The bed had been surprisingly comfortable, and I had slept like a baby for the better part of the night. My insufferable inner sense of time had woken me at what I presumed was the crack of dawn (kind of hard to tell when you’re being held in a cinder block), and I had pulled the covers all the way over my head, blanketing my sight in darkness and erasing the jail cell around me.
Because, I mean, that’s what it was, right? A jail cell? Sure, I had some leisurely activities at my disposal; I could play the piano, draw, write…
But none of that interested me right now (especially not that damn piano). Not when I was locked up like a lab rat. I squirmed around in the bed a little, trying to bury myself deeper under the pleasantly cool comforter. I did not want to meet whatever wonders this day held. Almost instinctively, my hand groped the pocket of my jeans, looking for the cell phone that was not there. Right, they had taken my phone.
I mean, they had provided us with wifi service, or so I had presumed from seeing the pastel pink laptop sitting dormant on my desk last night. Facebook and twitter were always great sites to reconnect with friend on.
They’ve probably blocked those. Just like in high school. Remember? Damian’s voice interrupted my inner ramblings. I guessed we were on speaking terms again.
He was right. Even my pretentious, wealthy kid high school had blocked websites like facebook, twitter, and tumblr. They had left students with nothing but school to focus on. Of course, if you were wealthy, you more than likely had parents who were paying for unlimited data. And if you had unlimited data, the weak steps taken by your school to prevent you from having a flourishing social internet life meant nothing.
You should get up, Damian suggested. The piano in the corner of the room started playing itself, its keys bouncing up and down in a rhythmic pattern. He was playing a video game theme, Legend of Zelda. I was pretty fond of the game, so I didn’t mind. Far under the covers, I hummed along idly, waiting for what I thought would be an inevitable wake up call.
I remember when we were kids. I’d buy a game and take it up to the game room, where I’d lock the door and turn on the system. Me and Damian would take turns playing; he would “posses” the remote, and the character on the screen would move. It was freaky as fuck and kind of thrilling too.
One day we tricked my little sister into believing the t.v. had been possessed. It had been really simple, and also, really hilarious. Hidden behind one of the plush, reclining theater chairs, I had screamed for her to come help me. She had arrived and had been instantly greeted with a seemingly autonomous video game character. She had watched in an almost hypnotized state for minutes, before letting out a terrifying (not terrified) screech and bolting downstairs to find our mother.
In my head, Damian chortled at the memory.
I had been scolded
so badly that day. I think it was the first day my parents ever suspected something was wrong with me, but not because of Damian, or our freaky powers that allowed us to cause things to move without ever lifting a finger.
I mean, you know how those fat headed, rich people are. Everything’s got to be perfect. Move a hair out of place, and the world’s ending. One stupid little incident where I was just being an obnoxious older sibling and they think I’m a psychopath.
For two big name Democrats, my parents sure had done a lot wrong by me. And they were great loving people, but I think they had raised us wrong, too.
A tentative knocking sounded from the door and I snapped into a sitting position. The people here had manners. What a surprise.
Stop with the piano, Dami, I called Damian, Dami on good days. It was supposed to be an affectionate nickname, one that encompassed in it our sibling love for one another.
Sure. He said, and just like that, silence.
“Gimme a minute.” I shouted, and a muffled “okay” came from the other side of the door. I had fallen asleep in the clothes I had arrived in; a pair of white jeans and a pretty blue blouse. You could call the outfit casual, but something in its smooth cleanliness and shiny fabrics would have betrayed it as more than the average price tag. I guess my parents liked for me to travel in style. Even as a crazy person, they wanted me to uphold the standards of our rich, politically liberal family.
I lumbered over to the wardrobe at the back wall. It towered over me, casting a shadow that ate up my small frame like a fat guy eating a chicken nugget. Prying it open, I casted a judgmental gaze on what clothes they had stacked up for me. I wondered if my parents had, had any involvement with my wardrobe, or if it had been tailored to suit the background I came from.
These clothes had cost a pretty penny. Some of it looked familiar, and I thought I spotted a shirt that my mother had undoubtedly bought me for my birthday. A real fancy, blue colored thing, with billowing frills, a revealing neckline, and a back that was more window than cloth. Mom had thought it appropriate. It had been for my recent birthday, after all. Dad had hated it. Thinking of my father fondly, I carefully extracted the shirt from the wardrobe, then rummaged around for a pair of pants. Black leggings. Leggings would do, I guessed.
By the time I had brushed my teeth (in the conveniently located private bathroom at the back of the room; much smaller than my one at home, I had thought, sniffing), and got dressed, I could hear a pronounced and impatient tapping coming for the other side of the door.
You’re being rude. Damian mused, and I chuckled. Stuck here in this facility, we didn’t have to be nice to anyone.
“Sorry,” I shouted, “You can come in now.”
The door beeped and swung open. A small, thin Hispanic woman trudged in, dragging with her a rolling table of food. I was starving and the crisp bacon and fluffy French toast looked like a feast.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, offering the woman an apologetic smile.
She looks like she came straight out of Law and Order, or something. Damian commented. If he had, had his own physical body, I would have imagined him throwing her sidelong glances, trying to figure her out.
He was right. She had that lean kind of look to her, like one of those really stereotypical Hispanic female cops you see in New York based movies and T.V. shows; you know, the ones that are always walking around with the black male cop, usually somewhere in Brooklyn or the Bronx.
She nodded stiffly and pushed the rolling tray in my direction. I guided it to a small square table in one of the corners of the room, and she waited patiently as I scarfed down the meal. Trying to be sociable and engaging (as my dear politically savvy papa had thought me), I made small talk.
“So, where are you from?” Her eyes glared at me wearily, once again like one of those amateur Hispanic cops you find in, like, Law and Order.
“Los Angelos.”
“Wow.” I said. What I had really wanted to say was, “far away.” But, I remembered, I wasn’t even sure where we were now. We could have been miles from New York. That plane ride had sure felt like hours. Maybe we were in the desert in Cali, for all I knew.
“You’re a cop?” What I had wanted to say was, “you a cop” like those mafia people do on T.V. But it would have sounded stupid coming from my high, pitched, voice, what with my pure, blueblooded American accent.
“Used to be.” She glanced around the room nervously.
“Why are you here?”
Her lips thinned into bold line and her eyes narrowed to slits, and I knew not to press on any further.
When I was done eating, she roused me from my comfortable seat, where I had reclined to finish digesting, and maybe take a nap.
“Were are we going?” She just shook her head, and guided me on. I didn’t bother with her name. She was being too sour, too stiff. I didn’t like her.
We ended up with a bunch of other kids. I stared at them, perplexed, and Damian, in the back of my mind, thought likewise. So we weren’t the only patients. That, I had figured. But my silent escort had explained nothing to me on the way here, and I had no idea who these people were, much less why we had assembled together.
We were led by a small group of assistants to a huge gym, one to rival the one at my private high school. In the center of the gym, a round table stood, elevated just slightly on a stilted platform.
We all quietly scaled the platform, and were seated in no time. Our caretakers dispersed to the background, and we were left alone with the three neat, smart looking people. Still confused, I stared around blankly at my co-patients.
We waited in silence before a pretty brunette woman got up and introduced herself.
"Hello." She paused. "My name is Dr. Lee, though you all may call me Emily. These are my co-workers, Dr. Kaur, and Dr. Singh, whom you all met last night." She paused again. I ebbed forward in my seat, and spotted Dr. Singh's familiar face beaming at us amiably from her seat next to Dr. Lee.
Before I could compose myself, Dr. Lee, poured out an entire speech, part of which, I didn't not understand.
"What the six of you may, or may not, know, is that you have been brought to this facility to be experimented on. If each of you thought you were alone, you should know, you are not. The six of you express something unprecedented in the world of psychology...two minds. Or at least, that's what it looks like. We, your doctors, don't believe you to be sick. We're not sure why it is you all are able to do what you can, but that's why we're here," She paused again and smiled, "We want to help you. With the permission of your parents, or otherwise, we'll be conducting several experiments designed to determine what makes you all so special, and prove that none of you express a psychological disability. Rather, we're here to prove you are the new human...what the human race is destined to become...now, any questions?"
So, we were the same. I blinked down at my lap in astonishment. These other crazies...they were crazies just like me.
A small girl with reddish brown hair raised her hand.
"Yes, Sarah?"
"'New human'?" The girl asked incredulously, "Experiments? What kind of experiments? Will they hurt? What do you mean by 'new human'? Why do you want to help us? I know I don't need any help. I'm not sick, so can I go home?"
Before I could stop it, my face contorted into a visage of sympathy and pity. So clearly not every one of my fellow wackos knew that they were, in fact, crazy. Though, to be frank, from what this woman had informed us, none of us were actually crazy. A new breed of human...It seemed silly, stupid. An excuse to put us at ease.
I narrowed my eyes at Dr. Lee's pretty face. My hands vaulted up. Something about her speech and the girl's panicked last questions had pricked something else in me.
Dr. Lee's smile faltered when she saw my raised hand, and I interrupted before she could answer Sarah.
"So, we're not free to go?" I asked, "Because I'm eighteen. I'm supposed to be free to go."
"Ok," Dr. Lee said, wiping her hand across her face, "How about this. You all ask your questions first, and me and my coworkers here will answer them all at once to the best of our abilities."
I felt disgruntled. It sounded like a way for them to avoid answering every question. They would simply pretend to forget whatever questions they didn't want to answer, and that would be the end of that. I waited impatiently as the others around the table were given their turn.
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