Imposter Syndrome

Georgia

Georgia...Just an old sweet song/That keeps you Georgia on my mind...

Sofie clicked off the Ray Charles tune, surveying her surroundings as dusk fast approached.

Georgia, sweet Georgia.

But this was no Atlanta. Instead of the southern sunshine state of plump, juicy peaches, this was, rather, the former Soviet republic country that shared the same name, constituting at this particular season, a multitude of lush evergreen treetops covered in ample amounts of snow, rising and falling with every mountainside's curvaceous crest. Beautiful, yes. Eerie? Also—yes.

Bare tea lights dangled above in exposed corded wiring interlaced between polished twigs, her bed a single feather-tick futon with slate-colored pillows, fur-lined blankets, and a floor-to-ceiling double-walled view of the steep mountains below.

A veritable treehouse in veritable desolation.

If she screamed, would anybody hear her? Attempting to banish such disquieting thoughts, she reached for her phone, again playing the jazz icon's melody, hoping its tonality would somehow lull her to sleep this bleak midwinter.

Georgia...no peace I find...Georgia on my mind...

A cord, then another, wound itself free, extending, lengthening, unbeknownst to her, landing with a muffled thump atop the thick futon, snaking across her ankle, tightening across her calf, up toward her chest—

With a shriek, she began to struggle, attempting to pull the cords free, but they clung tight, tighter still, cobra-like, angling toward her carotid artery—not much longer now, she sensed with fast-building panic—

Was this the end?

Gasping, her thoughts raced to the people she knew and trusted—

HELENA! CAROLINA!

Briefly pausing for a sharp intake of breath where barely any could be found, for the rope constricted upon her skin, she gave what she considered a last call—

NATALIA! NATALIA! NATALIA!

Maybe—maybe—her eyes began to shut, involuntarily so, as the atmosphere about her swirled about—

Maybe this was the end?

Clouds upon clouds whirled and stormed past, a cloaked figure seizing her by the collar, traveling through folds in space—a familiar alabaster-hued castle—Constanta Castle-by-the-Sea—all those people—all those women—empaths all—perhaps she could telepathically embue her farewells upon their consciousness? But who was she to do so? And what would she even begin to say?

What seemed like mere moments later, she awoke in a rich royal blue...she paused. Hotel? Bedroom? Gauzy curtains of pale damask to turquoise-onyx edges gave the illusion of ombre design, the walls perfectly matching the queen-sized bed she found herself in.

"Sofie?"

She gave a start as her eyes adjusted to the darkness; she spotted a figure seated in the plush grey chair just beyond the foot of her bed. Helena.

Oh jeez.

"You didn't have to—I'm sorry—w-where am I—?" The words tumbled forth, for she had questions, many questions.

"Constanta Castle."

"But—Veronica!" She'll do me in for sure. It wasn't even a question at this point. Sofie squinted, sapped of energy, nevertheless attempting, even in her state, to put up a mental ward of her own—at least for the sake of appearances. I'm...fine, she tried to project, as Helena raised an eyebrow.

Nice try.

"Your life's more important than any job," Helena added. "She has been..." the woman's eyes met her own, "apprised of the situation in her own way—"

"But what about—"

Helena waved her off. "There's been a change of plans."

Now it was Sofie's turn to be confused. "I thought I was working for her until..." But when had that time been specified? It hadn't been. How foolish had she been?

"...Until she wised up, made an attempt on your life, and we took an alternate course of action."

Yeah. That. Sofie stared at the blue sham cover, her fingers twisting the bedsheets this way and that out of sheer habit, before staring up at her Goddess League leader once more. "I-I never..." she swallowed hard, blinking back tears. I was good. I tried—until I couldn't. "I never thought she'd try to kill me."

Tears flowed freely, as she made motion to wipe one after the other with the back of her hand; a tissue box was nudged toward her. Seizing a handful, she realized with surprise it was Helena who offered. "Sofie," she remarked, "let's get one thing clear. Her behavior is not a reflection on you."

She sniffed. "Ok, but—"

"No buts."

"One other thing—"

"What's that?"

"None—and I mean none—of this—is your fault. Do you understand me?"

After a beat, Sofie nodded, though a part of her still somehow felt guilty and at least partially responsible for her own injuries. "What now?" she asked glumly.

"You stay here. In our quarters. Until it's safe to return to normalcy."

Attempting to steady her voice, Sofie stared. "But—" When exactly...and how exactly...would "normalcy" happen? Mental wards be damned...

"When we take down Veronica, you and I." Helena rose, making her way toward the door, which led out to an ornate, altogether frou-frou teal hallway, filled with teacups, mounted ceramic, period art of women in various eras, and a sumptuous faux leather chair, covered with richly-hued silk floral-printed cushions. "It's time you participated in an infiltration, my dear—"

As Sofie's head fell back onto her stacked pillows, thoroughly exhausted.

All I wanted was a normal life.