One of my tears reaches the paper. I frantically try to dry it with my sheet before it can damage the words permanently. I fail. A smudge now replaces a word.
His name… Bruno… what a… regular name, for someone so… powerful. But then again, monsters don’t have pretty names. Do they?
“Yeah, those are the worst kind of monsters,”Life adds.
How can anyone restart their own life from scratch? Now that I think about it, where do you even start? How would the Cassandra of the future be? How is she going to behave among others? I can’t even stand my current thoughts.
So many unanswered questions.
Earlier today, after several days of hospitalization, they finally removed the IVs. I can finally go to the bathroom like a normal human being.
I no longer need help to stand or walk, I can manage for myself now. So I wait until the nurse leaves to embark on my new adventure. First one step, then another, slow and steady. My first goal is to reach the door handle. Once there, I turn the handle slowly. The spring inside recoils. The door is now unlatched. I push forward, and it opens; a little squeak follows. The bathroom seems to be in good shape; the smell of bleach and some other chemical products meets my nose. Green ceramic tiles cover the walls from floor to ceiling, giving it an antique style. I snoop around this small place a bit until I find the toilet— white, shiny and waiting for me.
I guide myself running my hands through the walls and reach it at last. I open my gown and sit. I sit to pee, after all this time! I know it sounds gross, but after three years of not using one, I really don’t care. This is heaven. The seat is cold; the feeling surprises me, it’s been so long that I forgot about that. I wiggle a bit on top of the seat until it gets warm and finally start peeing.
Society doesn’t appreciate what it has. Everything is taken for granted. People will never know how it feels to give up on a toilet and miss it. I finish what I came here to do and reach for another thing that was sorely missed— toilet paper. I rediscover it, so soft and white; it wipes me good, making me feel clean and pure again. I stand up and close my gown —I would have pulled my panties up if I had any on me— and make way for the sink; I’m nervous, my body remembers all those times I wasn’t allowed to use soap. He was the only one who could bathe me. The cold water runs through my hands, soap bubbles are everywhere. I scrub my fingers to clean them good and watch the water rinse them. Suddenly, something startles me. I see movement in the mirror, a shadow. I look up. A woman stares at me. She looks lost. Sharp cheekbones and eye bags as dark as the night, lifeless light blue eyes that once shone, but no longer do. Her hair looks messy and tangled, her neck seems too small to hold her head and her clavicles are kind of protruding.
Oh, God. Her skin is so damaged. She looks ruined.
That woman used to be Cassandra at some point. Today, she’s a total stranger to me.
The days go by and I don’t look at my reflection again. I don’t dare, it was awful and depressing.
A cop walks in and interrupts my river of tears to let me know that I will be released from the facility soon and move to a new house, a ‘safehouse’ —his own words. He also starts giving me an endless list of things that I don’t understand, follow or even care about, and then he mentions the Witness Protection Program and my new identity. I just want him to shut up and leave, so I can read the letter one more time.
The letter takes me back to my childhood, when I used to watch movies over and over because I never really understood how they made me feel (The Lion King holds the #1 record for most-watched, but I always skipped the part with Mufasa’s death)— they were a rollercoaster of emotions for a little girl. Today, this letter has the same effect on me. Is this nostalgia? Love? Fear…? I don’t know what to make of it.
Each day brings updates about the condition of other victims, how they are doing. One thing is crystal clear: I was ‘lucky,’ compared to the others. I wonder how much Bruno had to do with that luck. For instance, when I got admitted, the doctors said that my nutrition status was delicate. That’s polite doctor lingo for ‘fucked up.’ But then again, it wasn’t as fucked up like the others. I even heard about men losing limbs and women going in and out of operating rooms as if they were fitting rooms in a mall.
Yeah, definitely fucking lucky.
I’ve been here for weeks now, and today the doctors come to explain my current health status, how well I’m doing now and the next steps to complete my physical recovery. They seem pleasantly surprised at my lab results, so they prescribe a good healthy diet and recommend my discharge for tomorrow morning. Anxiety kicks in the minute they leave me here alone with my brain. The very thought of leaving this room shocks me. I’m not ready to walk out of here, not even close to being ready to start over and above all, not ready to face the world out there.
Mr. Sotelo oversees my transport and security. He walks in firmly, leaving the door wide open. I’m sitting on the same chair ‘he’ used to jam the door —I still can’t call him Bruno, it doesn’t feel right, I’m still afraid of him—, dressed in my new clothes and ready to go.
“Are you ready, miss?” Sotelo asks.
“Yes, of course.”No, I’m not ready, not at all.
The second I step out of that room, shaking like a leaf, a man catches my eye. He’s only a few feet away from the door; he’s… very attractive. He looks at me and smiles. I can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. My eyes go straight to the floor and I keep walking next to my bodyguard until we reach the exit.
I couldn’t even smile back… Yeah, greeeeeat start.
Parked just outside is an Escalade with tinted windows. Another man opens the backseat door for me. I enter the back of the car and sit. The SUV starts moving, and I start gazing at the world through the window. Judging by what the officer’s telling me, this is how I will look at the world for the rest of my life— through a tinted window. After an hour or so of driving, we come to a stop, the door opens and I can clearly see my new suburb house. The old Cassandra would have thought that the house was a piece of shit; the new Cassandra, on the other hand, doesn’t give a shit. There are two officers by the entrance, they tip their caps hi. There are two more officers inside the house and they greet me the same way, then they go outside. How am I supposed to blend in if I have four officers surrounding me like this?
“Miss, I know you’re having a rough time right now…” Here comes the pity. “Believe me when I tell you that we will do everything in our power to make sure that you can start all over.” Mr. Sotelo is a chubby man; his belt is way too tight, so the belly pops up like a big balloon and makes him look heavier than he is. The button on his blue shirt can barely hold its place. His armpits are sweaty, his shoes are very worn and his breath smells of a mixture of cheap coffee and greasy donuts. His white hair gives me a hint about his age; his eyes are blue but different from mine, which are lighter in color. His nearly perfectly round face matches his pale skin with a few pink patches… He doesn’t inspire confidence, awareness, safety or anything good… at all.
“We’re still trying to locate your mother. She’s the only family member we’re looking for at the moment. For security reasons, we haven’t given your name to the public, so, as far as your relatives are concerned, you are still missing. Now tell me— do you have anyone else whom we can reach out to, who’s trustworthy?” He asks me with a keen look.
“Unfortunately, no. I don’t have anybody else apart from my parents. They are my only family.” My stomach knots up. I can feel it twisting hard just by thinking about my father being gone, but I can’t show myself nervous to Sotelo. Otherwise, he will realize that I have information. So I hide it, I bury my true emotions. And I’m good at it.
“Don’t stress yourself, we’re working on it…” He tries to take my hand; I jerk it away in an instant. My sulkiness makes him uncomfortable. “We’ll find her soon enough, Miss.”
“Thank you,” I reply in a low tone; I have a bad feeling about this. What if they never find her? What if I’m really alone now? The first thing that comes to mind is suicide; I would really do it, I can’t function or be a part of this society anymore. I only want to live if somehow, I find a way to give my mom some sort of peace. She must be destroyed, alone, sad… If my father is really dead, then the only thing I want right now is to be able to speak the words “Mom, I’m here!”. But if that’s never gonna happen, then what’s the point?
“Please, take a seat.” He points to an old couch; The upholstery is covered in a floral pattern. We sit next to each other; our legs aren’t touching.
“This right here —he hands me a brown paper envelope— is your new life. The government understands that this is difficult. That is why they are providing with and recommending counseling, so that it may help you embrace this new identity and ease the transition from here to where you need to be; and—”
