happens to us all, I imagine,” she says.
I nod, forcing myself to my feet. I understand that she’s probably as uncomfortable as I am with sharing the details of my torture.
“Why are you here?” I ask her.
“You’re looking to escape too,” she says, running her tongue nervously over her bottom lip, “and you seem to be the only one.”
That gets my attention. I see the desperation in her eyes—the very same that lives inside of me. She hasn’t been broken yet either.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
She glanced over her shoulder into the hallway, paranoid that she’s being watched. She takes a step closer to me, the wildness glowing in her eyes. “They let their guard down around the others because they know they won’t fight them,” she says.
“Yeah, and?”
“We can use that to our advantage. All we need is a distraction. If we get that needle from the main guard, we can use it on him and get down that hallway before the others realize what has happened.”
“You’re sure the way out is down the torture hall?” I ask.
“I haven’t been here much longer than you,” she admits, “but I’ve scoped it out enough to be willing to risk everything on this plan.”
I nod again. I have no other options left but to trust her. She’s probably God’s answer to the prayers I sent him the other day, and I don’t want to let him down. A renewed sense of strength helps me to push away my reservations. I watch her for signs of what to do next.
“I’ve got an idea in mind; just follow my lead, okay?”
She really is a Godsend, I think, following her into the hallway.
My heart beats so hard that it hurts. She quickens her pace, to put a bit of distance between us. I hold back, waiting for her to enter the Common Room first. When I enter the room, I stick towards the wall on the other side of the room, not even risking a glance in her direction. I don’t want to raise any suspicion. The guards seem fascinated with me, and the association could be bad for Rosita if we were discovered. There’s a clattering sound, and she cries out.
“My leg! I think there’s something wrong with my leg!”
I finally risk a glance, and see she has collapsed on the floor, coddling her left knee. She did fall at an awkward angle, though she pretends to be in pain as the guard rushes to kneel beside her, looking for some sort of injury.
“Are you alright?”
She looks at me for a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough. That’s my cue. I rush forward, but he turns at the sound of my footsteps. My heart pounds as he stands up to grab me. I blink, and in the next moment, he collapses to the ground. I slowly let out the breath I had been holding as Rosita tosses the needle to the ground. I help her to her feet, and we dash down the unguarded hallway. There are shouts of protests and anger in the room behind us, but we ignore it as we focus on the path ahead. Any distraction in this moment could be fatal. I have the feeling that we will never have a chance like this again if we fail.
I pray that Rosita is right about the exit. I can’t bear to think about the consequences if she is wrong. Rosita is the first through the door, and I can smell the fresh air as my bare feet run across the pavement. The feeling of sunlight on my s
kin is enough for me to ignore the burning from the scraps of cement against my feet.
All I think about is freedom.
“AND THAT’S WHEN you went to the police, correct?” the lawyer asks.
I nod.
“No more questions.”
“The witness may step down while the jury goes into deliberation,” the judge says, banging his gavel.
Relief swells into my chest as I cross the courtroom to sit beside Rosita. She looks as relieved as I am. In her suit, she looks much stronger than the first time I had seen her. Less than an hour later, the jury returns and we take our places. The judge lumbers back to his spot.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor,” the foreman replies. I hold my breath.
“For the crime of kidnapping, we find the defendant… guilty. For the charge of assault, we find the defendant… guilty. For the charge of unlawful imprisonment, we find the defendant… guilty.”
“Guilty!” I whisper. “Guilty!”
I turn to look at Rosita, but the courtroom blurs to blackness.
“HOW ARE YOU feeling today, Miss?” a voice asks me.
I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do, all I see is white. Panic strikes. Am I in the room again? I squint to see the tiny woman beside me, and I realize it’s a nurse.
“Looks like someone’s stopped taking her medicine!” the nurse says, handing me a cup of water.
I sip the clear liquid and notice the bandages around my wrists—cloths protecting the stitches in my self-inflicted wounds. I swallow the metallic water again as all the memories hit me. I suddenly remember where I am.
Brentwood Psychiatric.
Everyone is afraid of something.
Fear is a motivator, a guide.
In the end, we’re all afraid of the same thing—death.
Fear
IT WAS THE dust in my lungs that first caught my attention. I coughed. Moving around, I felt rough pebbles beneath my fingers. My eyes shot open and memories flooded my mind. The last thing I remembered was the van. Then everything went black. Pulling myself to my feet, I looked around. It was hazy, but I could make out the dusty stone walls on either side of me.
