Sister Ella - Chapter Five

Ellen was waiting by the car when Clara and Anabelle got back several hours later.

“We were on TV!” Clara declared. “Channel six.”

“They had us and all of our friends, with John in the middle, scream ‘We’re Joelle de Lafayette’ at the camera,” Anabelle said, still red from the heat of the day as Clara lapsed into giggles.

“You should have seen John! He was hilarious! Oh my god, he was flirting with every guy he saw before he would go off and declare he was saving himself for the prince!” Clara explained.

“But, then he would come back,” Anabelle interrupted.

“And say,” Clara said happily.

“But I wouldn’t mind you for dessert!” Both girls fell on top of the car with uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my god, I don’t think I need to do any exercise today. I’ve burned off a thousand calories just by laughing at John,” Anabelle said, as she struggled to catch her breath.

“But, where did you go, Sister Ella?” Clara asked. “We lost you when we went and found John.”

“I’ve just been here waiting. Reading,” Ellen said quietly, gesturing toward the chemistry textbook she had been staring at. How could she be so stupid and self-conceited? How could she have thought that a prince would fall in love with her by talking about robot revolutions and boron. He was probably glad to be rid of her, but just a little worried about where she ran off to.

And he had to return the shoe. She’d forgotten about the shoe.

Then, his brother must have turned it into a circus. Why, for even a second, did she think he loved her?

“Oh, sorry you had to wait, Sister Ella!” Clara said. “Time just got away from us. It’s so much fun, you know. And, oh my god, you should have seen John.”

“The prince may not have found his Joelle, but I would pick John any day of the week,” Anabelle said salaciously before the sister lapsed into giggles once more.

As the girls were laughing, Ellen realized all the sadness, angst, and anger was draining away. This was her place, to help her sisters. To be the protector. She could forget the prince, because she had her sisters.

“Alright, alright, let’s get you guys home. You have an 8’ o clock class tomorrow, Anabelle,” Ellen said.

“Don’t remind me,” Anabelle groaned, but she meekly entered the car.

The giggle chatted happily, recounting memories as Ellen drove, slowly realizing something. All those negative emotions may have drained away because of her sisters, but the positive ones, happiness, excitement, love, they had drained away too. They had drained away when he shook his head, when her father died, when she had found her mother’s box in the attic.

It was all gone. All of her emotions. There was nothing inside her now, just an empty shell. That was who she needed to be, though. Empty Sister Ella who could not think of herself, because there was nothing to think of.

It was dark outside when her sisters stumbled through the door, still cheerful and chattering. Ellen hung back, excusing herself to look at the moon.

Her mother gave herself up for Ellen. She died for her. Ellen didn’t know it for a long time. Her father never told, only saying Mommy was sick and became an angel soon after Ellen was born. It was when Susan decided to move out of the house into a smaller one when the bills started piling up a few years after the accident that Ellen found the box.

Medical records. It was a rather dry label, and she might have ignored except she needed to go through all the paperwork to decide what they needed to keep and what they could throw away. Susan was supposed to help, but she was sick. Even when her body healed, she was still sick. She would still lock herself in her bedroom and cry, even when Clara and Anabelle called for her. But, they had Sister Ella, to cook for them and wash their clothes, and to go through the attic.

The box was very large and was on top of a pile of boxes. She almost fell over pulling it down, but Ellen was getting stronger. She was getting used to pulling heavy loads of laundry up and down the steps and wrangling their giant vacuum cleaner.

She got it down, and she began to search. Many words she didn’t know, but she knew cancer. Breast cancer. She knew “refused treatment”, even if she really didn’t know what “chemotherapy” or “rf ablation” or “radical mastectomy” were. Through hasty notes and waiver release forms, she pieced it together. Her mother was sick, but she could’ve been treated. She could’ve been saved, but it would have killed the child inside of her, Ellen. So, Ellen’s mother died in her place.

It was part of Ellen’s emptiness. Like that left by her father. Ellen knew no one would ever be there for her. Others had been, a long time ago, but they died. Ellen must be a statue, because when she did feel emotion, it always came to a bitter end. She shouldn’t feel, and then she wouldn’t get hurt.

She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She thought she’d been empty for a long time. She didn’t know what inside decided a guy could change that, but it was wrong. She was supposed to empty. It was who she was.

She stood outside for a long time. It was only after she was sure that her sisters had gone to bed that she went inside.

“Are you alright, Sister Ella?” Clara sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea. “I was about to bring this out to you.”

“Tea?” Ellen smiled. “What’s the occasion?”

“You’ve just seemed sorta out of it lately. I don’t know. Then, Anabelle and I ran off to leave you worrying by the car. I just wanted to apologize and see if you’re alright,” she said shrugging.

“Yes, I’m fine, Clara,” Ellen said.

“You’re always fine,” Clara said. “Even when you’re not.”

“Something was bothering me, but I’m over it now,” she said, shaking her head.

“And I’m guessing you have no intention of telling me what that something is,” Clara pouted playfully. “How come I always tell you my secrets, but I never get told any of yours?”

“Because I’m Sister Ella. I only hear the confessions,” Ellen joked.

“Anabelle used to call you the ambulance, because you would always come when we needed you to dry our tears,” Clara smiled. “I used to think you were a superhero, sent to protect us. When Mom had depression, you were the only thing holding us together. And you did it, but no one ever held you. I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Ellen asked.

“Time for someone to help you. Tell me a secret. You must have many after keeping quiet for so many years. Tell me one. It always made me feel better after I told you, whether it was breaking a lamp or which boy I liked,” Clara said happily.

“They aren’t secrets if I tell people,” Ellen pointed out.

“I’m not people though. I’m your sister. Sisters should share secrets,” Clara insisted. “Tell me something you never told anyone else.”

Ellen leaned in close to Clara’s ear, “I had a peanut butter and banana sandwich yesterday.”

Clara laughed and pinched Ellen. “That’s not a real secret. I want a good, honest secret.”

“What if I don’t have any good secrets?” Ellen asked.

“But you do. I want to hear a secret,” she pleaded.

“Tomorrow. I’ll try to think up one tonight, but you have school in the morning,” Ellen said.

“So do you,” Clara said. “You’re not that much of my mom.”

“I know. I’m going to bed too. Just let me wash these mugs and the rest of the dishes” Ellen said, taking Clara’s empty cup to the sink she now realized was filled.

“I’ll get a secret out of you someday, Sister Ella,” Clara said, yawning as she retreated to her bedroom. Ellen only smiled tightly. She quickly washed the rest of the dishes that her sisters had piled in the sink, dried them off, and placed them in the cupboard.

She went to bed slowly, but the dark shapes and half-formed thoughts failed to materialize into anything distinct. She dreamed of nothing.

“Ellen!” Anabelle screamed from down the hall, dropping something glass that shattered.  Suddenly, Ellen was wide awake and jumping from her bed, half-dressed. Anabelle never called her Ellen.

She skidded into the living room and was met with flashes. There were cameras, all outside. She could barely comprehend it before she found herself springing into action.

“Close all the blinds, quickly!” Ellen commanded. “Be careful of the glass. I’ll see what they want.”

Anabelle nodded. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were wide, revealing the depth of blue of her irises.

“What’s going on?” Clara asked groggily, rubbing her eyes.

“Help Anabelle close the blinds, don’t step on the glass. I’ll be back in a second,” Ellen said. She couldn’t think. She just had to act to protect her sisters. She took a deep breath and stepped outside without really knowing what she was doing in her pajamas, with bedhead, in front of army of cameras.

A barrage of cameras and microphones met her. Their voices combined as one. Ellen blinked rapidly.

“Excuse me?” she said loudly. “Can you all please calm down? Please, I can’t understand any of you.”

“KHOU,” a man said, elbowing his way to the front and stuffing a microphone under her nose. “Are you Ellen Metcalf?”

“Yes,” she said carefully. Her brain felt like it was in the middle of a reboot cycle and not quite fully on. She couldn’t quite process what was happening, but there was something lurking in the corner of her psyche that knew exactly what was going on. She just needed to pin it down.

“Also known as Joelle de Lafayette?” the man asked.

There it was. Ellen blinked once as it sunk in. She knew she should have felt something, but she was empty. She could feel nothing. She just had to protect her sisters.

“No comment. I would like to ask that everyone please back up to the sidewalk. This is private property, and my sisters and I would appreciate some privacy. Thank you,” Ellen said calmly. Her heart was strangely still beneath her chest, as it observed the fury of motion without emotion.

“Will you confirm or deny the speculation that you are Joelle de Lafayette?” the man said, refusing to budge.

“I won’t answer any questions at this time in this manner. My sisters and I need to get ready and leave for our classes. Individuals requiring a comment from me would be best served by approaching me via email. I would thank you if you would please leave now. Good bye,” Ellen said, as if she were reading from a script. She turned and walked inside, locking the door behind her. She began to walk back through the kitchen to get her laptop.

“Is your cell phone going off?” Clara asked. “Mine won’t stop.”

“It’s what woke me up, and then I heard knocking,” Anabelle explained.

“Sister Ella, don’t-” Clara started.

The sharp pain in her foot alerted her to what Clara had tried to warn her against. “Well, I know where I need to clean up the glass now,” Ellen said, grabbing a nearby chair to sit down on and remove the glass from her foot.

“Here, let me help,” Clara said, avoiding the glass to kneel by Ellen.

“I’ll sweep up the glass,” Anabelle said, grabbing the broom and dustpan.

“You don’t need to. I can do it,” Ellen said shaking her head.

“Of course you can, but I want to help,” Clara said.

“Did you figure out what’s it all about? All these text messages, well, they don’t make any sense,” Anabelle said, looking incredulously at her phone.

“Can we get to that in a moment?” Ellen asked. “Could you get a pair of tweezers, Clara?”

Clara nodded and skittered off.

“But you do know, right?” Anabelle said.

“I’m pretty sure,” Ellen said, as she bent in concentration to carefully pull the glass shards from her foot.

“Here’s the tweezers,” Clara said.

“I think I just got it all out. Thanks, though, Clara,” Ellen said. She smiled as she hopped to the sink to wash off the blood. “Do we have any-”

“Hydrogen peroxide and a bandage? Yep,” Anabelle said, throwing the glass from her dustpan away to rummage through the cupboard. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Ellen quickly cleaned her wound. She turned to find her two sisters staring at Anabelle’s laptop. “What?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Anabelle said. “It’s you. Why didn’t I see it before?”

“It’s seven thirty. You need to get ready before you’re late to class,” Ellen said. “We’ll leave in five minutes.”

“But it’s you. It’s you,” Anabelle said.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Clara asked.

“Listen, now is not the time for this. I made a mistake, or a mistake that led to a misperception of reality which beget more mistakes. Let’s get to class. We can talk about this after, okay? But it’s my job to get you guys safely to class,” Ellen said.

“No, it’s not. Why are you always trying to be our mother? You’re not. You’re not even our real sister,” Anabelle said.

“Anabelle, no!” Clara said, tugging on her sister’s arm. “Come on. Let’s just listen to Sister Ella.”

“Her name’s Ellen. Or Joelle. Or whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days. And she’s a liar that won’t ever show her face. It’s strange. I’ve known you for fourteen years, but I don’t know who you are,” Anabelle said.

“Of course you do! She’s Sister Ella. She helps us with our homework and feeds us chicken noodle soup when we’re sick,” Clara said. “She’s our sister. She’s nice.”

“Because of guilt. You brought all this down on us, and you won’t even admit it. They’re not just talking about you, they’re talking about all of us. They’re saying horrible things about us because of you, and you won’t say anything,” Anabelle said.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said quickly. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for this.”

“But it happened because of you. Everything’s because of you, and I won’t have you hurting my sister. Get out, and take all of them with you,” Anabelle said.

“Annie, no,” Clara said.

“Get out, Ellen!” Anabelle said ferociously.

The emptiness was shaking and breaking. Ellen wasn’t sure what was behind it. She couldn’t face those eyes. She couldn’t think. “I’ll get my stuff.”

She dressed quickly, stuffing her textbooks into her backpack as well as a change of clothes and her toothbrush. Anabelle told her to get out, so she would get out. That’s what Sister Ella did. She protected her sisters, even when they said she wasn’t their sister, even if it meant going away.

“Stay,” Clara said, coming to meet her in her bedroom. “Stay inside. Don’t go out there. Maybe they’ll leave if we don’t go out. Maybe I can help. Just don’t go.”

Clara. Clara reminded Ellen of her role. It pushed back all of her concerns to focus on this.

“I have to. I’ve learned ignoring things doesn’t make them go away. It only makes them worse. It’s my fault, Clara. I’ll draw them away. It’s my mistake. I’ll try to make this right again,” Ellen said. “Good bye, Clara.”

“You said you would tell me a secret today,” Clara said with tears in her eyes. “I think you have a pretty good one.”

“I have to take care of my sister. Of course I had to figure out a really good secret to tell her,” Ellen said, making Clara smile through her tears. “Don’t worry. They’re just reporters, Clara, and I’m a superhero/ambulance/nun. They can’t hurt me.” That even caused Clara to laugh.

Ellen left.

Amethyst - Part Three - Chapter Five

She watched the little girl dance. It was the child’s favorite past time. Small strands of her midnight orchid hair would escape he hijab to tickle her dimples as the girl smiled. She would twist and twirl back and forth across the room with abandon, dancing to music only she could hear. She was just an innocent, little girl called to die.

Therese woke in an instant, rubbing her head. The headache wouldn’t leave and now she saw Asma whenever she closed her eyes. She almost wished the girl would stare at her, condemn Therese of giving away information that could have save the child. But, Asma didn’t. She danced instead, with the gaiety of a child who did not know her fate. However, Therese thought that even if Asma knew she was going to die, Asma would forgive her.

But, Therese didn’t know Asma was going to die. They had said they would protect her. They might yet just keep their word. She couldn’t assume guilty until proven innocent. Most people were good.

She rubbed her eyes and brushed her teeth, thinking about Asma and what would happen to her.

“Miss Evans?” a woman called outside her door.

“Has Asma been protected?” Therese asked, running to the door.

“Yes,” the voice replied quickly.

Therese cocked her head, confused by the quick and blunt response and also her feelings toward it. In her mind, there was no way the woman outside her door was telling the truth, although she did not know why.

“That was strangely fast considering how everyone assured me of how difficult it would be yesterday,” Therese said carefully.

“Is was luck,” the voice responded.

“Really? Where is Asma then?” Therese asked.

“She has been taken into protective custody,” the voice said. The falsehood and deceit were so heavy in the voice that Therese felt she might choke on the fumes.

“How come you’re lying to me? Have you even tried to protect Asma?” Therese asked.

The voice remained silent awhile.

“We hoped to put you at ease before we ask of you a favor,” another voice said, male this time.

“By lying. I do not appreciate it. Please, just tell me the truth; don’t try to lie to me. What exactly is the favor and what exactly has has happened to Asma?” Therese asked.

A silence again. Therese thought she might have heard whispers through the door, but she couldn’t be sure. A third voice answered.

“Steps are being taken to analyze the possibility of extracting Asma. As for the favor, we wish for you to verify the information you reported by asking Mr. al-Fadl to sign your report.”

“Why do you need me to do that? It doesn’t sound like you need a mind-reader for that,” Therese said.

“We want to know his response, and he does not express much physically. If a detail is wrong, it is important we catch it now,” the third voice said.

Therese chewed her lip. “You’re trying to protect Asma then, right? You haven’t done it, but you’re trying.”

“Yes, Miss Evans,” the first voice said. It wasn’t lying this time.

“I’ll put on the helmet thing, then. Oh, do you want the anesthetizer thing back? It’s off my arm, so its not going to do much good in here,” Therese said, spying the device on her bed.

“If you would be so kind, Miss Evans,” the second voice said.

She stared off her helmet for a moment, readying herself. It would be okay. It wasn’t forever. It would allow her to talk to Abdul and explain that they are trying to protect Asma. She had to do it.

She did it in one swift motion her mind condensed into a pinprick. She stumbled, catching herself on her bed and breathing deeply. It was okay. It wasn’t forever. She’d be able to think freely again soon. She grabbed the anesthetic-delivering device off her bed.

“I’m ready,” she said, trying to disguise all the pain in her voice.

The door opened, and the white-coats led her back to the room she’d been in the previous day.

“If you would please hand that over, Miss Evans,” a voice said.

She look around confusedly, trying to figure out how she came to be in the room, where the voice was coming from, and what it wanted. It was too much for her brain. She collapsed to her knees, head in hands, trying to regain control. With her eyes squeezed tight, all she could see was Asma, dancing. She followed Asma’s feet for a long moment before the motion allow Therese’s brain to retract.

“What were you asking?” Therese said, getting carefully to her feet.

“The device?” a voice asked. She saw a hand gesture to her own. She spied the box and attached tubes in her hand.

“Oh,” Therese said, turning it over for a moment, careful to keep her thoughts short and quiet. “You want it back?” She held it out to the white-coat who had spoken. He took it out of her hand and placed it in a pocket.

“Could you please sit down, Miss Evans?” he asked, gesturing to the chair she had sat it when he attached the device yesterday. She nodded and sat.

He attached a new device quickly. Therese hardly noticed. She barely could. She just closed her eyes and watched the dance.

“You can take off the helmet, Miss Evans.”

Therese did not need to be told twice. The helmet was flung from her head in and instant as her brain expanded quickly in the area, gulping fresh thoughts excitedly. She could sense Abdul and his carefully neutral mind in the other room, but an itch drew her attention to the device to attached to her arm. Before, surgical tape had held it in place. Now, several layers of gauze and a tight neoprene cover held it to her arm. She thought there might be surgical tape beneath everything else judging by the feel, but she could not see it. She had the feeling that it order to get it off, you would need scissors, and there were no scissors in her room.

“You don’t want me to take this off again, do you?” she asked.

“As it is secured thusly, an attempt to pull it off could injure you,” a white-coat said.

“That just explains the consequences of trying to pull it off, not why you attached it this way. Why must I have this on my arm at all times, like when I’m alone in my room?” Therese asked, before shaking her head. “It’s okay. You don’t need to answer that.”

“Miss Evans, this is a copy of your report. If you could please get Mr. al-Fadl to sign it,” a white-coat said, handing over a photocopy.  It did not have the portrait of Asma in it.
“I’ll try,” Therese said. They opened the door for her and led her in.
“Hello, Abdul,” she said quietly, sitting across from him. “I’m Therese Evans. Do you remember me?”
He flicked his eyes up for the briefest second as a barrage of thoughts overcame his cool exterior. He thought her supernatural, not normal, of bad intents, and not nice. God was the only one who should be able to look into minds, and Therese was not God.
“I’m really sorry that I had to see your memories. I made them promise to protect Asma though. They’re trying to find out how as we speak,” Therese said earnestly.
He did not believe her.
“She is a dancer, isn’t she? Whenever I close my eyes, I see her, Abdul. She’s very pretty and very graceful. She’s the best eight-year-old dancer I’ve ever seen. And she smiles too, with the light of a thousand suns. Every time I close my eyes, Abdul, I see her dancing. How could I ever harm allow anyone to harm her once I see her?” Therese asked.
He looked up at her dubiously as his ambivalent feelings peaked to the surface. However, he quieted them swiftly and looked at the table.
Therese pushed the report toward him. “I wrote up what I saw in your mind. They’re going to try to stop the attack. I know you don’t want them to, but there’s little eight-year-old girls out there like Asma who could get hurt. We need to protect them. If you could just read through it and tell me if I did anything wrong,” Therese said quickly.
His mind was disconcertingly flat. He refused to notice the papers. His mind was strung as tight as a wire.
Therese sent toward him a river of ease and calm. He didn’t need to worry. They would protect Asma. The faster he verified the information, the faster they could protect Asma. He just had to look through it quickly. It could only help Asma.
He glanced at the papers, considering it carefully, before shaking his head.  He looked at Therese and thought very clearly.

“You do not understand, Therese Evans. These men lie. They will not protect one who is not their own. You can take what you want from me. You have unnatural power to take minds and memories. But I wish you to know that they will kill Asma once you do.”

Therese jumped slightly at such a strong thought. Abdul was speaking to her. His thoughts were filled with pain, agony, and lost. Therese tried to assure him they were good, that they were not lying.

“You did not see all of my memories then, Therese Evans. Look inside me and see how the lies they have told. If you take for them some of my memories. Take for me others. Take for Asma.”

Therese took a deep breath as Abdul stared straight into her eyes, urging her onward. Therese glanced behind her shoulder to where the white-coats were standing. Therese hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a camera. They were monitoring her every motion, but not her every thought.

She turned back to Abdul and nodded. She dove into his mind. He shoved several memories right at the surface, and they passed in a flurry of broken images. He was beaten in prison cells. He was spit upon. No one would tell him the direction of Mecca. They shaved his beard. They would force him out of his cell into work or question whenever it was time for him to pray. They told him they had his daughter, waiting for him. They told him all the other conspirators had been caught. They told him that he would be executed if he did not confess this moment. They lied again and again.

Therese retreated from his mind, staring at Abdul and panting. The graphic images of some of the humiliation and torture they made him endure continued to cycle through her mind.

Therese did nothing for a long while, before she hesitantly responded to Abdul. She could tell when they were lying or not. They said they would try to protect Asma. They knew the information came from him, so it would make no difference. If he cooperated then someday he might be able to live with Asma again. He could just read it. He didn’t have to say anything. Just please, he had to read it.

She didn’t want to hear his retort, she flooded him with calm and ease before he could think another thought. He couldn’t rebel against the strength of this equanimity. He read the document, nodding to denote its veracity.

“Could you please sign it?” Therese asked.

All of his mental walls came up. His mind became closed and flat. He turned his eyes to a blank space of table.

Therese tried to let him know that they already had the report and that they already knew it was from him. Signing it would just make it official. But, he resisted strongly in silence. He did not want to sign it. He thought it would make it more likely that Asma might get hurt.

“Does he have to sign it?” Therese asked, turning back to the white-coats.

They nodded.

Therese turned back to Abdul. She forced upon him all the serenity she could plus the idea that he must sign the report. He resisted. He shook his head. He tried to shake off the tranquility she fed, trying to think his own thoughts. He could not do this. It would hurt Asma. He had to keep Asma safe. He couldn’t listen to his own thoughts. They were made by the betrayer, the thought-manipulator. He had to do anything but sign it.

Therese didn’t know what else to do as she tried to make him calm again. He wasn’t calming. If anything, he was becoming more upset. She glanced back at the white-coats. One of them had his finger on the controller for the anesthetic in his pocket. She didn’t want to go to sleep.

“Please? He really, really doesn’t want to sign it,” Therese said.

“He must sign it Miss Evans. You must make him,” a white-coat said, tapping the controller. There was no please, now, just a very real threat. What would they do once she was unconscious? Would they take her brain, now that she wasn’t using it to help them? After seeing what Abdul had seen, she wasn’t sure if they would even refrain from killing her.

She grabbed Abdul’s hand with her mind. It steadied instantly, at her control. He tried to grab it with his other hand, but she brought it to his side. He looked at her with nothing but unrestrained horror. She did not calm his mind this time, but put it to sleep and brought his body under her control.

Then, she signed the report through Abdul’s hand.

As she released her hold, Abdul’s fell back onto the floor.

“No!” she called. She stumbled from her own chair as she tried to process what she just did and tried to reach Abdul. What had she done to him? Was he breathing? Was his heart beating?

“Miss Evans, please follow us back to the other room. We will send someone else to examine Mr. al-Fadl,” a white-coat said. She ignored the voice, falling to her knees. Her hands shook as they felt on Abdul’s neck, searching for his pulse.

“Stop!” a white-coat ordered with a voice that echoed through the room. She found his pulse. He was alive. She let her hands all in her lap and looked up toward the white-coats. All three of them were staring at her. Two of them had the controllers to the device on Therese’s arm in their hands. The other had backed up behind the other two.

“He’s alive,” Therese said before her headache caught up with her. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Asma danced.

“Stand up,” a white-coat ordered. Therese stumbled to her feet, using the table that used to sit between Therese and Abdul for support. It felt as if her brain had been immersed in boiling lead. She could barely think. She felt as if she might be sick.

“Can you walk, Miss Evans?” a white-coat asked.

“You have to protect Asma. You have to. I made him sign it. He didn’t want to. He knows if the Cobra sees it, he’ll torture Asma. He knows that there’s now proof that he gave us information. He doesn’t want Asma hurt. But I made him to do it. I forced his hand. I made him. I controlled him,” Therese blabbered. The ache and emptiness in her chest felt as if it might suck the pain in her brain in the vortex it represented.

The white-coats were whispering to one another.

“Can you walk, Miss Evans?” a white-coat repeated.

Walk. Walk away from this room and leave Abdul alone, like an empty shell. She had betrayed him. She didn’t know why. What she did was wrong. She made someone do something. She didn’t even suggest it. Suggesting it didn’t work. She made him do it. She made him work for these people she didn’t know if she could trust.

“Is someone going to check on Abdul?” she asked.

“Yes, a professional has been called for. We must get you back to your room, Miss Evans,” a white-coat said.

Therese nodded slowly and pulled herself upright. She followed them into the other room where she put on her helmet. Then they led her back to her room. She limped more than walked, but arrived there all the same.

Inside her room, she threw off her helmet and stared at the ceiling. What had she done to Abdul? What had she done to Asma? Why did she do it? Why didn’t she just say no to the white-coats? They couldn’t make her. Why did they need a signature anyway?

She closed her eyes, pressing a pillow to her face. Asma twirled across her vision, and Therese threw the pillow away. She didn’t want to look at Asma. She didn’t want to see her. Not when she might die because of what Therese did.

Therese put her heads in her hands, massaging her temples. Why did seem that nothing she did seemed right? Was she just a horrible person? If she let them take out her brain or kill her, then she wouldn’t have to feel this pain anymore. She wouldn’t gamble lives anymore. She could get away.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t run away, because even if she did, Asma could not. It did not matter if she blocked out the world, it wouldn’t change what was happening.

She would face Asma and explain for herself.

Therese settled herself on her towel and meditated.

She pulled her body up again, ignoring the weight of gravity trying to prevent the task. Asma smiled as she danced around the drawn up body, her mauve skirts flung out in all directions like a flower in bloom.

She pulled the body forward to the desk. She grabbed a pencil and paper, and she drew. She drew Asma a hundred times, dancing, smiling, laughing, singing, flying, with her father, with her late mother. Again and again, she drew Asma’s face. From every angle, with every zoom.

She kept drawing with a passion, trying to keep the child with her that others seemed so eager to make part with this world.

“Miss Evans?” Dr. Ott asked, knocking on the door.

Therese looked up as the pain of her headache hit her. Papers were toss across the room as her eagerness had betrayed no tidiness. There were Asmas everywhere.

“Yes?” Therese said carefully, trying not to reveal her pain.

“Are you alright? You sound a little strained,” Dr. Ott said.

“Yeah, I, well, I just have this headache,” Therese said.

“Like before?” Dr. Ott asked.

“I dunno, maybe? I think it might be worse,” Therese said between clenched teeth.

“I’ll see if we can get you an MRI soon,” Dr. Ott said quickly.

“What about Asma? Are you protecting her?” Therese asked.

“We are doing our best. We understand you care deeply for this girl,” Dr. Ott said.

“I promised her father she’d be alright. I took the memories from his head. I made him signed it. I was the one that physically forced his hand,” Therese explained tightly.

“You physically forced his hand?” he asked.

“I mean, he refused to do it, no matter how much calm I fed him, no matter what I told him. He was too strong-willed, too protective. So, I quieted his brain and I took control of his hand and signed it for him. He had already read through it and said everything was correct,” Therese said quickly.

“I see,” Dr. Ott said. “Do you know what they were planning to do before Mr. al-Fadl was caught?”

“They were planning on running some planes into some nuclear power plants,” Therese said quickly. “It was in the report.”  

“How many would that kill, do you think?”

“From fall-out and everything? They estimated at least a million. They also planned for a collapse of the Western economy would cause starvation for many more,” Therese said.

“The information you extracted saved those people,” Dr. Ott said emphatically.

“Does that mean your not protecting Asma?” Therese asked. “You’re trying to tell me she doesn’t matter since so many more are being saved.”

“Of course we’ll still try to protect Asma, but I’m just informing you that even in the worst case scenario, you should never feel ashamed at what you have done. You saved millions,” he said.

“And killed an innocent little girl,” Therese whispered. “I see her all the time in my head. Whenever I close my eyes, even for a second, she’s there. I don’t want to see her hurt. She’s a dancer you know. I don’t think she has any formal training, but she dances all the time for fun.”

“Therese, you are doing good,” Dr. Ott said slowly.

“Is Abdul alright?” Therese asked.

“He’s doing fine,” Dr. Ott said.

“Please, if you are allowed to say anything, please encourage them to protect Asma. Please?” Therese pleaded.

“I will do my best, Miss Evans,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Miss Evans can force actions upon people even if their higher conscious refuses,” Dr. Ott said.
“I take it your interview with Miss Evans proved advantageous?” Director Schultz said.
“As predicted, an assurance from authority does little to soothe her worries on morality. However, I thought it important to report that Miss Evans actually controlled the hand of Mr. al-Fadl when he signed the report. He read it of his own accord with nudging from Miss Evans. However, as he vehemently refused to sign, she took his hand and did it for him,” Dr. Ott said.
“How is this different from what she has done before?” Director Schultz asked.
“Before, she suggests things. She calms people down and asks them to do things. This time, she forced. It didn’t matter how opposed he was, she could make him do anything. Nothing can overcome her,” Dr. Ott said.
“This might be useful,” Director Schultz said.
“Another important note is that her headaches have returned, and they are worse than before,” Dr. Ott said.
“We’ll need another MRI then soon,” Director Schultz said. “Isn’t this abnormally quick? I thought it took much more training last time in order to merit surgery.”
“Yes, but perhaps Mr. al-Fadl has proved more intense training that she previously underwent. Maybe growth is easier with a bigger brain. Perhaps it is stress-induced,” Dr. Ott said.
“She is stressed then?” Director Schultz asked.
“Very. She doubts the morality of what she is doing. I believe it is already presenting itself in minor psychosis. She says she see Mr. al-Fadl’s daughter whenever she closes her eyes,” Dr. Ott said.
“We’ll do the MRI tomorrow. Is there anything else of note from your interview with Miss Evans, Dr. Ott?” Director Schultz asked.
“She repeats her request about protection of Asma,” Dr. Ott said.
“Yes, well, that’s impossible if we wish to prevent this attack. If they knew we knew, then we would be dead by now” Director Schultz said.
“I was simply repeating Miss Evans’s request,” Dr. Ott said.
“Thank you for the update on Miss Evans. You are now dismissed,” Director Schultz said.

Something Amethyst - Chapter 5

As she sat down on the bus, she knew she was going to have a problem. She was absolutely exhausted and long car rides had a tendency to help her drift off to sleep. She twisted a leg uncomfortably into the seat next to her to complete the dual purposes of keeping her awake and making sure no one sat next to her. If someone sat next to her, he or she might touch her. She didn’t want to touch anyone. 

She pressed her forehead to the glass, which was refreshingly hot next to the over-air-conditioned bus interior. She hated what had happened. Her mother’s face and the blood exploding was forever imprinted in her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see her poor, frightened mother’s eyes as they were destroyed. It made her sick to her stomach.

She thought back to her father. He had always told her to put the unchangeable past behind and look to the future, where she could change things. Her mother, her father, many of her friends, and two unfortunate girls were dead. It was her fault, although she didn’t mean to. She couldn’t do anything about it. She could go to Brighton Bridges, however, and put an end to it. That is, assuming her father’s vague clue was pointing to Brighton Bridges and it was about who she was.

She now realized what a humongous assumption that was. It was an Internet search based on most popular searches starting with bright- that had put her in that direction. Suppose her father didn’t mean Brighton Bridges, or even if he did, it was just to tell her she was adopted or something, what then?

She didn’t know, and as Las Vegas pulled away, she was beginning to realize how lost she was. However, Brighton Bridges was a direction, and that was all she needed at the moment. Whatever happened, she would just have to face it. Perhaps she should’ve attempted to contact the FBI instead of embarking on her own. Perhaps. They would probably also lock her away forever when they realized what she could do by touching people. It would probably confirm their suspicions that she was responsible for everything. They might just give her the death penalty, but maybe they could also figure out why she could dream people dead and change their emotions.

It would be her plan B, if nothing came of her trip to Brighton Bridges. 

An hour passed and her eyelids began to droop. She bit her lip, hoping the pain would keep her awake. It was not too long later when her chin dropped to her chest again. Slipping her right foot out of its shoe, she drove a fingernail into the cut at the bottom of it. She almost yelled out at the oncoming pain, which bit like a knife through her entire leg. It was still very sensitive. It would probably get infected too, sitting in a shoe no doubt lined with bacteria from months if not years of use, judging by the wear on the soles. 

She found she hardly cared. Thinking weeks ahead seemed inane and silly when so much depended on what would happen within the next few hours after she arrived in Utah. Death could come within seconds, her mother had shown her. To plan for an infection was downright asinine in the face of everything. 

She was falling asleep again, so she placed her nail back into her cut. It hurt very bad, but it shocked her awake. She was going to have to be very careful, or else she would end up asleep, and someone would die. She needed caffeine badly, but stuck on a bus without money didn’t exactly lend itself to the purchase of a cup of coffee. 

“You look tired, dearie,” an old woman said from across the aisle.

“I am,” Therese admitted, lowering her voice as low as she dared, hoping she didn’t sound fake or comical. “I’ve been traveling, and I don’t want jet lag.” She found herself avoiding outright lies. Of course jet lag wasn’t her main concern, but it would be unfortunate.

“Are you heading to Salt Lake? Why are you traveling by yourself?” she asked, leaning over towards Therese.

“My father--my mother and I haven’t seen him in almost six years--wanted to tell me something.” Therese saw her father keeled over her desk. What was he trying to tell her? Had he known what she was the entire time? Her mother obviously hadn’t. Had he tried to hide it? It only happened after he was gone.

The woman nodded. “Family is important. It’s the only thing you can depend on.”

Therese’s family was dead. The only person left was herself. She guessed it was true that she could only really depend on herself now. She smiled politely at the woman but turned away to remove herself from the conversation. 

The hours of road between her and Brighton Bridges seemed an insurmountable challenge, as she plunged her nail into her foot for the umpteenth time. The cold air helped keep her awake and shivering, but it was not enough so that she forced her nail into her foot again and again. The only thing she could see was visions of death: her parents’, her friends’, and the girls’. She felt dirty. She felt like screaming, or running, or anything but sitting trapped in a steel canister for hours on end. She felt like sleeping forever without waking, never dreaming. 

Brighton Bridges kept her going. It gave her a small spot of light in the dark. It gave her hope. Hope was a powerful thing. 

As the people loaded the bus after a stop at a gas station, the elderly woman Therese talked to before handed her a coffee with a soft smile. “Chin up, son. Whatever your father wants to tell you, I’m sure it’s about making up lost time. It’s always darkest before dawn.”

“Thank you,” Therese said softly. The hot liquid warmed her fingers through the Styrofoam cup. The cliche saying seemed trite, but it was something. It was that intangible, irreplaceable hope. The hot flush of warm that passed down her chest after drinking the coffee let her know how incredibly hungry she actually was. Therese ignored it however; there was much she still had to do. She had no money and no time. She would deal with it later.

Hours passed, the sun went down, and Therese found herself staring at the suburbia of Utah transform into tall, commercial buildings. Her foot hurt a lot as the bus screeched to a halt, but all was forgotten as she readied herself for the drama of whatever would come. She pulled her hat down to cover her face more and left the bus quickly, walking on the heel of her injured foot. 

She alternated running and walking when her heel hurt too much as the map of the area she had looked up guided her through streets thankfully named numerically and sequentially, which made the quest much easier. Her heart was buzzing as her body burned with adrenalin and exhaustion. Night turned shadows into monsters of her imagination and her past, but she could only keep running. In some way, she didn’t want to reach Brighton Bridges. She didn’t want to disappoint herself if it turned out not to be what she was looking for, destroying all hope, but she had to do it. She just had to, for all those lives destroyed by her.

Several miles later, she was breathing hard but she had come face to face with the abandoned building. Boards covered a few windows, and the letters of Brighton Bridges, which had been bolted to the front of the building, had fallen off with age. The brick edifice still stood strong, and Therese could picture her father walking through the broad double doors many years ago. He must have worked here, as an architect. Why would he keep it hidden? And what was he hiding here?

Still gasping from her run, she checked over both shoulders to see if any of the cars zooming on the street behind her had taken noticed. She hobbled forward and checked the front doors. They were locked, dead-bolted, and secured with chains and thick-looking key lock. She almost had to laugh at herself for coming this far and not taking into account that the building had probably been locked. She had never picked a lock in her life and thus had little chance of getting in via the front door. 

She backed up slightly, examining the structure. There were no ground floor windows, but all seemed raised to slightly lower than second floor setting, as if the inside was a warehouse or something. One of the windows had one of the boards that had been covering it balanced loosely on the ledge, as if it had fallen off and been caught there. 

Therese approached the wall, noting that the grout between the bricks was extremely eroded. She slipped off Jason’s shoes and noted that she could fit her fingertips and her toes within the gaps. She looked behind her again, as if expecting police or the evil guys to jump out behind trash cans, but no one was there. She pressed her fingers as deeply into the cracks as she could, and then her feet. She took a higher grip and as she went to push off from her toe hold, her right food exploded with pain as the cut stretched. She tumbled down into a heap on the ground and grabbed her aching foot. 

From a thousand miles away, she could hear her father’s voice, “Tears don’t help anything, Therese. You must be strong. Now tell me, where did you go wrong?” She was not going to let this stop her when she was so ineffably close. She closed her eyes tightly, then looked back up. She gathered herself and attacked the wall again, this time letting her right foot dangle. Brick by precarious brick, she inched herself forward, keeping her body close to the wall. It was ages until her fingertips reached the ledge.

Laboriously, she pulled herself upwards realizing how tired she was. Adrenalin could only do so much. She had to keep going, she had to see this through, and then she could rest and eat and pay Jason back. 

Sitting on the ledge, she realized the inside of Brighton Bridges was dark and unlighted, as one might expect of an abandoned warehouse. She had not brought a flashlight or anything smart like that. She had not thought this far as she did not know what to expect from Brighton Bridges. As her eyes adjusted, she was beginning to get the vague sense of a large room by the moonlight filtering through the boarded up windows. She saw a pile of wooden crates below the ledge on which she sat. She could at least get down and poke around in the near darkness. She had come so far, she couldn’t back out over something like a flashlight.

She lowered herself down, feeling the space below her feverishly with her feet. Her left foot glanced something wooden, and she let go. The crates, apparently delicately balanced, collapsed beneath her as she tumbled down in a thunderous avalanche. 

She lied on the floor, breath slowly returning to her chest and pain issuing from her left ankle. She had probably twisted in her fall and was now all but crippled now that she could barely stand on either leg. She did not want to move, and the overwhelming urge to dreamlessly sleep and never wake up overwhelmed her. No. She could not just lie there. Her father was trying to tell her something. She had to figure out. She pulled herself to a wall and inched herself up so she balanced on her right heel, gasping at the effort. 

She did not see it or hear it, but something bit into her stomach and sent her body into a spasm. She collapsed again, as her already dark vision grew darker. She blinked her eyes open not too much later, most of her muscles still in spasm. Someone was dragging her with extreme effort along the cold cement floor. A door shut behind her and locked, and a light clicked on. 

An old man, attached to an oxygen tank and several IVs, was staring at her hungrily. She pushed herself up quickly to a sitting position, and the old man gestured with what she now recognized as a tazer. “Don’t move, Yvette.”

He had her father’s voice, weathered by time, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He was the man whose voice who ran throughout her dreams. He was the one who called the girls to their deaths. But it wasn’t her father. The man was much older than what her father should’ve been if he had lived the last five years, and he had different nose, higher cheekbones, and darker eyes. It was someone different, but someone similar. 

“My name is not Yvette,” her voice was tight as he threatened again with a tazer, but to find the man behind it all suddenly in front of her she found it imperative to speak. “It is Therese Evans. You made me kill my friends. You are the cause of my parents’ death.”

He laughed. It was a dry, hacking thing that seemed hardly to convey mirth but the perceived superiority of its origin. “Danny didn’t tell you a thing, did he? Just brought you up like a normal little girl, not the freak you are? I’ve bet you’ve been so confused, just wracked with guilt. ‘Why is everyone dying? What’s wrong with me? Woe is me!’” He mocked her in a high-pitched, garish voice and laughed in the same grating way.

Therese chest twisted at the words. She looked up into the man’s aged eyes and saw only bitter truth. “You think Yvette is a name?” He laughed again. “Yvette is what you are. E-V-E-T. Experiment-Vast Extrasensory Transmission. E-VET. You were a lab experiment. And your precious little daddy who you love so dearly? He was a chief experimenter. He made you the freak you are.” 

His eyes were so truthful, full of supremacy over her ignorance. But it couldn’t be true. Her father loved her. He had spent so much time with her. He had taught her to be strong. He had been everything.

“You lie,” she accused. 

He laughed again. He was so gleeful that she was here.“You know I don’t. I can see it in your eyes. Everything is making sense now, hmm? Your father said it wasn’t important to make friends so he could isolate you. He taught you to avoid contact so you wouldn’t use your ability that we gave you to influence people. He told you not to feel emotions so that I couldn’t find you. He lied to you at every turn. He made you think you were normal, not the freak you are.

“You were a military experiment that was decommissioned after someone with a some expanded sense of self-righteousness decided it was immoral. We were so far, we couldn’t stop. My idiot son, you father, eventually saw the project’s potential. He offered his company as a front, and he found himself drawn into the research. 

“Ah, but then he got cold feet, decided he didn’t want us to use you. He stole you from me and gave you to his half-crazed wife. Billions of dollars had been invested in you, but that didn’t matter to him. The creditors came after me and the company. My employees ran and my investors almost killed me. They told me to find you or die. I was consumed with the search. I found a way to track the large electromagnetic emissions associated with the strong emotions of an E-VET. I found a way to tap into them, to alter them. 

“Your father kept you hidden however, taught you to keep silent. I had to have him killed. I found you when you were at your most vulnerable, when you were asleep, but it was an ephemeral thing. I could never touch your thoughts to affect you, only those you were thinking about at the moment, the ones you connected with. The first girl, what was her name? Ah, Tessie, was an accident. However, as time went on I realized if I hurt enough of those close to you, you would be curious about why it was happening. And your curiosity would lead you where it had first began; it would lead you to me. 

“I must admit, it took you much longer than I thought it would. You ignored the deaths of some of your closest friends, and it took my investors on your tail to force you into action. It doesn’t matter now, though, now you are here,” he was smiling broadly, a smile of broken teeth and thin, reptilian lips. He had been waiting and planning a long time, and he relished the moment he could reveal his brilliance.Therese was repulsed; she wanted for it not to be true, but everything seemed to fit. His expression was one of a victor of a marathon, vainglorious in his win. 

She could not stay here. She had to get away. Nothing else mattered. 

She threw herself forward to tackle the man, but was stopped in the motion by his tazer into her chest. Before she fell, she managed to get a handle on the weapon, pulling it away from the man and throwing it into the air. She collapsed for several seconds as her muscles spasmed, and the tazer rebounded off a corner. 

“You don’t know when to quit, do you? You may have succeeded on dumb luck before, but now you have lost. You are mine, E-VET, and you will do as I tell you to,” he hissed, his voice bitter. She began to sit herself up again and found a gun trained on her. The man was glowering down the sight. 

“Stand up,” he ordered. She slowly inched herself up the wall, but an idea was growing in her head. He was the man who had caused her to kill all of her friends. He, her father’s father, was the source of it all. He was going to sell her to his “investors” to kill people, no doubt, if she did not get away. He was threatening her with death, if she did not cooperate. What he didn’t realize, however, was that her death hardly mattered now. It would be the death of a murderer, and it would let her sleep, dreamlessly, ever after. 

She was not afraid. 

She hobbled towards him, slowly but decisively. “Stop,” he ordered, undoing the safety of his gun. She could see the fear growing in his eyes, revealing himself to be nothing but a sick, old man. “Stop, damn you.” 

She reached forward to grab his gun, and he, knocking off her hat, latched a gnarled fist on her hair, jerking it backwards. He jabbed the gun into her upper chest as she wrestled him for control. He was surprisingly strong and she was surprisingly tired, her muscles barely responding to her brain, even the onslaught of adrenalin unable to relieve the heavy cloak of exhaustion. 

She could feel his beating heart behind her, and as her finger passed by the trigger of the gun, she knew what she had to do. She could not think, but just press her finger down. She closed her eyes.

The explosion rocked her backward, her ears ringing with the blast. The world was numb and something warm was pooling on her upper chest around her shoulder. It took her a moment to realize she was lying on something. It took her a bit longer to realize it was her attacker, her grandfather.

Her body was leaden, but she slowly pulled it to her feet. The old man had a large, deep red stain in his chest, slightly to to the left of his sternum. He oxygen tank lay on tumbled across the room and his IV pole was tangled in his feet. His eyes were open but glazed. She had killed him. 

She had done it. 

Several long moments she stared before she noticed the dripping blood, her inability to move her left arm, and her growing light-headedness. She couldn’t breathe, she realized distractedly. Each breath seemed to leave her all the more unable to get a second, as if she she was sliding into a lake. She looked down at her upper left chest and she noticed the bullet wound. He wouldn’t be the only one that died soon.

She didn’t want to die.

She was surprised at the notion, but she knew she must move in order to save herself. She went to step, and she tripped. She fell onto her arms, than instantly collapsed to her chest. She could not feel pain, although she knew it should be there. Pain seemed so distant. She began to crawl, inching forward with her bad arm dragging on the floor. 

She heard something, a slight scratching on the floor. She turned around to see her grandfather’s wrinkled hand slowly scrambling towards the gun like an injured spider. It gripped the handle, but he did not attempt to aim it at Therese. Instead he methodically aimed it at the oxygen cylinder and pulled the trigger. 

The sudden outburst of pressurized gas slammed Therese to the floor. It took her several tried to get to her hands and knees again and several seconds after that to place the smell of smoke. It had started a fire. 

She crawled forward, beginning to feel warmth from behind her as the dry, unvarnished wooden floor ignited. Her hand landed in a sticky puddle of blood she knew had to be her own, but she kept moving. She was so tired that even with the fire behind her, all she wanted to do was to stop, fall asleep for awhile. 

However, there was that small but powerful flame in her chest that let her know she did not want to die. When she could think of nothing else, she could hold onto that. It was hard to think of anything else, with her mind so fuzzy now. Smoke was building, and she coughed often although she couldn’t breathe anyway. 

She crawled on and reached the door of the room. She pulled herself up by the handle with her good arm. She leaned on it heavily to unlatch it. She fell roughly onto the floor as it opened outward. The world seemed so far away now. Maybe should could just rest for a second.

She did not want to die. 

That was it. She had to keep going. She pulled her right arm from underneath her, using it to pull her forward in a type of modified army crawl. She had to get to the front door. She had to get out. She did not want to die. 

The fire was faster than her, and she could hear it crackle and feel its heat as it caught the large warehouse room ablaze. The smoke was everywhere, and whatever air she managed to force into her lungs seemed less air than concentrated smoke. She wanted to stop, but she did not want to die. 

The world was darkening, but lightening. White was closing in on her vision, reaching around the shadows to bring a brilliant light. Was she dying? She slowly moved through a hall, finding the front door in front of her. She reached her hand up to the handle. She could barely see above the light now, but found it by touch. She attempted to pull herself up. She slipped. She tried again. 

Her hand caught. She couldn’t really see anything now. Her body was light. The world began to disappear. She couldn’t smell smoke. Her chest didn’t bother to move. She shoved her feet beneath her. The door was vaguely in the direction of her shoulder. Her finger ran across the door blindly. They were trying to do something. Something important. Their impact with something metal reminded them of their purpose. It was very hard to think. She was floating away.

They pushed the metal thing, and then another. The door retched forward, but only so much. Her arm fell through. Her body couldn’t fit. But she couldn’t care. She was far away in a world of white.