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Authors: David Bernstein
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door.
Inside, Karen plopped down on the living room sofa. She closed her eyes, letting her body sink into the cushions. She took slow, even breaths, listening to the quiet and trying not to think about anything. After a few moments, her stomach complained. She was hungry.
She found slices of turkey and salami in the fridge and made a sandwich with whole wheat bread. After pouring herself a tall glass of cold orange juice, she went back to the living room.
Grabbing the remote, Karen turned on the television and flipped through the channels. She felt a small hint of relief at finding no news about herself and clicked the TV off. Karen then turned on the radio and began searching the channels. A bullshit broadcast about Josh played on one station, the newscaster reporting that Josh had acted alone and that no one was harmed during the escape. No mention of her as either victim or accomplice.
She shut off the radio, grabbed her dish, and went to the kitchen. After placing her empty plate in the sink and pouring another glass of juice, she sat at the small square kitchen table.
Why hadn’t the military put out a report on her? She was a threat, but unlike Josh, they wanted her kept secret. Why? They could’ve easily made up some bullshit report about her, too. If every cop in Manhattan was looking for her, they’d surely have caught her by now.
Karen had an advantage. Whoever was after her didn’t want the local law involved, which meant she had one less problem to worry about.
Feeling ragged, she headed to the bathroom to freshen up. There, she washed the small cuts on her face.
Ten minutes later, sitting on Melanie’s bed, Karen began wondering if it was such a good idea to be waiting inside the apartment. What if the agents found out that Melanie was a friend, her best friend, and were on their way to the place now, a perimeter already established, any chance for escape cordoned off. Didn’t most people flock to loved ones when in trouble? Having been raised by the State, Melanie was her only family. And if she had living parents, siblings, aunts or uncles, she wasn’t aware of them, and had never tried looking.
A minute later and Karen found herself in the stairwell with her cup of orange juice, standing just outside the hallway to the twenty-first floor. She took a seat on the cold cement, propping the door open a crack so she could view Melanie’s door. Bringing the glass to her mouth, a searing heat erupted in her head as if someone had pressed her scalp to a red-hot coil. The pain was debilitating, causing her to drop the glass. The cup broke, sending orange juice and glass shards about. It took all of her strength not to scream. She fell to the floor in agony, writhing back and forth; the glass shards cutting through her shirt and into her skin, drawing blood. The pain in her head was constant, but increasing in severity as if tiny explosions were going off. Her skin caught fire; every muscle in her body felt like it was being ripped off her bones.
No longer able to hold back, Karen cried out. She begged for the blackness to come, to pass out, but she remained conscious. Focusing with all her might, she tried to stand, wanting to run into the wall headfirst and knock herself out, but she only stumbled to the floor. Her only ally was time, an uncertainty that would prove itself eventually, sending her into darkness and besting the pain. In the meantime she had to endure.
Knowing she couldn’t remain in the stairwell, having no idea how long the episode would last, Karen opened the door and crawled along the hallway floor. When she reached Melanie’s apartment, she grabbed the doorknob and tried turning it, but the door was locked—the keys in her pocket. She needed to get inside, lock the door, and call her friend. She had no choice anymore. Reaching into her pocket, she tried grabbing the keys as the pain intensified, causing her to vomit. She hated puking; it was one of the worst things in the world,
Inside, Karen plopped down on the living room sofa. She closed her eyes, letting her body sink into the cushions. She took slow, even breaths, listening to the quiet and trying not to think about anything. After a few moments, her stomach complained. She was hungry.
She found slices of turkey and salami in the fridge and made a sandwich with whole wheat bread. After pouring herself a tall glass of cold orange juice, she went back to the living room.
Grabbing the remote, Karen turned on the television and flipped through the channels. She felt a small hint of relief at finding no news about herself and clicked the TV off. Karen then turned on the radio and began searching the channels. A bullshit broadcast about Josh played on one station, the newscaster reporting that Josh had acted alone and that no one was harmed during the escape. No mention of her as either victim or accomplice.
She shut off the radio, grabbed her dish, and went to the kitchen. After placing her empty plate in the sink and pouring another glass of juice, she sat at the small square kitchen table.
Why hadn’t the military put out a report on her? She was a threat, but unlike Josh, they wanted her kept secret. Why? They could’ve easily made up some bullshit report about her, too. If every cop in Manhattan was looking for her, they’d surely have caught her by now.
Karen had an advantage. Whoever was after her didn’t want the local law involved, which meant she had one less problem to worry about.
Feeling ragged, she headed to the bathroom to freshen up. There, she washed the small cuts on her face.
Ten minutes later, sitting on Melanie’s bed, Karen began wondering if it was such a good idea to be waiting inside the apartment. What if the agents found out that Melanie was a friend, her best friend, and were on their way to the place now, a perimeter already established, any chance for escape cordoned off. Didn’t most people flock to loved ones when in trouble? Having been raised by the State, Melanie was her only family. And if she had living parents, siblings, aunts or uncles, she wasn’t aware of them, and had never tried looking.
A minute later and Karen found herself in the stairwell with her cup of orange juice, standing just outside the hallway to the twenty-first floor. She took a seat on the cold cement, propping the door open a crack so she could view Melanie’s door. Bringing the glass to her mouth, a searing heat erupted in her head as if someone had pressed her scalp to a red-hot coil. The pain was debilitating, causing her to drop the glass. The cup broke, sending orange juice and glass shards about. It took all of her strength not to scream. She fell to the floor in agony, writhing back and forth; the glass shards cutting through her shirt and into her skin, drawing blood. The pain in her head was constant, but increasing in severity as if tiny explosions were going off. Her skin caught fire; every muscle in her body felt like it was being ripped off her bones.
No longer able to hold back, Karen cried out. She begged for the blackness to come, to pass out, but she remained conscious. Focusing with all her might, she tried to stand, wanting to run into the wall headfirst and knock herself out, but she only stumbled to the floor. Her only ally was time, an uncertainty that would prove itself eventually, sending her into darkness and besting the pain. In the meantime she had to endure.
Knowing she couldn’t remain in the stairwell, having no idea how long the episode would last, Karen opened the door and crawled along the hallway floor. When she reached Melanie’s apartment, she grabbed the doorknob and tried turning it, but the door was locked—the keys in her pocket. She needed to get inside, lock the door, and call her friend. She had no choice anymore. Reaching into her pocket, she tried grabbing the keys as the pain intensified, causing her to vomit. She hated puking; it was one of the worst things in the world,
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