sensory overload. Part of me wants to skip the wedding but the other part of me can’t imagine abandoning Pepper on such a monumental occasion. I’ve been warring with myself all morning. Efficient, cold-calculated me battles for dominance with friend-normal-lonely me. The bar of soap slips from my fingers, landing with a thunk. Water whirls around the soap at the drain. My thoughts grow hazy. I want to open the shower stall door. I need more openness. My limbs numb and my stomach churns as I sink to the floor.
We’ve been placed in an isolation tank. It bans all sensory stimuli. We breathe through small, open vents. We are supposed to stay in the tank for thirty-six hours. That’s what we were told. We must complete these interrogation methods so that we become unbreakable. So that we know how to do them ourselves. So that if we’re ever interrogated we won’t talk about Ravenbrook. So that we’re stronger than anything we come up against. When the lights went off I welcomed the dark and quiet.
Now I feel like I’m going mad. Chained in place, I cannot feel any walls around me. The floor sways, but I know it must be a trick of my mind. Anxiety and panic course through me. We’re deprived of sight, sound, taste, smell, and feeling. I have no concept of time. I know it’s only a little more than a day but it feels as though it’s been months already. Ear plugs keep me from hearing even the faintest breath coming from the other students. The silence is eerie. I want to cry but no tears come.
*
All I want to do is keep a low profile and save my money until the time is right to get out. Keeping this double life is exhausting. Who am I? It’s a secret even to me. Am I Thirty-three or am I Greta? Are they different people or just shards of one being? Three more jobs and I can sneak away into the night and live my life any way I choose. Yet I’ve grown to rely on the people here, which is a first for me. The longer I’m here the more I grow to feel for them. As if, when the time comes, I might actually miss them. I might choose to stay. That idea is terrifying.
I zip up my blood-red dress, buckle my heels, and check my makeup. Flawless. Bold, red lips. Cat-eye liner with smoky shadow and a touch of bronzer on my cheeks. Staring at my reflection, I practice my happy smile. My lips hurt from trying so laboriously. I am happy for the occasion. I’m happy that Pepper seems to have found herself, to have embraced her life and made a monumental go of it.
Smiling--that feeling of delight that causes an authentic one--doesn’t come naturally. So I practice a couple more times until it looks natural. When I’ve convinced myself, I text Hoot to let him know I’ll be down in ten minutes and not to be late. I hate tardiness.
He arrives two minutes late. My teeth grind together as he pulls up to the curb.
“You’re late.”
“Get in, fancy pants. You look amazing,” he coos.
“Thanks.”
He leans over to kiss me. I turn my head, giving him my cheek.
“Going to play that game today, huh?”
“Not a game, Hoot. You know better,” I state firmly.
“One of these days, Greta, I’m going to worm my way in so deep you won’t know how to breathe without me,” he says, throwing the truck into drive. I shake my head at him.
I’ve been clear since day one. Sex only. He has needs. I have needs. We can meet those particular needs together but nothing more. I’m already aware that he’s too keen on me and I will have to break up with him soon. Not that we’ve ever been together as a couple. I sigh and watch the world whiz past me through the window. I wonder if I will ever be myself again, that small, innocent child who I can’t recall from before Ravenbrook. I don't know if I have any self left over. I definitely don’t have enough to give to Hoot.
Not the way he wants.
The sun is bright overhead, making this just about a nearly perfect April day. Wispy clouds hang delicately in the clear, blue sky. The
Vivian Winslow
Kelly Jameson
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Susan Cooper
Zadie Smith
Bree Younger
Allison Lane
Laurent Gounelle
Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins
Daniel L. Akin