The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 2: The Music Box (Part 5 of 6)

The fresh coat of princess pink paint looked dingy under the shrouded fluorescent lighting.  The overall feeling was reminiscent of bedrooms seen in the semi-finished basements of suburban Robbinsdale homes.  Although, usually it was the older male children that were moved down to those dank refuges as the family grew.

Barbara's cousin had a room like that.  All the walls had been painted a hideous shade of forest green, even the one made of cinderblock.  He had painted it himself, along with the splotchy dark blue on the ceiling, so he could have the feeling of being out in the woods, or so he said.  While her mother gossiped with her aunt in the kitchen, she would sit on the concrete floor covered in paper-thin carpet and listen to the heavy metal that her cousin was always blasting on his K-Mart stereo.  She never much cared for music, but she could watch his python, Ozzy, as it stalked live mice in its terrarium, all day.

In the girl's room, all the furniture was finished in a glossy lacquer of white, except for a rose pink wingback chair that faced towards the wall.  Looking around, something tugged at Barbara – something was out of place.

Maybe if she had been a regular child the answer would have reached her sooner.  Maybe if she wasn't fighting her disgust at the frilly femininity of the décor, her brain would have worked it out faster. 

Was it just the presence of the steel security doors?  She stared straight at the one leading to the animal enclosure.  She didn't need to turn around to know the one behind her looked exactly the same.  No, that wasn't it.  There was something else.

The place is bare.

Except for the contents on the bookshelf, every surface was clear.  If this had been a real bedroom, the girl would have stuff everywhere.

She was nested in the bed that sat in the middle of the room, facing the vanity.  The technician that had helped Barbara on with her hazmat suit mentioned that the vanity's mirror was one of the ways they watched her.

Finding the hyper little man doing inventory in the Staging Room was a mixed blessing.  She didn't think she could have gotten the stupid suit on by herself or even have known which one was the level three suit.  But he never stopped talking for a second.  He just kept yammering on and giving her a rundown of the setup of the enclosure to the minutest detail.  She did her best to tune him out.  As valuable as his information might be, she didn't plan on sticking around long enough for it to matter. 

Barbara never planned on keeping this job for more than a few months.  After talking to Wiley, she decided one day was too long.  She knew she couldn't quit, and insubordination would just land her back in prison.  But what if they just didn't want her around anymore?  What if didn't like the way she did her job?

The flappy legs of the suit swished with each step to the curtain in front of the chair.  Barbara lifted it to the side with two fingers.  There was a window looking into an office.  A leather chair faced the glass.  Behind it, a bookcase stacked with academic texts filled the wall.  It was more of a booth than a room.  The technician had mentioned that this was how people communicated directly with the girl when they needed to.  The curtain was to give her a sense of controlling her own privacy.

She let it drift back into place.

Barbara walked over to the mirror and scowled at whoever was watching her.  She searched the glass hoping to lock eyes instinctually with whoever was on the other side.  After a second, her own reflection took form.  The suit looked ridiculous — a spacesuit for a clown.  Light reflected off the plastic face mask and obscured the effect of her glare, making her feel even more self-conscious. 

Over her shoulder, two eyes watched her intently.

The girl's long hair framed a pixie face.  The eyes were sunken and red.  The lips, colorless and chapped. 

"My name is Dr. Gracie.  How are you feeling today?"

The book quickly rose up, concealing the face.

Barbara turned and approached the bed.  The suit forced her to be slow and hesitant, nothing like her normal swift and efficient movements.  In the center of the white tile floor was a drain – another reminder that it was still just an animal's cage, no matter what it looked like.

Directly above it was the black dome with the cameras and the sensor array.  The technician had said something about parabolic heart monitors.  For the first time, Barbara realized that she had been taking slow, deep breaths to maintain an even heart rate since she walked through the door.

"I need to examine you.  You can cooperate, or you can be sedated.  It's your choice: the easy way or the hard way.  And for the record, the easy way for me is with you out cold."

There was a hard to decipher squeal and the book moved closer until it was touching her face.

"I already spoke to the doctor."

"What doctor?"  Barbara stopped beside the bed.  There was a tremble in the fingers that held the green cover.  The nails had been chewed down to painful, pink nubs.

"The one in the other room."  Without moving her face from hiding, she pointed toward the curtain. "Horus."

Nattering away like a hairdresser as he adjusted the oxygen tank's straps, the technician had said, "And that poor thing, she's just a wreck.  I was in the OC yesterday, and she never stopped crying.  But I hear that the shrink they got her has done wonders.  Although she is still so fragile."

Barbara reached out and pulled the book from her hands.  There was surprisingly little strength in them.  She dropped the book onto the nightstand.

"Oh, darling.  He's no doctor."  She sighed.  "He's just a psychiatrist.  I'm here to make sure you're healthy.  Now, remove your shirt and pants, so I can examine you."

Her clothes looked just like a minimum-security prison uniform: shapeless jeans and a generic white t-shirt.

The girl uncurled herself and sat on the edge of the bed and began tugging off the shirt.  She obeyed as though Barbara's words held some mystical power over her.

"When can I get my real clothes?"  She held the shirt in front of her hiding her chest with the fabric and her arms.  "The men at the other prison said I would have them here."

"This is a research center, not a prison, believe me.  And I don't know anything about your clothes.  What you wear is not my concern."

"They also said I could have music here.  And why won't you give me the books I want to read."  With each word, her voice got louder and more shrill.  She was talking fast, every muscle in her face tense.

Barbara pointed to her jeans, reminding her to get them off.  "And is there anything else I can get for you while I'm at it?  How about a pony?"

Her sarcasm was lost on the girl.  She seemed about ready to start hyperventilating.  Tears were balling up in the corners of her eyes.

"I haven't done anything wrong.  I want my family.  I want to see my mom and dad."

"Oh, darling."  Barbara Gracie caressed the girl's head, brushing her long hair back over her right ear.  The girl stared up at her expectantly.  "Hasn't anyone told you?  Your family is all dead.  You killed them."