1
HUNTLEY
Doyou ever get the feeling that you’re being watched? But you don’t want to look and announce that youknowyou’re being watched because then they’ll act. Chills crawl up my spine as my heart races, pounding a frantic war cry inside my chest. I don’t have a fight-or-flight drive. It’s only flight.Run.
Everyone knows you don’t run from a predator unless you want to be chased. And I’mnotinto primal play.
I can admit this isn’t the safest part of Anaheim, but it’s what I can afford. Even with three roommates. Until now, I’ve never felt particularly threatened.
Hate crimes in Anaheim have increased a lot over the last year. Ever since the then-coach of the Anaheim Bobcats—our local ice hockey team—rescued his boyfriend, Oren, from the abuse he suffered in his home. Not from a partner but from his father and older brothers.
Oren’s father, Jessup, spewed off a whole lot of lies and hate, which ended with him being murdered at his workplace—Iron State Penitentiary. Up to that point, the hate hadmostly been digital. Online hate and bullying. But after Jessup’s death, Oren’s older brother Frankie set off car bombs outside Adak’s house.
That’sthe incident that began the upturn in hate crimes. Since Adak and Oren left a year ago, the haters have gotten comfortable. They saw Adak’s departure from Anaheim as a sign that they could bully and force groups of people they don’t like out of the city. The homophobic hate groups that have come out of the woodwork trying to reverse the ruling about same-sex marriage in California are only the tip of the iceberg.
Neighborhoods like mine, where us pretty gay kids used to feel safe and surrounded by community, are nowlesssafe. There are fewer people hanging around outside, with more people taking transportation instead of walking home, as there had been in years past.
I’m not the only one who feels it today. There are two women across the street who keep looking around. I can see the fear in their eyes from where I’m hurrying in the opposite direction. A car drives down the street, and I hold my breath, not making eye contact with anyone through the windshield as my eyes dart for somewhere I can dive into.
There have been shootings every other week. Not in my neighborhood specifically, but they’re moving this way. Not mass shootings, thank god, but definitely an increase in violence. The news has been trying to convince the world that it’s just a gang problem, rival groups fighting for turf, while the police force struggles to regain control.
But everyone, especially those of us who live here, knows that’s not true. For two reasons—one, the victims being shot are never members of gangs, and two, they’re always part of the LGBTQIA+ community.Always.
I have a really sick feeling in my gut right now as I power walk down the street. At this point, there’s no way I don’t look like Iknow something’s going on. Another car turns onto the street and drives toward me. There’s a door I can duck in just ahead. I’m practically running.
Then the world turns to chaos. A shot like a cannon echoes off the stone and brick buildings surrounding me. It’s so loud I feel it in my chest. Then another, and I can feel that one in my bones. My leg feels like it’s on fire, and I stumble to the ground. I might be screaming. Shadows move in and out of my vision as the world continues to echo.
I might die right here.
I’m not dead.There’s a throbbing in my head that I can feel pulse through my body with every heartbeat. Silence surrounds me—no voices, no movement, nothing in the distance. Memories and flashes blink through my mind, though none of them hold still long enough for me to examine them.
Slowly, cautiously, I open my eyes. If there’s still someone here to kill me, I don’t want to see. I want them to think I’m already dead.
The room is dark. Beside me is a bag of liquid dripping down a tube. It’s connected to a machine with lines blipping across it. I’ve seen enough medical dramas to know what I’m looking at. Someone is getting fluids, and their vitals are being monitored.
Since I’m flat on my back with a dull throb pulsing in my bones, it doesn’t take a master’s degree to conclude that both those things are attached to me.
I’m not dead. That’s a comfort. It would be more comfortable if I thought I was in a hospital, but I’m 100% certain that I’mnot. Knowing that makes my fear spike, which is reflected by the beeping of the machine.
The room is dim. The bed I’m on is made with dark sheets and super soft blankets. I have a fluffy pillow under my head. There’s a window in the wall on the opposite side of the bed, covered with dark curtains to keep out the daylight, even as it tries to peek in through the cracks.
There are two doors in the wall beside the bed, beyond the small table and medical monitor. One is ajar, but the inside is black, while the other door further down the wall is closed. Parallel to the bed I’m on is a door across the room that leads into the hall where daylight is streaming in. Moving back this way, there’s a chair, big and cushy—perfect for reading. It sits next to a small round table and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that dominates nearly the rest of that wall.
My gaze lands on the lone figure nestled in the shadows, working at a desk. There’s a dim lamp there, and now that I’m watching, I can hear the scratch of a pen on paper.
My heartbeat increases further, and the scratching stops. I know he hears the monitor change, but no matter how much I scream inside my head for my heart to stop doing that, its rate only increases.
He turns, and my heart stops for just a second. His eyes flicker to the monitor as if daring it to read that my heart has stopped. It starts pumping again, too quickly, but I’m still alive, anyway.
“Who are you?” I ask, voice shaky.
All sorts of terrifying things come to mind. I’m going to be nursed back to health and then tortured. They’re going to make me into a cyborg. I’m here for experimentation. I’m here for ransom?
“Oxley,” he answers.
Something about his voice, even in those two syllables, makes me take a breath. It’s a smooth voice, precise. I stare at thisstranger as he gets to his feet and comes closer. He’s tall, lean. His dark hair is short, but the strands over his forehead fall into his eyes. His eyes are light, framed by thin glasses.
There’s something that screams ‘professor’ when I look at him. He looks very distinguished. Maybe the way his jaw is shaped and the serious look on his face. I’m not entirely sure what gives me this impression.
