I miss the desert, the wide open land.
These mountains feel confining and daunting.
I walk into the bathroom, turn the shower on, and then look under the cabinets, locating an extravagant variety of bath salts, lotions, shampoos, and conditioners. I locate a washcloth and towel under the vanity, along with soap. Placing the towel on the top of the toilet tank, I set the washcloth and soap on the floor of the shower stall, strip off all my clothes, and ease myself into the hot water. I stand under the deluge, letting the heat of the water ease the tension in my muscles. Then it hits me - my nightmare realized - I’ve been taken by Collectors. Sitting down on the tiles covering the stall floor, I hug my knees up to my chest, rocking back and forth as tears begin to spill down my cheeks. The hot water begins to run cold, but I continue to sit as my sobs subside into numbness.
How could I have let this happen?
Panic sets in.
I shake in addition to the rocking, overwhelmed with all that has transpired.
How do I pull myself together? What can I do to get back to the Wasteland?
My first objective is to clear my head and come up with a plan of escape. After several more minutes, I take a couple deep breaths, stand up, and wash my body along with my hair, scrubbing everything off.
Stepping out, I wrap myself up in the towel, but leave my hair dripping down my back. I grab a second towel from under the sink to cover my head before walking back into the bedroom, where I rummage through the drawers in the dresser for something to wear, managing to find cotton shorts and a matching top. After I slip those one, I go into the bathroom, brush my hair, and hang up my towels. I wash the arm sleeve under the sink and slip it back on, even though it’s still damp. The sun is still shining brightly outside, but I decide to crawl under the blankets and go to sleep, almost welcoming the nightmares that soon begin.
Chapter 8
My brothers and sisters thrash around me as they burn, heal, and burn again. The woman on the other side is trying desperately to open the door, but it’s biometrically coded to open only for the instructors, and she appears to not have access. I cry out for the first time, my voice only a squeak. After sliding down onto the searing hot floor, I place my fingers beneath the threshold and feel her soothing touch as she grabs my fingers tightly, squeezing as if on a life line, but I feel her slipping away, leaving me alone to die.
Minutes seem to pass before I hear the popping noises of the metal door as it’s forced open. Glass rains down as the window shatters from above. I’m yanked through the opening, my small body lifted into the air. The woman carrying me rushes down the dark hallway; blue lights flashing all around. I see others run down the same passageway, some in white uniforms, and others in orange, but I can’t see the face of the woman carrying me as she has placed me up against her shoulder. I can only see the color of her white uniform, which comforts me.
The sheets are soaked in sweat when I awake. I don’t get the chance to change out of my wet clothes before there is a knock on my door. Without answering, it flies open and is filled with Artemis’ guards. They take hold of my arms, secure me in restraints, and escort me downstairs into the cellar.
To the left of the staircase lie several massive wine racks that extend along the entire length of the house; to the right is a maple door, partially open. My guards nudge me through the opening and into a very bright interior. Sitting in the center of the room is a black suede lounge chair. Next to that sit several small metal trays loaded down with instruments I’ve never seen before. A scale sits in the far left corner, next to a set of glass-inlaid cabinets. The man I saw yesterday with the medical bag is busy at his desk going over some paperwork. He looks up, glasses sliding down his long nose as we enter the room. He nods at the guards, who remove my restraints before leaving. He gestures for me to have a seat on the chair once the door is closed.
He carefully arranges his instruments on the trays then moves to the cabinets behind me and takes out a thin gown. From somewhere in my memory, he seems familiar. I recognize his elongated face, the slight hunch he has as he walks, and the short grayish hair that must once have been brown, though I’m still not sure how I know him.
He walks over to me, shines a small light into my eyes, and requests that I hold my head still while slowly moving the light from one eye to the next, perhaps watching for some kind of reaction. He changes instruments, coming up with a long cylinder with an eyepiece on the end. Switching on the tiny bulb inside, he leans close into my left eye, placing his hand on the top of my head to steady me.
“I know you,” I state, while not looking away from the brightness that is temporarily blinding me.
“I was wondering if you might,” he replies back in a soft voice moving to examine my right eye.
“How?”
“Not here,” he whispers.
He hands me the gown and asks me to change into it, removing my clothing, including the covering on my arm. I hesitantly undress except for the sleeve. He doesn’t say anything at my refusal to show
