Rise [Bruno Mars]

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fourteen

I opened my eyes into total panic. Memories of what happened flashed right away. The girl with the pink hair, the van, the ball that descended us into darkness. Now, it seemed I ascended into the opposite: whiteness. White, everywhere. I closed and reopened my eyes, confusion dawning, thinking I was back at the first safe house.

No. I was in a four walled, windowless room, outfitted in fluorescent light, lying on a cold, linoleum floor. Ris was on the floor too, on her side, across from me, unmoving. Though relieved to see her, I couldn't help feeling a rush of disappointment. There was no one else but me and her.

I pushed myself up too quickly—my head spun—and dragged myself to her motionless form. When I rolled her on her back, for a brief moment I was grateful to see some color. Underneath the dirty lab coat she wore my favorite yellow sundress. I checked her pulse. It was strong. She must still be unconscious. That was when I realized something tight around my wrist.

It was some kind of bland metal wristband. I examined it closely, turning my wrist this way and that. There was no way I could see of taking it off. I looked at Ris' hand. She sported one too. I noticed then things appeared on the floor: bits of paper, a pink bow, some colorful string, a needle, and some other random stuff like small buttons and a beautiful bluish stone. They must've fallen out of Ris' pockets when I shifted her. But I directed my attention off of that, and onto the door behind me. I staggered to my feet and wrenched it open.

A toilet.

I backed away, whipping my head to scan the other walls. Panic rose. There was no other doors, and for a moment I was back in Grim, where the doors were hidden in the walls, and the key was your mind.

My mother had been my key. And with a start I remembered I'd been Bruno's. The expression of pure concentration on his face surfaced, and my stomach knotted. I shook my head, focusing on my mom's honey skin and auburn eyes that were usually tired behind askewed glasses. But I didn't know which way to face so I took turns with the three walls left, thinking of my mom's rust colored bun. Nothing happened.

Feeling stupid, I folded my arms over my chest and began to pace.

I imagined where the others were. In a room like this, maybe. Worried out of their minds. I'm okay I thought, thought hard, willing the thought to fly to wherever Bruno was. Ris and I are okay. For now, at least. I paused in pacing and squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't feel Joseph. I couldn't reach for him. Frustrated, I lowered to the floor, in front of Ris.

I lifted a piece of torn paper. It was the refugees' saying Ris had shown me. We the useful, burdened by uselessness. So she hadn't written it. I picked up another piece of paper, this one nearly a full piece. It had all twenty-six letters of the alphabet with numbers from one to fifty-six in scraggly, childish hand writing. Another piece of paper bore four words so faded I could only make out some letters: Li   ator  El a a   et  Li  er t    D  vid.

I held the pink bow in my fingers. This was what she'd decorated Fidel's fur with. I hadn't realized how dirty it was, how frayed, loose strings coming from it. It looked homemade.

It was ripped from my grip. I jumped.

Ris had come to. She clutched the bow to her chest, staring at me with those pale blues, wide and accusing. Her gaze dropped to the floor. A flash of anger and fear crossed her features before she leapt forward to gather the things with quivering skeletal fingers, wildly stuffing them in her coat pockets. Still holding the bow, her eyes jerked around the room.