Control. I have no control.
“We’re sending Subject 87 in.”
No, no, no. I don’t want to touch anyone anymore.
I still don’t. Back in the chair, I’m shaking my head slowly, throat dry. How long is this memory going to go on for? I don’t want to see her. That woman.
My breathing is quick and out of control. Everything feels out of control. I grip the armrests tighter, to prevent my hands from shaking. Instead, my whole arms tremble in tune with my trembling body in the memory.
I can’t do this.
“Shikoba,” I say, my own voice sounding small and distant from inside of the memory.
“Yes Chrys, I’m here,” he says, miles away.
In the memory, the door unlocks and starts to open. I clamp my hands over my ears.
A door sounds like it’s opening in the real world too. Focusing on that instead of the memory playing out in my head takes a bit of the edge off.
“We’re busy now,” I hear Shikoba say. “Please wait outside.”
“Chrys,” another voice says, muffled as though I’m underwater.
“Hunter?” I say.
Someone holds my hand in theirs. For the first time, I don’t feel like snatching it away.
“You can do this. Don’t give up now,” Hunter says.
“Be quiet,” Shikoba says, “And let her go.”
My hand is returned to the armrest. I grip it, but not as tightly as before. My arms have stopped shaking.
“She’s nearly done. Please wait outside,” Shikoba says.
It’s almost over, he said. Just a little bit more. I swallow, trying to ease my dry throat. I can do this. I have to do this. For Ron, for Hunter, for me.
In the memory, someone sits on my bed, forcing my attention back to it. She grabs my shoulders and hoists me up so I’m sitting in front of her. She’s a dark-skinned thick woman with high cheekbones and a short little afro that’s so kinky-curly it has no distinct curl pattern.
I want to lay back down. I try but she holds me upright.
She looks at me with fear in her eyes.
She takes one of my hands and starts to unravel the bandages.
“Please,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. “Please don’t kill me.”
She finishes unraveling it, holding me by the forearm, careful not to touch my hand. I flex it mindlessly, bringing life back into my numb fingers. She works on the other hand.
When she’s done, she drops my arm and just sits there.
“Touch her, Alicia,” the man’s voice says.
As I raise my hands to cover my ears, the woman flinches.
I try to ignore her. I don’t want to look at her wide, scared eyes and her quivering lip. Yet I can’t look away from her.
Subject 87. Where did they get this poor woman from? Where did they get all the others from? And what did they do with the bodies?
I stay there, holding my ears and staring at this woman. I brace myself for a shock but then I relax. No, they stopped the shocks days ago. Or was it months? I don’t even know.
The woman bends over and when she comes back up, she’s extending the shake to me. She must have grabbed it on her way over.
“You really should have something,” she says, her voice and arm shaking. “Poor thing.”
Me? I’m the poor thing?
You’re the poor thing.
Why is she doing this? Why is she even talking to me? They never talk. They just cry and quiver.
“Take it,” she says. She isn’t crying—not yet—but she looks like she wants to.
I remove my hands from my ears. It’s not doing anything to block my hearing anyway. Slowly, I extend my arm to her—my arm feel like they weigh a thousand pounds—and take the shake, holding just the cap, making sure not to touch her.
She drops her arm, looking relived. “Go on. It’s chocolate flavored. Looks good.”
I look at the nutrition information. It’s only 160 calories. Even if I drink this, it won’t change much.
“Go on,” she says again.
Sighing, I put my hand on the cap and twist. I twist as hard as I can but it doesn’t budge. Out of breath, I stop twisting.
“Here, let me,” she says, taking it from my hands.
She freezes, her hand and my hand on the bottle. Touching.
She lets out a hesitant breath and then pulls the bottle away from me, our hands leaving each other. She twists off the cap and hands me the open bottle.
I slowly wrap my fingers around it, where her fingers are.
She smiles and her eyes water. She lets go of the bottle, leaving it with me.
She laughs a little. “I’m alive.” She laughs more, the tears that were pooling in her eyes now flowing down her cheeks.
I take a sip of the shake. The velvety chocolate taste coats my tongue and ignites the sleeping hunger within me. I knock the shake back, gulping it down.
“Alicia, congratulations,” the man voice says, but not from the speaker. He’s standing at the door, a tall and bald man with stubby red cheeks wearing a black uniform. “You’re free to go.”
The memory fades and I’m back in the armchair.
I open my eyes slowly. Shikoba, sitting in the chair, and Hunter, standing next to him, are staring at me, wide eyed.
“Chrys,” Shikoba says, giving a huge smile. “You did it.”
Hunter comes over and kneels in front of me. He takes my hand again. “You relived the whole memory. On the first try.”
That memory. It was the day I was released into the foster care system. The day I met Ron. Back then, I never talked much to her, or anyone. It took a couple years for me to open up, but only because she insisted on talking to me so much in our shared room.
I know now why I couldn’t bare to see that memory. It isn’t because of the pain of starving to death or because it was some sort of awful event. It’s because that was the first time my hands didn’t kill someone. The
