“Chrys, I was wondering when you’d come,” he says. “Li told me you’re ready for your third task.”
“Yeah,” I say, stifling a yawn. “I’m ready.”
“Come in,” he says, moving into the room.
I close the door behind me. The room’s walls are covered with many drawings taped up—some childish and some amazingly good. There are drawings of people in the camp, animals, and trees. A wide dresser with a square mirror hanging above it also holds photos in tiny frames which I can’t really make out from here. There’s a queen-sized bed below a window, and in it a woman with long black hair and streaks of gray in it pooling on her pillow sleeps, the thin white sheet draped over her up to her shoulders.
Shikoba leads me to the mini lounge next to the bed. Two armchairs are facing each other with a small round table between them.
He sits in one of the chairs, gesturing for me to do the same.
I sit down and then look over at the sleeping woman and say in a low voice, “Won’t we disturb her?”
Shikoba shakes his head and says at his normal volume, “No, June can’t be disturbed. Nothing wakes her up. Anyway, let me tell you about the task. I will induce one of your memories and you will relive it. Now, you don’t have to worry. This is entirely private. I can’t see the memory like you do. I just get impressions of it, enough to know when to end it.”
“What kind of impressions?”
He shrugs. “It’s different for everyone. Sometimes I see a face, or a color, or feel an emotion, or smell a scent. It varies.”
“How do you know which memory to make me relive then?”
“I don’t know—not exactly. But I can sense that you’ve forgotten things—repressed is a better word I suppose—and I can bring one of those things back to the surface of your mind, the one buried the deepest.”
“So you don’t know what you’ll be making me remember?”
“Yes, I don’t know. I understand it can be very difficult to live through it again so if you want to stop at any moment, just say, ‘Take me out,’ and I will. I’ll make it forgotten again.”
“And if I get through it? Can you still make it forgotten?”
He chuckles. “No, Chrys. Don’t you see? That’s the whole point of this. To regain something lost.”
My mind is starting to clear up and I’m feeling very sober, the exhaustion fading away. This isn’t what I hoped for. I should start soon, before I become too clear-headed.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m ready to start.”
He nods. “Close your eyes and lean back in the chair. Get comfortable.”
I do as he says. The chair is plush and feels even better than the thin mattress in the cabin. I could fall asleep right now.
And for a moment, I think that I did fall asleep and now I’m dreaming because I’m no longer in Shikoba’s room or aware of the comfy chair.
Instead, I’m sitting on a hard bed in a stark white room with no windows. My hands are heavy, bound up in a thick layer of bandages.
No. I can’t be dreaming. I never dream of this. I never even think of this.
Something forgotten, yet I remember it so clearly. I remember exactly what’s about to happen, and I already want to get out of here.
The small window on the bottom of the door opens and a tray slides in. On it is a meal replacement shake.
I don’t have to look over to know that. One has been sliding in multiple times a day. I ignore it and continue sitting on the bed, staring off into the distance.
Hunger used to gnaw at my stomach, but not anymore. The hunger went away weeks ago. Now, I just feel a constant nausea and light-headedness. I barely have the energy to stand, but I don’t want to anyway.
Sitting up in bed is my exercise for the day.
Trembling from the coldness in my body, I crawl back under the covers and close my eyes, desperate for sleep. But I haven’t been able to sleep much for days, and no matter how much I cover myself, the chills never go away.
“Alicia,” that man’s voice says from the speaker overhead. It’s so harsh and loud as it reverberates around the room.
My head already aches from it.
“Alicia,” he says again. “Please drink the shake.”
I shut my eyes tighter, willing him to shut up and go away. I want to yell and scream at him, but I don’t even have the energy to whisper. All I can manage are thoughts.
It’s your fault. It’s your fault I’m like this.
This memory. It’s too real. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to hear his voice or feel the tight lumps my hands have become or see what’s coming next.
Why is this my most painful memory? It’s not even that bad, if I really think about it. No one even dies. Yet, I can’t stand to see it.
Somewhere, I’m aware of my real body in a plush chair, my hands gripping the armrests tightly.
“Alicia,” the man’s voice booms, bringing me back to the memory. “You’re going to die. Is that what you want?”
Yes. Of course that’s what I want.
“You don’t want to die like this, Alicia. It’s slow and painful.”
Every time he says my name I clench my jaw.
“I won’t let you die, Alicia.”
Why must he say my name so much? I hate that name. It’s not mine. It was my mother’s.
How long have I been in here, in this room? I haven’t seen myself in years, but the bed which used to feel gigantic, at some point started to feel tiny. I must not be a kid anymore, but when did that happen?
“Alicia, you can end this,” he says. “We don’t want to keep you here either. We believe you’re a good person, so all you have to
