Supernova
Copyright 2012 Mia Rodriguez
Smashwords Edition
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Dedication
For my radiant nieces, Jasmine Strasser and Eunice Rodriguez, and their beautiful children--Necalli Strasser, Alicia Chua, Celeste Chua, and Israel Ruben Rodriguez.
For my handsome nephews, Joluis Rodriguez, Hector Rivas, Alan Rodriguez, and Juaben Rodriguez.
For the truly awesome and immensely hardworking people I work with at the Dona Ana Community College--Selma Saenz, Teresa Palacios, Ms. Giron, Rocio, Miriam, and Andra.
Yanette Jimenez--you are one of the best and most giving teachers ever! I could've never made it without you. My eternal gratitude is yours. I'm in awe of you.
Joanna Alvarado--thank you for teaching me so much. Your readiness to unselfishly help and be inclusive helped me more than you'll ever know.
Irene Aguirre--you are one of the best bosses I've ever had! Your ability to inspire those around you to do their best and then some is such a gift to whoever works for you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what your willingness to take a chance on me has done in my life.
Last but certainly not least--to the students at Dona Ana Community College--especially my ESL Students. You inspire me every day.
Table of Contents
Chapter 2: Rewind--The Start of The Day
Chapter 14: The Eve Before The Journey
Chapter 34: Flying Whollopalooza
Chapter 43: The End of The Journey
Chapter 1: Fear
Is this the way I’m going to die? I always thought my life would end because of my sickness. Never, even for a tiny second, did it cross my mind that that this could happen to me. In fact, our new United World order is rigged so that stuff like this doesn’t occur. Everything is so controlled that what is happening to me is almost impossible—except here I am. Near death for sure. I only pray that it’s quick and painless.
That my abductors show a little mercy.
Chapter 2: Rewind--The Start Of The Day
Every morning I wake up to a spoon shoved in my face—a shiny silver one left from the old days when human beings still used those kinds of utensils. I’ve never been sure why we’re allowed to have it when the official eating tools for the world are plain wooden ones.
Anyway, my fake mother’s grouchy eyes stare at me with the quiet disgust she hides so well as she makes me swallow the nasty, metal-tasting medicine that I have to take for life.
“Now, now,” she murmurs when she sees my scrunched face. I’ve never been able to get used to the gross stuff. “This is saving your life, Madrigal.”
I nod like I always do.
“Thank goodness for this medicine,” she says with kind words that don’t reach her cold eyes. “Get ready for school,” she commands.
I sluggishly climb out of my small bed where I barely fit, and it automatically springs up into the wall. The shiny silver—I’m surrounded by the color--of the bottom of my bed becomes part of the wall. I can now walk through my diminutive, nondescript room. The only colors in it are white and silver. In a very miniscule corner of my brain, I think I remember colorful walls and adornments, but that was a very long time ago.
A time when my real parents were alive.
Stop it! I tell myself. They’re gone. They’ve been gone forever. I’m grateful for the strong medication coursing through me; it keeps my brain in a constant fog. I pull the silver jumpsuit, our school uniform, up over my medium sized body—I’m neither skinny nor fat, and I push a pick through my raven, wildly curly, long hair. I pull it in a severe knot on top of my head as the regulations of our school stipulate. I rarely wear my hair differently even when I’m not in class. It keeps my fake parents off my back—at least about that. I swiftly grab a banana for breakfast. My fake father’s right eyebrow twitches when he sees me seize the yellow fruit.
“Madrigal!” my fake father chastises, his voice curt and as cold as his wife’s.
“You’ve got such a pretty face,” my fake mother chimes in, “You just need to lose some weight to be beautiful.”
“I don’t care what other people think I should look like,” spills out of my mouth as I push the button that raises the front, silver-metal door up. I run out before they can say anything else.
Rushing past my perfectly manicured neighborhood of annoyingly same silver homes, perfect squares with a few windows—one after another, I practically swallow the banana just before reaching the metro. It is the only form of transportation since no vehicles are allowed except for those of the government. "Too many vehicles are bad for the environment," they tell us—the United World order—but of course, at the beginning they had said there was no such thing as climate change, insisting we didn’t have to worry. Then the effects were too obvious to ignore. As I step onto the metro, I push my right hand out, palm up, and am scanned. A beeping sound of approval sounds off, and the Guardians of Order in their dark suits nod their heads at me. I’m allowed on.
I take the only empty seat. Many faces—some lit up with anticipation but most of them tired and haggard—stare out the windows, even when there’s not much to look at but the metro platform. Thoughts of my morning pierce through me, bypassing my sluggish, medicine-infused brain.
Stop getting upset, a masculine voice speaks low and gruff in my head like a loud whisper.
Why do they have to always give me a hard time about what I eat? I ask him in my mind.
They’re morons, he answers.
I giggle in the silent metro, and one of the Guardians of Order snaps his perplexed eyes to me. The silver pin on his lapel of the word guardian with a balancing scale next to it shines with an ominous gleam. All government employees are called guardians in one form or another. Good propaganda. Nice name for unrelenting dictators and power hungry abusers. I pretend I’ve got something stuck in my throat and clear it. I’m already on his radar, so I take a textbook from my mesh, silver backpack and pretend I’m reading.
Good save, Arthur tells me.
I don’t even flinch anymore when Arthur knows exactly what’s happening to me. Of course he knows what is going on. He can read all of my thoughts and even see them—so he says. Arthur—that is to say his voice—came to me a year after my parents died. I was seven years old, and he told me not to tell anybody, that he’d be with me from that day on. Being only a child and very lonely, I was thrilled to have an imaginary friend. Even then I knew that he couldn’t possibly be real. And having the kind of relationship I had with my fake parents, of course I didn’t tell them a word about Arthurian—that’s the name I gave him. Later I shortened his name to Arthur, my Arthur. As the years went by I realized a very important thing. Even if he might be imaginary, probably due to the weird medicine I have to take, I can’t live without him.
Why are you with me? I asked him once.
We need each other.
You’re just imaginary, right?
Do you really think that? he asked, amused.
Either that or I’m crazy—completely bonkers.
You’re not crazy, his voice was serious again.
The medicine—
Forget the medicine.
Are you an angel? That could be an explanation, I thought.
Madrigal, stop asking so many questions.
I had stopped because I was terrified he’d leave, and I’d be all alone. Thank goodness that after all these years, he’s still with me. Turning the page of my History textbook, what I called the accepted fiction stories, I smile.
Very good save, he repeats in my head.
Thanks for the compliment.
You’re welcome.
So how are you this morning? I ask him.
As well as I can be in this United World order, he states with sarcasm.
I know what you mean, I say, looking up from my textbook and examining the sad, robotic faces all around me.
I don’t see how our lives are better now, he continues.
I don’t remember much about the old life, I declare, but it had to be better than this.
It was, he affirms. Earth used to be a much better place.
I just wish my real parents were still alive, I say wistfully. And that my fake parents were far away from me.
After all these years, they had never adopted me. I’m still a ward of the government. All they had been good for was to constantly criticize me while pretending to be concerned.
I want to make something very, very clear, Madrigal.
Yes?
Don’t let anything they say creep into your heart, he states.
It’s hard to ignore them.
If anyone can bypass their cruelty it’s you. You’re the toughest person I know.
I’m not tough, I quickly tell him.
You haven’t got a clue about who you really are—about what you are.
What am I? I ask.
Special.
I quickly pull down my head towards the textbook to make sure no one, especially any of the guardians, sees the warm scarlet bursting out of my face. His compliments always do this to me.
Thank you, Arthur, is all I can say. It seems so small, but I can’t put into words how grateful I am for him. I never get tired of telling him how thankful I am to him for always being there for me.
Know this Madrigal—really know your own power.
Who cares if he’s imaginary—he is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
The United World Knowledge Center, as every school is called, is a huge chrome building with equal sized rooms. All the centers of this stature are the same all over the planet except for the schools of the others—that’s what we’re supposed to call them, and what they’re supposed to call us. The others are those who live in the other circumstances. They are the majority on earth and live in small wood shacks, work manually, and only associate with each other as we are supposed to only associate with those of our segment.
“This is necessary,” the leaders of our one-world government tell us. They call themselves Guardians of Peace. “We have to make sure that we keep order in our lives or wars are started over petty things.”
It seems to me that food and basic necessities aren’t petty things but what do I know? I’m just a drugged-out seventeen-year-old in a world I’m uncomfortable and unhappy in. Still, it seems that the others have so much less than we do. We, the ones born with stupid luck, are on this side of the segment line. My fake parents work for the government and because of it, they and I live entitled lives.
The drugs in my brain start taking over and my mind gets foggy—it happens in waves—as I sit in my chair at school. As almost everything else in my part of the world, it’s chrome. The United World leaders say that silver is the color of progress, so most of our surroundings are that hue.
“Hi,” Andrew says shyly as he sits behind me.
“Hello,” I greet back.
He is one of the few students who’ll talk to me since the majority of them can’t stand me. For one, I usually have a spaced out look on my face—partially because of the drugs but also because I’m counting the minutes until this charade called learning is over. And for two, I don’t really like being on this side of the segment line. In fact—I hate it! I hate that we have privileges the others don’t, that we are told we are the chosen ones to lead the world or it becomes chaos like it supposedly was before the United World order. Because of these ideas woven into our heads, arrogance stinks up the school. Most students walk around with superiority complexes and ignore the janitors and cafeteria workers as if they don’t exist even when they’re right in front of them. Students don’t cross any words with them—not even thank you or please. Of course, if a teacher catches us saying anything to them, we’ll be in detention for a week.
I’ve been in detention many times.
Actually, it’s not so bad being pulled out of the idiotic classes, and Arthur usually keeps me company during those times.
Believe it or not, there was a time I actually loved school. As with most of my foggy memories, I see tiny glimpses of myself happily going to kindergarten with my real mother—the one who actually loved me—before the one-world government took over. It was fun to learn—to learn new ideas and different angles to thoughts. Now, school is only about how everything goes to the perfection of the new order. Take for instance the class I’m in at the moment as I wait for it to start—History. Sure, the teacher gave us the timeline of how the United World came about, how our magnificent leaders (his word for them and not mine) created a utopia out of the mess the past humans had made. But hardly anything is said BUO—before the United World order—only about the horrible things like the many earthquakes, tsunamis, atrocities and wars that led to the frustration in human beings so acute that it paved the way for a one-world government. In fact, the new leaders insisted it was the only way to save ourselves from evil, that the new one-world system brought order.
“Back in the old days, life was about putting out one fire after another,” they tell us often. “It was just a nightmare unlike the paradise we’re in now.”
The teacher, Mr. ZP2000, sternly starts role call when the bell rings. This is just a formality since as soon as we walked into the school—through the metal detectors—our identity was automatically ascertained. The teachers call out our names to demonstrate the power of our government over us. They know who we are and where we’re supposed to be. He gets to my name—Madrigal X1147 and grimaces—most of the teachers don’t like me any more than the students do. That’s okay—the feeling is mutual.
A sliver of a rebel memory bursts in my head as it always does when I hear my name. There was a time I used to be Madrigal Zapata—before the leaders told us that we had to leave our monikers behind and take on letters and numbers. The populace just couldn’t wrap themselves around this since names are very personal and rather than risk a revolution over what we wanted to call ourselves, the leaders conceded—one of the very few times they’ve ever done this. They allowed us to keep our first names while recently born babies were given the new identities along with government workers like my fake parents and teachers who were only too glad to prove their loyalty and be role models for the rest of us.
Zapata! Zapata! That’s my real last name, I pound into my head.
Don’t forget it, Arthur implores. Never forget who you are.
The day drags as it usually does and when I finally go to lunch, I am alone at the small round table I usually sit at. Most of us get the same food, a tasteless tray of glob-like substance full of vitamins and nutrients.
“You’re the leaders of tomorrow. You’ve got to be healthy,” the government leaders tell us often. But I know this is another way to exert their control over us.
Man, I miss my real mother’s food, I say to myself as I capture a sliver of a memory. I slowly start eating the stuff. My medicine makes me very hungry and even this fake substance is better than a growling stomach.
Andrew, who is also alone at the table next to mine, smiles meekly at me as if he can read my thoughts. He also looks unhappy when he takes the first bite. It’s really nasty stuff! Our eyes lock, his blue irises with my dark brown ones, and we smile while grimacing at our food. His expressive face and shiny blonde hair are like sunshine to me—I guess because he’s the only student who shows any type of kindness towards me.
A loud ruckus is heard at the front of the cafeteria. Rolling my eyes, I know who it is without looking. Of course she can make as much noise as she wants. She’s the principal’s daughter, QT100. So much for the equality the leaders always talk about! QT100 and her gang jovially kid and flirt with each other, every eye in the huge room on them as if a spotlight is fixed on their smirking faces. Her boyfriend, Royce, makes a snippy remark about the stink in the cafeteria, over the food substance, as he gets his own tray. When he and QT100 and the rest of their cronies open the wrapping of their trays, they’ve got real food. I try to avert my eyes as they push pieces of succulent steak into their greedy mouths. When the leaders were asked about stuff like this, they said that some of us needed different kinds of nourishment.
Yeah right! Some are more privileged than others, I had thought to myself.
They think we’re morons who can’t think for ourselves, Arthur had snapped, disgusted.
They’re the evil morons.
After lunch, I go to my favorite spot in the library. The old world internet is now prohibited to anyone not part of the government. No cell phones, no ipads, no kindles and etc. I know about these things through Arthur since I only have a vague memory of them. So our only avenue for information is the library—not that it’s that much help because the majority of the books of the old world were burned, and all we have now are propaganda pieces of the new world.
Still, I love the library because it’s quiet and private. I can sit in my anti-social corner and ignore everyone else. Starting my bogus history essay on the development of our system, I try not to gag at the lies I’m reading. I wish I didn’t have to put so much junk on paper. A tree had to die so that power hungry individuals could overstuff their egos.
Before long, it’s time to get to class. Ugh! The time passed much too quickly, and I wish I had a way of making it stand still. I sigh miserably. I’m so much happier when I’m alone.
As I stand up to leave, a shifting noise resonates from underneath my feet. I swiftly look down, too puzzled and surprised to move in that moment. The wooden floor boards unbelievably open, suddenly shifting apart, and I fall through the floor.
Chapter 3: Abducted
Falling!
It happens so quickly that I don’t have time to scream. I land in the arms of a waiting person who immediately puts his hand over my mouth and then another guy tapes my lips together with clear, thick tape. Fighting, scratching, and trying to escape any way I can, I’m no match for the two guys who rapidly tie my hands and legs with strong rope.
“Sorry,” the one with the tawny hair and hazel eyes tells me as he sits me on the ground and pulls out a sharp knife. “But I have to do this.”
Is he going to kill me?! I start fighting harder but can’t get myself loose.
“Can’t we drug her?” the dishwater blonde asks as he looks at the bloody scratches on his arms.
“You know what our orders are.”
“It would be so much easier,” Blondie groans, “this one’s a feisty one.”
“We can’t drug her. Do you understand?!”
“It would be better for her if we do it. That knife is going to be painful.”
“Why are you arguing with me,” Tawny growls. “We can’t.”
“The other one was much easier to take care of.”
The other one? I wonder. Who are they talking about?
“We have to keep her clearheaded—those are our orders,” Tawny snaps.
“That Andrew was easy compared to this one. We were allowed to drug him.”
Andrew? Are they talking about the Andrew I know? Did they abduct him too? Why?
“I’m sick of your complaining. Get it through your head once and for all that we can’t drug Madrigal.”
It’s strange that they know my name, but I don’t know them. Who are they?
“That knife is gonna hurt.”
“It can’t be helped,” Tawny murmurs, “I’m so sorry, Madrigal.” The sharp point digs into the flesh on my wrist. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought because of the drugs already in me. My abductor pushes out a tiny, silver microchip embedded in my skin.
“Got it,” he announces as he takes it in his fingers with disdain and throws it to the ground where he smashes it with his foot.
My body contorts as much as it can with it being bound and gagged. The pain going through me is excruciating, but it’s not the throbbing of my wrist that has me twisted in knots—it’s the realization that a great big hope has been dashed. My captors have just destroyed the tracer that was supposed to lead the authorities to me. All the citizens of our United World have it—all except for me now. Arthur! Arthur! I cry out in my head, but nothing comes back. Nothing!
I’m all alone.
“No one will be able to find her,” Tawny announces, speaking the thoughts from my head aloud.
“Nope.”
“We need to get going,” Tawny declares. “Let’s get out of here.”
Here? Where is here? I wonder, and I look around me for the first time. I’m in what seems to be a sort of a hallway under the library. The only light is an old fashioned flashlight. Blondie grabs me, and I start jostling. He groans loudly.
“You sure we can’t—”
“No, George,” Tawny snaps. “Just do as I say, and let’s disappear.”
Their faces are uncovered. I can see every freckle and mark on them, and they’re not afraid of saying their names. That can’t be a good thing! I fight harder.
“Stop it,” George groans, “or I’m going to hi—”
“Hit her?” Tawny retorts. “You’re going to hit her—especially her? Are you kidding me, George?”
“I was just trying to scare her, Peter.”
“Stop playing games.”
I keep struggling as the one named George helps the one named Peter carry me. They take me through a dark hallway. When the light of the flashlight goes to the walls, I see that they are dirt. In other words, a tunnel was dug underneath the library. Who would go to all of this trouble to abduct me and maybe Andrew too?
Sweat pours from them as we arrive at an opening. George kicks the shrubbery away—probably used to conceal the opening, and I see we’re in the middle of the thick forest outside the school. A van is waiting—a government one. Of course, those are the only vehicles allowed, so either the leaders of the planet are kidnapping me, or these dangerous criminals stole the van. It could easily be one of the two options since our government is not beyond anything in my opinion. But what puzzles me is if it’s not the guardians doing this then why would anyone risk such a daring move in a controlled society like ours? They’ve got to know that they are going to eventually get caught and punished with death. There’s a zero tolerance for any criminal activity. Crime is practically non-existent in our United World order.
Who is abducing me?—the government or private citizens?
Either way, I am in very, very deep trouble.
After being transported in a windowless van, I am blindfolded and pulled out of the vehicle where George and Peter carry me as I furiously kick and jostle. They suddenly take the wrap off my eyes, and I see I’m in some kind of a bedroom. There is nothing in the room but a brass bed and a covering for it. An old fashioned wood door is opened on one side of the room into a bathroom. I can see a bucket by the toilet. What’s the bucket for? I wonder.
“What do you want with me?!” I demand when the translucent tape is gently pulled off my mouth.
“Calm down, Madrigal,” says Peter, his eyes deceptively kind. “Everything is okay.”
I refuse to be fooled by his caring manner. “Okay?! Are you crazy! You just kidnapped me!”
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” mumbles George.
“And I should believe you because…”
”We haven’t killed you, have we?” Peter asks, his lively hazel eyes on me.
“You may be saving me for later,” I retort.
“It would’ve been much easier to have done it already,” grumbles George, pointing to the deep-bloody scratch marks on his arms.
“What are you planning to do to me?” I demand to know, my voice betraying the enormous fear I’m feeling.
“You’ll know soon enough,” Peter states.
“Why are you keeping me in suspense? Just tell me,” I plead angrily.
“We can’t—not yet.”
“Why can’t—”
“I’m going to loosen the rope from your wrists, and you can unbind yourself after we’re out of the room,” Peter informs.
I’m left confused and rabid when they leave. After untying myself, I try the door to the outside, desperately pushing on the button next to it but nothing happens. When I try to kick it open, I practically break my foot. These new doors that come down from the ceiling are made of invincible metal. Out of desperation, I grab the green plastic bucket from the bathroom and smash it onto the steel door. It makes a lot of noise but of course, it doesn’t work. The bucket breaks apart. I was hoping for a miracle but didn’t get one.
I’m stuck!
For the first time I put my head in my hands and big, fat drops of water shoot out. I’m angry, scared, and unable to figure out what to do. I’ve never even imagined a situation like this. How could I? The leaders of our new order sold the people on a crimeless world where structure is of such priority that it makes it impossible for criminals to break the rules or even to survive. But it isn’t impossible after all. Here I am! And what’s worse is that I can’t get a hold of Arthur. I’ve always been able to call him, but he’s disappeared. I can always feel him in my mind when he’s around. All that’s left in my head is an empty void where his voice is usually at.
Where is he?
Chapter 4: Stuck
After a gushing waterfall of hot tears, I make myself stop. Get yourself together, I tell myself. If I’m to survive, I have to keep my head cool so that I take advantage of any, any, opportunity to escape. I fight the grogginess my medication inflicts on me as I survey the room I’m in. No windows, I frown. Not even one. Surprisingly, though, it is actually a pretty place—very colorful. The walls are violet, my favorite color, and the covering on the bed has pinks and purples. This is definitively not a government approved space. It jars me a bit that there is no silver anywhere. I’ve had it all around me for so long that it seems surreal and completely off putting that it’s nowhere to be seen.
I suddenly notice that the ceiling has a beautiful mural of the universe. The art on the ceiling is intense with a world in chains while the glittering galaxy is dotted with stars. In the middle of the mural is an exploding star—a supernova.
I check every corner for anything I can use as a weapon. Nothing. The room is bare. Even the bathroom only has the basic necessities. I take the toothbrush—maybe I can find a way of using it to save myself. I hear a shifting sound, and I rush back to the bedroom just in time for the steel door to be closing again. Apparently, it was slightly opened to throw another green plastic bucket through the bottom. By the time I get to it, it’s completely down and I angrily start banging the bucket on the steel. A wide, long slot opens on the door at about face level.
“Stop that!” demands Peter, parts of his face showing through the slight opening. “You’re going to break it like you broke the other one.”
“What do I care if I break a stupid bucket,” I retort.
“You’re going to need it.”
“Need it?”
“I guarantee it, Madrigal.”
“What for?” I ask, puzzled.
“You’ll see.”
“I’ll see! I’ll see! You keep saying that!”
“I keep saying it because it’s true.”
“You’re a kidnapper!—why should I believe anything you tell me?!”
“I can’t say too much, but you’ll understand all of this later.”
I let out a deep, frustrated breath. “I guess I don’t have a choice but to wait for answers.”
“That’s right, Madrigal.”
“So what’s next for me?”
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice turning cheerful.
I wish I could tell him that I’m not going to eat until he lets me go, but my medication makes me so famished that I can hear my stomach growling. Still, I stay quiet.
His lively hazel eyes sweep over me. “Well, are you?”
“What is it to you?” I ask quietly.
“Believe it or not, your well being is very important to me, Madrigal.”
“My well being?” I ask with disbelief. “You abducted me. How can you care about me?”
“You’ll und—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll understand later. I’m getting tired of you saying that.”
His hazel eyes frown deeply while his hand sweeps over his tawny hair. For the first time I notice that Peter isn’t much older than I am. He must be close to seventeen years of age. I’ve got to admit to myself that the guy is nice. Even when he was cutting my wrist open with a sharp knife, I could tell he was trying not to hurt me. How did he get involved in something like this?
“Madrigal, are you hungry?” he persists.
“Peter, why are you doing this?” I ask with a pleading tone. “You don’t seem like a criminal.”
“I’m not a petty criminal,” he snaps, his voice offended.
“But you’re committing a horrible crime. How can you steal a person?”
“It had to be done, Madrigal,” he rushes. “We had no choice.”
“How can you say that?”
“You just don’t know . . .”
“Peter—”
“Madrigal,” he says impatiently, “are you hungry or not? I’ve got lots of good food here for you.”
“I don’t want your food,” I state, practically hating myself for uttering the words.
“Are you sure? I can hear your stomach growling even from here.”
I clear my throat. “I’m sure,” I squeak out.
“Okay, I’ll give you the food anyway, and you can throw it in the bucket if you want.”
Peter slides a tray of food through the slot. I’m about to slam it against the door when I see what it is. Tacos! My favorite meal. At least I think it’s my favorite since I can barely remember my real mom making them for me. And there are pinto beans and Spanish rice too. I immediately stuff the crispy corn taco in my mouth and taste the spicy ground beef. M-m-m! It’s heaven!
“Bon a petit,” Peter says, laughing as he pushes a button that closes the slot on the door.
I stuff myself, eating so fast that I hardly give my stomach and intestines time to catch up. After I finish, I take a look at the tableware. The tray is a plastic beige color and the utensils are also plastic unlike the wooden ones the government has authorized except in my house where we use actual silver. I put my head in my hands feeling like a traitor to myself for pigging out on the enemy’s food.
At least now I have a fork, even if it’s flimsy plastic, I tell myself.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t given me a knife, but maybe later they’ll mess up and give me one. I can only keep trying to escape. What choice do I have?
Arthur! Arthur! I persist in calling him but nothing comes back. Maybe he’s imaginary after all—just like my logical self always knew he was, and it took this tragic event to get him out of my system.
But I don’t want him gone! Come back to me, Arthur. Please come back to me.
I curl myself in a fetal position on the floor, and the drugs in my brain take over as I groggily fight sleep in the midst of droplets of water slipping slowly from my eyes. Get it together, I tell myself over and over as I quietly doze off.
The sliding of the slot wakes me up. Peter’s hazel eyes stare at me through the open space. He frowns.
“You know, Madrigal, the bed is so you can sleep on.”
“The floor’s okay.”
“We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make you comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” I ask sarcastically.
“Yes, comfortable.”
Then I realize why he inspires a bizarre sort of trust in me—one that I have to work against. He reminds me of someone. But who? Who could this monster who’s abducted me remind me of? Am I going crazy?
“I’d be really comfortable if you let me go,” I ask hopefully.
“You know I can’t do that. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
“Sorry, I really can’t.”
“But—”
“I’ve brought some more food for you. Again, if you’re not hungry, throw it in the bucket.”
“What is it?” I ask with curiosity.
He slips the tray through the slot. This time it’s my second favorite meal—chicken fajitas. Rogue snippets of memory tell me that my real mom used to cook them for me with plenty of pepper and guacamole. I sigh when I realize that my abductors hadn’t forgotten the avocado side dish. This whole nightmare is getting stranger by the minute.
“How did you know what my favorite food was?” I ask, baffled.
His lively hazel eyes sparkle. “We have our ways.”
“Why are you seducing me with food?” I ask, my voice squeaking.
“I already told you, we’re only trying to make you comfortable. I wish you’d believe me.”
I can’t let my guard down, I tell myself. I can’t be taken in by them. They are trying to harm me, but they’re grooming me for something. I have to be smarter than them. I can and will outsmart them!
“Eat up because I doubt you’ll be able to stomach much of anything for the next few days,” Peter announces.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, worried.
“Just trust me on that one.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You’ll learn to. You’ll see,” he assures. “I’m not such a bad guy. I even doubled up on the portions because that’s it for the night. I’m not coming back.”
I don’t know why what he said makes me sad. Even though he’s my captor and a villain in my book, I hate the feeling of being alone in this horror story. For some reason, it’s a small comfort to know that he is somewhere near.
“Bon a petit,” he says for the second time that day as he closes the slot between us.
And like it or not, I’m all alone.
The noisy opening of the slot wakes me up, and I sit up from the bed. I had slept more fitfully than I should have due to the drugs coursing through my system. Then I have a huge realization. The medicine! What’s going to happen to me without it?
“Wake up, sleepy girl,” George’s voice rings out.
“Where’s Peter?” I ask, panicked as I rush to the door.
“I’m bringing you your juice today.”
“I need to speak to Peter.”
“What for?”
“It’s important,” I plead.
“But—”
“Get him,” I demand, my voice breaking.
He sighs in frustration, but then he closes the slot and leaves. A few minutes later, Peter shows up.
“You need to speak to me?” he says, his voice in a smile.
I’m relieved he’s not upset. Maybe now I can have a serious talk with him. Maybe he’ll listen to what’s at stake—my life.
“Peter,” I start, gulping. “I don’t know if you’re already aware of this since you seem to know a lot about me, but I’m very sick. I have a disease, and I have to take medicine every day, or I’ll die.”
“Madrigal,” he mutters, “don’t worry about your medication.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give it to me?”
He pauses for a few seconds. I don’t like this uncomfortable silence at all. “No,” he finally says.
“You’re going to kill me,” I declare angrily.
“We’re not going to kill you,” he insists.
“Without that medicine, I’m dead. I’m really sick. I have Estrapheria—do you know what that is?”
“Don’t worry, Madrigal. You’re going to be fine.”
“Peter,” I say more forcefully, “It is a rare disease that only hits one in a million, and I’m one of the lucky ones!” My voice is getting shrill and desperate. “I’ll die for sure if I don’t take my Estraphil. I need that stuff every day, every day.”
“You’ll be fine, Madrigal,” he repeats, making his voice sound comforting. “Just fine.”
“I hope you know that you’re murdering me.”
“Let’s not be so dramatic.”
“That’s easy for you to say—you don’t have a life threatening disease.”
He slips a tray through the slot. “I’ve brought you something to drink,” he informs, his voice lighter.
“Where’s my breakfast?” I grumble, taking the tray with a small paper cup of orange juice. “If you’re going to kill me then at least let me have a full stomach.”
“This is all I can give you.”
“But—”
“If I feed you anything else, you’ll be cursing me later.”
“What are you talking about, Peter?”
“You’ll thank me later,” he assures, closing the slot.
The shaking and the nausea start a few hours after my morning juice. I knew that I’d be lost without my medication, but I didn’t know that the deterioration in my health would happen this fast. I was hoping I’d have at least a day before the world caved in.
The slot suddenly opens, and I hope against hope that my captors have changed their minds and will give me my medicine. Peter’s hazel eyes stare at me through the empty space in the door with a worried expression. Maybe I’m saved.
“You don’t look too good, Madrigal.”
“I need my medicine,” I implore.
“It’s starting to kick in, right?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together.
“I don’t feel very good if that’s what you mean,” I say, shaking. My skin is starting to throw out globules of perspiration.
He eyes me carefully. “I’ve got medication for you.”
“You do?” I respond, excited. Maybe my life will be spared after all.
“Take this,” he says, shoving a bottle through the slot.
I stumble over to it from the bed where I had been laying down. While I pick it up, Peter stares intently at me. I don’t recognize the bottle, but I hope that the Estraphil is in a different type of container. Twisting it open, I’m surprised that it’s not in a liquid form. My hand shakes as I empty some of the small black pills on my unsteady hand.
“What’s this?” I ask with desperation.
“Medicine.”
“Medicine?” I question, disbelief in my voice.
“Take one pill. It’ll make you feel better.”
“This isn’t Estraphil, is it?”
“It’s better than that.”
“How can it be better? The doctor told me that Estraphil was the only thing that could keep me alive.”
“Your doctor was wrong,” Peter says simply.
My patience reaches its end. “You’re lying to me!”
“Madrigal, I could’ve said that the pills were Estraphil in solid form, but I don’t want to lie to you. Now, please take them. They’ll help you.”
I hurl the bottle at the steel door, and the pills spill all over the floor.
“I knew that this was how you’d react,” he states, sighing. “That’s why I ground one up and put it in your juice earlier.”
“You what?!”
“You would’ve started reacting a lot sooner if I hadn’t. As it is, it only took a few hours for you to start feeling like you do. You’ll thank me later.”
“I can’t believe you poisoned me!”
“I bought you a few hours, Madrigal.”
“Bought me a few hours?”
“But now even the pills won’t take away what you’re starting to go through.”
The shaking is getting heavier and larger beads of perspiration slide off my skin. “Then why take the pills at all if you say they can’t do anything for me?” I ask, between tattering teeth.
“They’ll help and some help is better than nothing.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Madrigal, you’ve got to—”
“The lights!” I cry out, sliding to the floor. The fluorescent lighting above me thrusts into my head, causing explosions of pain.
“I’ll dim the lights from out here,” Peter murmurs. The room is soon opaque.
“Thank you,” I manage to mumble.
“Madrigal, you’re being so stubborn,” he announces with frustration. “Take the—”
“Stop talking, please.” I place my hands over my head, trying to keep the resounding thuds of his voice from bursting it open. The vibration of his words sound thunderous, and I need them to stop.
“Madrigal, please take a pill,” he pleads.
My mind is in a painful, swirling fog and every piece of me is in the most severe agony I’ve ever been through—at least physically anyway. Nothing would ever compare to the death of my real parents.
“Just leave,” I demand.
“Okay, but If I were you I’d keep the bucket close by. When you stop being so stubborn, you know where the pills are,” he announces, closing the slot.
The stupid things are on the floor—where they’ll stay, I say to myself, between spurts of pain. Either they’re to brainwash me or to poison me or to kill me or . . . or whatever! The pills can’t be good.
I barely make it to the bucket a few feet away from where I am. The nasty vomit comes fast and relentless. My body goes into crazy spasms with me helpless to stop them. I drag myself to the bed along with the bucket, and I squeeze my eyes shut as if to keep away what’s happening to me.
So they knew I’d throw my guts out and even gave me a bucket. How considerate of them, I sarcastically say to myself. I’m either dying without my medicine or having a reaction to the drugs they gave me—probably both.
An hour later, I’m in even more agony when the slot opens again. Peter’s hazel eyes look at me with concern. I no longer believe in their sincerity.
“Madrigal, please take the medicine.”
“Go away!”
“Madri—”
“Go away!”
“Please,” he says. “I promise they’ll make you feel better.”
“liar!”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are!” I insist, the nausea trying to tip me over.
“I’m not—please take one.”
“Stop trying to trick me!”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You’ve already hurt me,” I growl.
“I’m helping you.”
“In what universe would abducing someone and then poisoning her be helping?” I ask, my head throbbing like a marching band in my head.
“You don’t understand,” he blurts.
“Make me understand.”
“You wouldn’t be able to—not now.”
I squeeze my arms around my body to see if I can stop some of the earthquake-like shaking. It doesn’t help much. “You’re not making any sense, and I shouldn’t be listening to you. I won’t be brainwashed!”
“I wish you’d believe me when I tell you that I’m not trying to hurt you,” he pleads.
“If you want to help me then get me my Estraphil!”
“I can’t do that,” he expresses.
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“I—”
“I’m dying . . . I’m dying,” hemorrhages from my mouth.
“Madri—”
“You’re killing me.”
“I’m not—”
“Go away! Go!”
“But Madri—”
“Go!”
“Okay,” he says, hurt in his voice.
“Get out of here!”
He lets out a deep breath of frustration. “Things are going to get worse before they get better in the next few days. Brace yourself,” he announces as he starts closing the slot. “I’ll be here for you.”
Chapter 5: The Angel
The vomiting increases until I painfully lay next to the bucket on the floor. My throat and stomach burn. My eyes bulge from their sockets. My skin wants to fall off me.
I take a pill.
I’m desperate.
If it makes matters worse then I’ll die and be done with this horrible experience. If it helps me, then I can put all of my remaining energy towards escaping. Either way, it’ll be better than what I’m going through now.
It may be my imagination but a few minutes later, I feel a little, just a sliver, less fatal. The vomiting subsides to an extent. My skin turns clammy, and the burning all over me isn’t as sharp and thrusting. I’m left in a shapeless slump that can’t muster even enough energy to scramble off the floor to get on the bed. I don’t feel time passing but I know it is because suddenly, the full fledge pain returns.
Medicine, I say to myself as I stretch my hand to the floor next to me, but I’m completely uncoordinated.
“Here,” a voice says as a hand puts a pill in my mouth.
“Thanks,” I mumble, trying to figure out what’s real since I’m practically unconscious.
Strong arms wrap around me, and I’m carried to the bed. My glassy, unfocussed eyes try to look at who’s doing this, but all I can see is a blur in the opaque room.
“You’ll be okay in a few days,” the male voice promises.
Is someone really with me? I ask myself. Or am I hallucinating?
I suddenly feel a burst of water on my face. He’s sponging me off with cool, glorious water. It’s like paradise on my scorched skin, and I let my heavy eyelids close.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he whispers gently. “But it’s the only way.”
I make the only noise I can—I groan.
“Sorry,” he repeats.
“What are you doing in here?” another male voice says. I briefly open my eyes to see a second blurry figure.
“She’s really hurting.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t be in here.”
“I had to come in.”
The other guy groans loudly. “This is dangerous for the both of us. We need to get out.”
“You leave. I’m staying with her.”
“It’s dangerous! What don’t you understand about that?” he asks, exasperated and furious.
“I don’t care,” he answers, his own voice angry. “I’m not leaving her like this to go at it alone—at least not at its worse.”
“But—”
“This is my decision. Stay out of it!”
“She could kill you in this state. We don’t know what her abilities are. Do you understand?”
“I know what’s at stake. I’m staying.”
“I’m going to tell—”
“No, you’re not,” he commands. “You’re not saying anything about this to anybody.”
“If they catch us—”
“Leave and there is no more us. If they catch me then I’ll suffer the consequences by myself. I promise I won’t involve you.”
“She’ll be fine without you being in here with her. You don’t have to risk your life like this.”
“She needs me.”
“She doesn’t need to have you here with her.”
“She does.”
I can’t believe you’re risking it all for her.”
“You don’t know her like I’ve grown to know her.”
When the door shifts down with the leaving of the other guy, my angel says, “Don’t worry, Madrigal, I’ll be with you for the whole night.”
As promised, he stays as I sleep in small patches, vomit at times, and go from freezing to boiling in seconds. He wipes off the perspiration from my face and exposed skin, holds the bucket close to me, gives me the black pills every hour and either puts blankets on me or takes them off—depending on my body temperature. All the while, he keeps saying in soothing tones, “Everything is going to be okay, Madrigal—I promise.”
“Thank you,” I manage to get out.
“You’re not alone.”
Chapter 6: Memories
Images start exploding in my head. My life comes back to me in vivid and profound moving pictures as if it is anxious to jump out of my mind. I writhe and grumble as my angel holds me tightly and tries to soothe me. His strong arms surround me with deep protectiveness, but they can’t prevent the pictures, like old fashioned snap shots, from cutting through my memory spaces—these memories shoved in hidden corners because of the drugs I’ve been taking most of my life.
Pictures rising to the top—
--I’m in my real parents’ arms—a small, happy child. My mom and dad smile at me.
Smile.
“We love you.”
--“Your parents had a horrible accident,” states a man with vacant, uncompassionate eyes. “Don’t you remember, Madrigal?”
I shake my head, terrified. I don’t remember a thing.
“But you were there.”
I keep shaking my head.
“Good. The medication is helping you.”
I was taking medication even then? I ask myself. My fake parents told me I had started the drugs after my illness was discovered a year after my parents died, but now I remember clearly that I was taking some kind of medicine since my parents’ accident. The clearness of the thought soon moves on since my mind is still foggy. Other images appear.
--Being placed with my fake parents after the death of my real ones. No hugs, no kisses, no warmth—just twisted words:
“It’s too bad that you’ll never be normal.”
“Your real parents must’ve been very unattractive.”
“If you’re anything like them, your parents must’ve not been very bright.”
“Don’t worry, Madrigal. We’re here to protect you from yourself—your many defects and constant clumsiness.”
--Even though there was no physical abuse, there are other ways to be cruel. . . withholding warmth. . . withholding words of encouragement. . . withholding love . . . spreading insecurity . . . spreading hopelessness . . . spreading judgment.
ARTHUR! His words jump out, ferociously stomping on the ugly ones:
--Don’t let them keep you down.
--Keep their ugliness away from you.
--You’re special Madrigal—you just don’t know who you are!
There were so many times I had argued with him about using the word special to describe me.
Stop calling me that, I had demanded of him.
Why don’t you believe me when I tell you that there’s much more to you than you think there is?
Today, QT100 and her boyfriend stuck a picture outside my locker of a wild gorilla, all crazed looking, bending the bars to his cage. How special can I be?
If they knew the real you like I do, they would worship the ground you walk on instead of hurting you.
“Oh, where are you, Arthur?” I moan unhappily. “Are you gone forever?”
I’m not, Madrigal. I’m always with you, his voice in my head jolts me and I am in complete disbelief. Had he really spoken to me?! Is he back?!
Arthur! Arthur, I cry out in my head.
But nothing else from him comes, and I suffocate in my sobs. My angel’s arms tighten around me. More flashes of my life explode in my head:
SCHOOL—
The taunts from other students—making fun of my glassy, spacey self and playing tricks on me like hiding my stuff and physically pushing me. Their heavy, cruel hands shoved me as if I was their personal toy. Of course I defended myself any way I could, landing in detention often because my teachers never seemed to believe me.
“SHE'S CRAZY—SHE'S CRAZY.” I can still see QT100’s boyfriend, Royce 2225, spreading it around that I was a total head case, his charcoal eyes trying to drown me.
CRAZY GIRL.
That’s what I became to everybody and even though they stopped the physical abuse because they were frightened of me, the stigma remained of being the crazy girl.
Students hated me.
Hateful QT100 and her cat-like green eyes scratched me till I bled along with her horrible boyfriend Royce.
Andrew—the only student nice to me.
Andrew! What happened to him?
Chapter 7: Spinning
Swish-swish.
Ugh.
Ahhhhhhhh!
How can I still be alive?
Chapter 8: Waking up
I flutter my eyes open. For a second, I forget where I’m at and think I’m in my bed at home. I remember and bolt upright.
I’ve been abducted!
The sudden movement makes my head spin violently, and I have to lie back down. I realize I’m on a bed as I try to remember yesterday. It was one foggy, excruciatingly painful haze.
I realize that even though I still feel horrible, I’m a lot better. Was last night for real? Did someone stay with me while my insides were spilling out, and I tried to stay alive? Who was it? I was so sick.
The slot opens, and Peter’s hazel eyes stare at me anxiously.
“How are you today, Madrigal?” he asks.
“A lot better,” I say, still feeling a whooshing in my stomach.
“Good.”
“Peter,” I say shyly, “did you . . . did you . . .”
“Did I what?”
“Did you stay with me last night?’
“Last night?”
“Someone was with me.”
“Someone was with you?” he gulps.
“Yeah.”
“Madrigal,” he says, his voice nervous. “You were very sick and probably imagining things.”
“But—”
“Very, very sick.”
I scrunch my face, thinking back to the constant heaving. “Maybe,” I sigh.
“Yes,” he asserts.
“By the way, thanks for the black pills yesterday.”
Peter’s eyebrows come together. “Madrigal, you’ve completely lost track of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gave you those pills several days ago.”
“Several days ago?!”
He nods authoritatively. “You’ve been out-of-it for a while.”
“Peter,” I say, astounded. “There’s no way I could’ve lost track of that much time.”
“You did, Madrigal.”
Could he be telling me the truth? I’m still wondering about my angel and not convinced that he doesn’t exist. “Are you sure no one was with me even on the first night of my collapse?”
He stares at me for a short moment before answering. “No one was with you.” He takes a huge gulp. “Of course not.”
“But—“
“You must’ve imagined it,” he utters carefully.
“It doesn’t seem like a dream.”
“Madrigal, you were in pretty bad shape. You remember at least that, don’t you?”
I groan loudly. “I remember.”
“No one was here the past nights. I mean, I looked in on you every once in a while but that’s all,”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“Do you feel well enough to eat anything?”
I vehemently shake my head.
“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to ask anyway,” he says as he starts shutting the slot. “Holler if you need anything.”
So it was my imagination according to Peter. No one was with me. No one at all—not even him.
Then I see it.
The thing sits on the floor next to my bed—a bottle of the black pills. I grab it and turn the top.
If no one was with me then who picked these up off the floor? Hadn’t I strewn them on the ground? Who put the bottle here? And who put me in bed? Wasn’t I on the floor?
Why is Peter lying to me?
I realize I need to use the restroom, and I stumble out of bed as carefully as I can. With waves of nausea still swirling inside me, I crawl to the toilet. As soon as I finish my business and wash my hands, I hear the door to the bedroom sliding up. I try to reach it as fast as I can but by the time I get out of the bathroom, the door is already coming down again. I notice a fresh bucket in the place of the old one.
I make it to bed, pop a black pill in my mouth, and promptly fall asleep.
Waking up many hours later, I have one all-consuming thought in my head. Arthur! Had I heard Arthur the other night or was it my imagination?
Arthur! Arthur! For heaven’s sake, where are you? I desperately ask in my head.
I’m here, my Madrigal.
Had he really answered me? Or are these the effects of the black pills?
Is this real? I ask.
As real as you want it to be.
Are you really with me?
I’m here.
Where were you? I question.
I couldn’t come to you.
Why?
It’s complicated.
Complicated?
Yes.
Arthur, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me.
Yes, I would, he says dryly. A lot has happened to me too.
I don’t understand.
Don’t even try to.