Delilah rouses me and shoos me off to the showers.
"You'll feel better," she says, "and I'll feel better because I won't have to smell you anymore."
The shower room is empty when I arrive. It's an echo-y space, rough yellow tile covers the floor and the lower half of the walls. A row of large mirrors lines the wall that separates the toilet stalls from the shower stalls, and a counter with sinks sits under the mirrors.
I don't recognize my reflection. My first reaction is to search the shower room for signs of someone else, the person the reflection really belongs to, but aside from me, the place is deserted. I push back all the doors to all the stalls, every last one creaks open to show an empty cubicle. No one is hiding in a corner, just out of sight, and when I poke my head out the main door, nobody who looks like the person in the mirror is there.
I return to the mirror, stand in front of it, stare. This isn't me. I raise my hand, the person in the mirror raises his hand. This isn't my face. I don't recognize this person. His black hair is greasy and lays flat, dried blood flakes off his chin and a black bruise dominates the bridge of his nose and his right cheekbone, square glasses settle below the bruise. I correct my glasses, wincing when they rub the bruise, the reflection mimics me.
"My name is Trick." My scratchy voice rings against the quietness of the bathroom. When I lower my hand I catch a glimpse of the reflection's shoulder. Puffy pink scar tissue shows, the burn from the grenade, mirroring where mine is. I touch the burn, and with my other hand reach out and touch the mirror. Little circles of condensation form around my fingertips.
How is this me? Why can't I recognize myself? What happened, what's wrong with me? What's wrong, what's wrong, what's—
I rip my hand from the mirror and turn away. My heart stutters and there's sweat on my forehead.
Reeling, I limp to the nearest shower stall. There's a hook on the stall door to hang the towel on, and a small metal bench for the clothes, I set my glasses on it too. A black contraption is anchored to the wall inside the shower itself. There's a small opaque window on the front, a word I can't make out without my glasses, and a lever near the bottom. When I press the lever, pink goo drizzles out and lands on the floor with a loud plop.
What the hell.
I press the lever again, this time sticking my hand out to catch the goo in my palm. It's slippery, and I swear I know what it is. I bring it to my nose to sniff it, it smells like Delilah did when she hugged me.
Liquid soap. That's what it is. I smear it on the wall and turn to the tap. I have been away from the real world for far too long. Water spurts from the tarnished showerhead, striking me like icy bullets. I don't bother to step out of the way, only turn around so it hits my back and lean my head against the cold tile wall.
What else don't I remember? Are there things that I won't ever remember because they don't exist anymore? The island doesn't exist anymore, not if what Yana says is true. My home is gone, bombed for no reason. My fist clenches, I press my knuckles to the wall.
My parents are gone too. I've spent so much of my life hating them for what they did, hell I've wished more than once that they died sad and alone. But now, after everything, the idea of them dead makes me feel even more like I'm adrift in a stormy sea. I don't want to want them back, but I do anyways.
YOU ARE READING
Ash and Cinder
Science FictionIn the year 2181, Russia began human experiments. Kidnapped or sold off by their own families, the kids of the Compound know only one thing: They belong to the Whitecoats. Hendrix 'Trick' Sanchez and his little sister, Elle, have been in captivity...
