Memory

Chapter Five- Trystan

 

   

When I hear the breaking news from my place behind the sink in the kitchen, my heart skips a beat. I look at my aunt; she looks like she just saw me murdered in front of her.

"Trystan," she says, blinking her wide, light brown eyes quickly to hide tears. "They can't take me. I have to take care of you!"

I shake my head, wiping my wet hands on the dry counter towel. I walk over to my aunt, hugging her tightly. "I will never let them take you, Auntie. I promise." My promise holds no truth, and my aunt knows it. She shakes her head as well, backing away. "No," says my aunt. "I can't have them take you away either. You must continue your act as always. I will try my best to lead them off my trail, but if I get caught, do not help." She holds up a hand as I open my mouth to protest. "Don't do it. I mean it!"

I slip my iPhone out my pocket; it's eight o'two p.m. Why are the police late?

At the same time, rapid knocking comes from the door. I almost freeze in my tracks. But my aunt shakes her head; I almost cry at the sadness in her eyes.

She walks over to the door, every step determining her fate. As she puts her hand on her knob, I slip my phone back into my pajama pants' pocket, turn away and walk into the kitchen, facing the sink. But I twitch my ears as I try to pick up any sound.

My aunt opens the door, and I hear heavy footsteps coming into the house. I sneak a look to my right where the police are. There are three of them, and they are dressed in black head to toe, and they wear sunglasses, even though it is obviously nighttime. As I look closer, on every man's right arm, there is a badge, though they are moving too much for me to read its inscriptions.

The lead one takes of a wallet-thing that shows his identification card when he opens it. "Special Agent Harrison," he says to my aunt. With a flourish, he puts the wallet away. "Are you Cynthia Sparrow?"

"Y-yes, sir," comes my aunt's stuttering reply. Hopefully, it can lead these weird police off her trail.

Harrison seems to relax at the tone of my aunt's voice, and takes a step back. Then I hear scuffling behind Agent Harrison, and I see a blonde, middle-aged man come forward to stand by Harrison. His gray-blue eyes widen with recognition as he sees my aunt, and to my dismay, so does my aunt's.

Harrison notices this now with eyes like a hawk, and he whips his handcuffs out from his pocket and thrusts my aunt's hands in front of her.

Her face is the definition of defeat, even as she keeps her yearning and disbelieving gaze on the blonde guy. She does not budge as the handcuffs cut into her wrists, but I do.

"Auntie!" I cry out, trying my hardest to keep other emotions out of my voice. I turn from the sink and stride over to them, my breathing coming in quick gasps.

Am I crying? Seriously? No, I can't be. I told myself no crying after my mother's death years ago.

She looks at me, and with a shake of her head, I already know it is over.

"Cynthia. You are under arrest for refusal of Treatment," says Harrison. Hey, no rights?

Oh, I totally forgot that they don't do the Miranda Rights here like they do in those mystery shows on T.V.

I take a step back quickly, pretending to begin crying. But I turn slightly so I can slip out my phone without being caught. Unlocking it quickly, I open up my Instagram app, and click the camera button without looking at my news feed. Switching to video mode, I press and hold the red button to record. People need to know what these enforcers are doing.