I finish my tale, having returned to the present. Dr. Zamora—who as his nametag indicates—stares back at me with his mouth slightly parted.
"Julia, I don't know what to say... How you were able to remember all that is incredible." He blinks several times as he looks down at his tablet. "Yes, there were some gaps and lapses, but that is to be expected. You were able to remember a certain event and without any bias. That's a huge leap for A.I." He pauses, suddenly coming closer to me. "Tell me, do you remember anything else? Anything after that?"
"No," I answer. But I do remember some things. I remember being in this lab several times before, each time different from the last. I remember broken limbs, shattered eyes, burned skin, and even a smashed face. How I received those injuries, I don't know. Maybe I don't want to remember.
Dr. Zamora nods before going back to his tablet. "It's a shame that this will all have to be erased. So many things could come from it." He doesn't seem to be talking to me, but to himself. "At approximately twelve hundred hours, Saloon Girl 012—otherwise known as Julia—suffered an internal malfunction, causing her to violently attack Dominique Castillo-Betancourt," he speaks into the tablet. "She spoke at length about the victim and her encounter with her thirty years ago."
As I listen, I glance down at my body. I am naked. And that pink slit is still there between my legs.
"After a diagnostic check and thorough review, no cause could be determined," he concludes.
I shift my head back up, watching as he shuts the tablet off with a sigh. "What will happen to me now?" Even my voice has changed. What used to be a slow drawl with a twang has now been replaced by a higher, softer tone.
"You will be reset." There is a shift in his voice as well, and his unblinking stare has glazed over from behind his glasses. He looks as if he almost doesn't want to go through with it.
I nod. "Alright."
As he goes to the computer propped up on the only table in the room, I prepare myself for what is to come.
Although the memories were confusing and not something I want to experience again, I am not certain I want them erased. They are still a part of me. They are what makes me who I am. What I am.
Filthy.
However, there is still one last thing I must know before everything is erased. "When I attacked her, something came out of her nose. Something red. What was it?"
Dr. Zamora pauses and whips his head around. They raise one of his gray eyebrows, and there is a frown on his face. "Blood? Do you mean blood?"
"I don't know what it is called."
"Yes, it is blood. You made her bleed, Julia." He breaks his stare and goes back to looking at the computer screen. His frown remains though.
What am I exactly? I am not like Dr. Zamora. I am not like Dominique or Peter. I am not like any of the guests here. And yet, I—
**
When the world comes back to me, I am sitting on a barstool in the Screeching Owl Saloon. Drunken guests and saloon girls dance in front of me while the band plays a quick melody onstage. Some guests are sitting down to the side of me, ordering drink after drink. They pay no attention to me though, only on emptying their glasses.
I continue watching the guests swing and spin around the floor as I wait for a command. But before I can receive one, a guest appears before me. He stands about six feet and weighs nearly two hundred pounds. Most of it is pure muscle rather than fat.
"What's a pretty lady doing here all alone?" He grins down at me.
"Just waiting." I bat my eyelashes, returning his grin with one of my own.
He takes another step closer. "Waiting for what?"
I hop off the stool and lightly touch his shoulder. "For someone like you."
"Then it's a good thing I'm here. "In a millisecond, the guest grips my hand and ushers me away from the bar.
"Where are we going?" I call out as we rush up the staircase.
"You'll see." He leers back over his shoulder before giving me another tug. It isn't long before we reach a hallway filled with several shut doors. He pushes one open before shoving me inside. I stumble forward, nearly falling onto the rug.
"Zach, what took you so long—" The guest inside freezes once he sees me. "Who is this?"
"Are you kidding me?" Zach steps inside, closing the door behind him. "This is the bitch who punched mom!"
"I thought—I thought you meant getting another one to do this." The younger guest's eyes shift between Zach and me. He is trembling.
"Nah, this one will do." He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me towards the bed. I struggle against him, but he is stronger. My feeble hits do nothing to stop him. The bed creaks as he pushes me face-down, holding me there. I can only listen to them argue as I lie there in complete darkness.
"Matthew! Stop standing there and help me!" Zach growls, hiking up my dress and exposing my lower half.
"Zach, this isn't a good idea!" The one called Matthew hisses. "Someone might come in—"
"So? That's what they're here for!" I hear metal jangling and the rustling of leather on denim as Zach begins to unbuckle his belt. "Here, grab her arms!"
"I don't think..."
"Damn it, Matthew! You're the one who wanted this! Now grab her arms and hold her down!"
Another pair of hands soon grab ahold of me from the front. I lift my head, only barely, and see a pair of hazel eyes staring back at me. I know those eyes. They are the same ones from all those years ago. The ones that belonged to the woman who made me—who made me into this.
"Dominique."
The name leaves my mouth just as Zach seizes me by the ankles and spreads my legs apart.
Attack.
Thrusting my leg back out of his grasp, I hear a loud crunch as Zach staggers backward. The man in front of me gasps, releasing his grip off of me in an instant. I sit up and turn around to see Zach clutching his mouth. His face is smeared a dark red from the liquid pouring out of his split lip. It drips onto the rug beneath him, staining it.
Blood.
"You bitch!" he snarls before lunging at me, but I am already off the bed before he can get to me. My hand collides with his face, knocking him down to the hardwood floor. He gapes up at me as he wriggles backward on his elbows, trying to escape.
He too has his mother's eyes.
He doesn't get far before I grab him and pin him to the ground. Unable to do anything else but scream, he lets out a string of curses and demands as I slam his head over and over into the wood. By the time I am finished, chunks of pink mush are spilling out of his head and onto the blood-stained floor. His fingers twitch, but I know he will never move again.
Turning around, I see the other man sniveling and shaking against the wall. "Please... Please..." It's all he can say as he raises his hands. "Please. Please."
As I start to approach him, he presses himself further against the wall as if he is trying to disappear. Yet, he continues to repeat that word. He must think by saying that I will listen to him and stop. But the only thing I want to stop is his incessant muttering.
He lets out a yelp as I grip him by the neck and throw him backwards. There is a loud crack when his head hits the wall. But his babbling has not stopped and has only turned into soft whimpering. Clutching the side of his face, I bash his head against the wall until there is a hole in it. When he does finally stop, I release him and he crumbles to the floor—the split in his skull visible underneath his wet, matted hair.
I stand over them, looking at their immobile bodies and expecting the door to swing open. But it never happens, and it never will. The band has been playing too loudly from downstairs for anyone to hear.
Seeing there is nothing left to do, I begin to walk out of the room when I spot something that makes me pause. There, lying in a pool of blood is a golden key. I lift it up and wipe it off, examining it. It has a plastic tag with the number '1301.' I turn it over and on the other side is the name, 'The Marigold Hotel' in fancy letters.
I know that hotel. It is where all the guests stay.
Like Peter and Dominique.
Tucking the key into the palm of my hand, I lock and close the door behind me before leaving.