I feel an older hand that is damp with determination grab onto my wrist. Turning to look, I see a man in a bleached white mask that has latched on to his skin and is tearing away at it. My body becomes heavy as I attempt to sink into the floor and hold onto myself, with nothing else to grab. Pulled from my home, a man staring at me with a dark smile stretched over his cold face, and as I looked back in terror, I heard three bone-chilling screeches. My feet squeal against the floors as I try to free myself, and the man attempts to keep me in his grasp. His arms are forced around my waist and are pulling me onto him and away from my home.
My mother ends up slouched just before the door, her hand sprawled over the carpet and her blood flowing from her body. I see him turn to post a sheet of paper on our door. Before he helps push me into the car, I stare at the notice that he'd stamped on, 'Authorised Crime' As the man chuckles happily, I whimper in agony, too afraid to scream or cry.
A dark howl coming from outside the window causes me to jolt up straight in the bed I'd crawled into last night and batter my head against the low beams on the ceiling of this bedroom. That sound mixed with the nightmare, causing me to sweat through my clothes and throw the pillows on the floor. I tended to bite on cushions in my sleep unwillingly and could feel that my mouth and teeth were numb. I can barely hear the sound of my breathing; sharp and rapid breaths. My muffled hearing was further blurred by my thoughts.
It was a deafening bang that truly woke me up. Blinding dust from my unknown actions causes me to blink rapidly; a pain shoots up my arm. I realise I've punched the wall with all of my might going into the blow. Pieces of paint and plaster are flaking away from the imprint of my knuckles. I bend over against the duvet in complete shock, clutching my right hand with my left. I push the duvet back in retaliation, pull my legs over the edge of the bed and force them to touch the cold, hard floor.
I shrug off my anxiousness and walk off into the bathroom just off of the bedroom, running some cold water. I had taken fresh clothes from the closet, folding them at the counter near the bath. Each cabinet in this apartment was organised in the same fashion; I wonder who'd gone to the effort?
I scrub my entire body down, creating severe pain through my skin then coat it with some coconut-smelling liquid that soothes the burns I'd constructed. My body gives up shivering after a few minutes, and I just lay there with tears running down my cheeks and falling into the bathwater slowly. When the water calms and the air seems to still around me, I dunk my head into the bathwater and keep my eyes locked shut, dreaming of peace, where I didn't fear for my life, and the anxiety I felt today was non-existent.
I treaded my way from the bathroom to the living room, tying a towel around my hair as I pressed myself onto the brown couch, back into the imprint I'd made last night. The cushions enveloped me in their familiar embrace, a blanket caressing my back as I wrapped it around me. I'd spent hours sitting here last night, staring at the boxes Percy had left me and debating whether I had the strength to go through them.
My fingers traced the edge of the nearest box, feeling the rough texture of aged cardboard beneath my touch. It had likely been kept in storage for over ten years, untouched and ignored. The faint scent of old paper mingled with the sweetness of the apartment itself, each one, in turn, inviting me to embrace the bittersweetness of the memories inside each box.
With a deep breath, I closed my eyes briefly, and ran my finger underneath the lid of the box, breaking the tape seal. I crossed my legs and pulled the box onto my lap. The first box revealed old photographs, yellowed with age but still holding onto moments frozen in time. I sifted through them, recognizing faces that felt both familiar and foreign. There was a photo of a smiling woman with warm brown eyes and flowing chestnut hair—my mother, Clara, the same woman in the ID card - at least that hadn't been a lie. Beside her stood a man with a rugged smile and kind eyes—my father, Peter McAllister. And there, in the background, a young girl with a mischievous grin—my sister, Allison, sitting on top of a much younger version of me with a smile like nothing could ever go wrong.
She looked so much like me, and so much like them. Her head was crowned with a cascade of dark lush curls that seemed to defy gravity just like my mother's, but her face was a picture of our fathers. As I studied them in turn, I couldn't help but notice they shared those narrow but sparkling eyes and delicate noses. I on the other hand looked so much like my mother; her fuller features marking each part of my face.
In one of the folders tucked away in the box, I found records of our family's life. We lived in a cosy suburban neighbourhood, attending Pillwall Elementary School on the other side of the city. My parents worked at a financial business it seemed with stacks of papers and reports labelled with their names - my mother, however, seemed to have stepped into a human resource role mid-way through her career, while my father had become a senior partner.
I stumbled upon a certificate from my karate club, proudly displaying my achievement of a green belt. The memory of practising katas in our backyard came rushing back, the feel of the smooth wooden floor beneath my feet and the sound of my instructor's encouraging voice. Beside it was a tiny pink ballet slipper, a reminder of Allison's brief foray into ballet lessons. I recalled how she would twirl and pirouette around our living room, her laughter filling the air.
Memories started to stir within me, like echoes from a distant past. I remembered snippets of a happy childhood, of laughter and love shared between a family that I had long forgotten. The mention of our holiday home in Orlando brought back memories of summer vacations spent exploring theme parks and building sandcastles on the beach. Our grandparents, who have long since passed away, would join us during each vacation. There was a note attached to a photo of all eight of us - a note about my placement with one of them being considered, but ultimately, the decision to erase all memories related to the family was easier than selectively deciding what they got to keep.
What I hadn't expected in the boxes was a file on Hannah and Timothy. They had a file on all of the families they'd considered placing me with - but it seemed they'd been dropped earlier in the process. In each document concerning my adopted parents, they'd mentioned a deep desire to have children - several miscarriages, two IVF rounds and applications to every adoption agency in the country. What cut me deep was the note they had on Hannah in particular - 'Harrowed over the loss of pregnancies, an emotional vulnerability that can be manipulated in a memory adaption process.'
I had to swallow back tears as the file dropped from my hands and onto my lap, my hand coming up to rub my face harshly. At first, I didn't know what this feeling was, but the more my fingers traced over the edge of the folder, the more I realised that all-too-familiar feeling of guilt rising from my stomach and toying with the edge of my throat.
I couldn't help but regret not arguing with Perry about staying here; I didn't realise that being so alone would trigger such feelings inside that they'd plague my subconscious mind. There was nothing I wanted to do right now, more than call Hannah. Whether or not she was my real mother, she had spent years raising me to be who I am today. Soothing every tantrum, lending an understanding ear to every argument, and secretly hiding a calculator in the book she read as I did my math homework so that she could chip in answers as I needed them. If anything, she didn't deserve to have me lash out at her.
I'd placed my mobile phone on the end table beside the bath, initially for ease of access. But now it was a mental torment. A grey chunk of plastic with a direct line to her gave me the ability to contact her and express all my current feelings. But right now, I didn't exactly know what those were. Could I trust myself to convey how much I regretted treating her so wrongly, or would I find myself slipping back into a character of little remorse?
I'd taken my hands from the water and shook them a few times, watching the water drip from them slowly as I hovered them over the table. I had to put aside all of my instincts to hit the number two, the speed dial to her number. Even as I did, I hoped she wouldn't pick up.
"Hello?" I had to take it back. The cheery notes of her voice made me feel safer immediately, "Bastian is that you?"
"It is... Hi," I reply, debating how best to ask what I want. There was something I'd worried about for years at this point, without the motivation to change. I swallowed hard and allowed myself to ask it, "Was I hard... to raise?"
She'd paused, and I could hear her placing dishes down on a hard surface. Then the creaking of a chair, she was putting me ahead of everything else, as she always did. That was the hardest thing.
"You had your moments, of course, Bastian. It's never easy to raise a child from the ground up," She said. A candid response, she was never one to sugar-coat, "But you've always been exceptionally bright and perceptive. As long as we were honest with you, you didn't tend to put up much of a fuss."
I could hear some shuffling in the background, and her moving the phone from one ear to the other. A few inaudible whispers were shared between her and someone else before she returned to the phone, "Your father wants to talk to you. We can talk more later, all right sweetheart?"
The phone is passed over, and I hear him leave the kitchen as Hannah goes back to the dishes, a joyful song being hummed as a door closes.
"You know about the adoption, don't you?" He'd said in a whisper, not even a greeting to ease us into the conversation. I couldn't help but be taken aback, "I don't bring this up to your mother, because she seems to sincerely believe that you are genuinely her son through and through, pregnancy and all. I didn't want to question her happiness and joy. But I knew."
It had clicked for me as he spoke. Hannah has always looked at me with motherly joy, uninhibited by anything else; with no sadness or guilt attached. Tim, on the other hand, always had a hint of sadness in every expression that he'd given me. I'd always thought he didn't want me when I was a child.
"You knew I wasn't yours?" I reiterated, needing more verification that'd help me understand. He'd hummed a confirmation.
"They realised I knew you weren't pretty quickly. I was pretty vocal about it to a friend of mine. Genetically it just didn't make sense. They approached me soon after that. Told me if I found out there could be consequences. That I should be quiet and show you some love." He'd said it so matter of fact that there was no room for questioning; SATe had approached him like they had me and left him with the knowledge he didn't want. Is that why he looked at me with such disjointed expressions?
"Was it hard to keep that a secret from me? From her." I pushed, realising how many years he'd had this information, completed knowledge with not a single doubt it was inaccurate. Every time he saw Hannah, it must have killed him not to be able to tell her. It must have hurt even more not to be able to tell me the truth.
"The hardest thing was knowing what you went through to end up with us. We'd been hoping for a child for years, that much I knew for certain. It was one of the reasons I disregarded your mother's genuine refusal of you being anyone's but hers," He muttered the last line like he resented the way he felt; maybe guilt for thinking she was disillusioned?
He'd taken a sip of something before continuing. I had to imagine it was his afternoon beer; the yellow one with the butterflies that he gushed about every month. Every shopping trip he'd hold it in front of me and sing its praises, "I didn't want someone for a reason like that. Every time I looked at you, I remembered what they'd shown me. Those images won't be erased from my mind until the day I die."
For some reason that angered me. They'd shown him those images and expected him to be able to raise me without it affecting him.
"I wish you'd told me. I resented you for so long."
"I know that. I couldn't blame you for that either. All I could do was continue to help you grow up despite it. I pray for the officer that saved you every single day, and your mother would too if she knew the truth," I couldn't help but feel guilty. I had misplaced a lot of my emotions on Hannah and Timothy equally as if they were the ones that had wronged me. They had nothing to do with either my parents' death or Allison's. This was a revelation that I couldn't share with him, as a few beeps from my phone indicated I had another call waiting.
I pulled the phone from my ear for a moment to check the number; Perry's name was coming up on the screen. I debated ignoring the call and finishing the conversation I was having; I'd never felt so comfortable talking to him, would I ever get a chance like this again?
I realise I'll have to create the chance because if Perry was calling me, it was probably necessary, "I have to go, Dad. Sorry."
I heard his voice hitch. I could hear it plainly, followed by a sharp intake of breath. It took me a moment to understand why; I hadn't called him dad in years. It was almost regrettable at this point; I can't imagine the impact something like that would have.
"Not a problem, son." He said with his voice struggling with each syllable. Each note difference in his speech made my heart clench. This man had spent his life raising a son he knew wasn't his and didn't falter for a moment when I lashed out. I couldn't help but feel guilty about that.
I let him hang up first before picking up the other call. Perry had put his number into my phone two months ago with no intention of real communication; just a courtesy for the relationship he felt we should have. I didn't want to believe the name that flashed on the screen, because that meant either something had happened, or they wanted me to do something.
I found myself thinking that would be fine. It couldn't be any worse, right?
That must be an illusionary phrase that beckons the call of misery and disappointment because the brash voice of Perry had grunted through the phone, "Cavendish ran."
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[ O N E H O U R B E F O R E ]
[ D A R W I N ]
I've never felt like more of a loose cog in my own laboratory. Perry had ordered me to keep an eye on Anne as she scrambled to put together an antidote for Marie, and in turn, anyone else that needed a remedy. I had initially thought she would ask me to help with at least something, even something small. I knew it was unlikely to be something related to the experimentation, but at the least locating items or collecting samples, I'd be more than prepared to help out. Contrarily, she hadn't spoken a word to me, meshing into the lab like she'd been here for years.
She was currently hunched over a desk and searching through different files. She'd pulled the seat out and forcefully rolled it to the other side of the room, making a point out of it but didn't elaborate on it. I couldn't help but hyper-focus on each and every action she took, with every pen she moved or paper she ruffled; she was messing with the equilibrium of my workplace.
"Cassiel. Where are these bodies?" She'd asked as she pulled up the DNA of the two human victims onto the monitor easiest for me to see.
"They're in the morgue," I answer bluntly, trying not to convey any of my frustration. Besides not having anything to do in my own lab, I knew for a fact I'd shown her the bodies in the first hour she'd arrived here. She'd started to leave, so I quickly added, "Containers L3 and L4." I didn't want my pettiness to slow down the process for Marie.
Anne had disappeared from the room, but I couldn't pull myself off the chair, stuck in the cross-legged position I'd opted for when I first arrived. I lean into the back of the chair and stare up at the ceiling, counting the dots of black paint on the white ceiling as I wait for the door to click open and for Anne to return.
Instead, the light tapping of her shoes was replaced by the ground-heavy stomps of mud-speckled boots worn by Perry. Perry was holding onto a small metal object and looking rather torn apart. As he took more steps into the room, I realised the small item was a communication device, and my best guess for the owner was the one person we couldn't afford to remove it.
I pull the handheld monitor off the table and open the tracker application that stores all of the current member's locations, updating in twenty-second intervals unless the member turns it off themselves. Perry was lingering in front of me with his hand clenching the device tightly; I could tell he was trying not to tear up; he was stressed enough without this happening.
"Her tracker is disabled," I reveal, counting all of the tracking beacons individually. Her last location was her private room, so she didn't even hesitate to turn off the device and leave. It'd be a nightmare to find her; she knew how not to get found like it was second nature to hide.
scintilla [n] - a tiny trace