The water lapped at my silver converse, covering them in a disgusting brownish glaze. I sniffed the air, and was automatically repulsed by the stench of the sewer. Without sitting up, I turned my head from side to side, surveying the dark tunnels. I could barely see anything, but a drain hole above shined light on the filth.
Slowly, I stood up, feeling a sharp pain in my neck. I reached up, and softly touched the back of my neck, which is when I felt a weird square-ish object. Oddly, it felt like it was inside of my neck. I winced as I felt a very tender incision right next to the square thing. I also felt stitches.
Carefully stepping forward, I looked up at the drain. I scanned the rest of the ceiling, and barley spotted a man hole, and a ladder leading up to it. I grabbed the greasy, metal ladder and hoisted myself up, careful not to slip. I held onto the rung with one hand, and pushed as hard as I could with the other hand. It budged a little, but not enough for me to get out. I swore under my breath and pushed even harder, causing the heavy metal man hole to slid out of its place. I shoved it over and climbed the rest of the way out.
It was sunset, and the street wasn’t jam packed with cars. It was a side street behind a few tall, old apartment buildings. They were a faded brick-red, and most of the lights were off. It seemed like a pretty run down type of place.
I slid the man hole lid back in its place and wiped my hands on my skinny jeans to get all the grime off. “Who’s down there?” Screamed a high pitched woman’s voice from above me. “I am.” I answered , and kicked mud – or whatever it was – off my silver converse.
“And who are you?” She screamed again. I realized that she sounded quite angry with me. I looked up, and saw her standing on the very top story of the building closest to me. She was a fat woman, with sunburned skin. She was waving her cigarette around wildly as she talked – more like screamed – at me. I watched the puffs of smoke spiral out of the end of it. “I said,” she shrieked “Who are you!”
I smiled up at her and then paused for a moment. Who was I? What was my name? What was my name… “I’m Nickel – I think.” I said, hesitantly, not quite sure if I was wrong on right. The name seemed really familiar though.
The woman let out a laugh, and waved her cigarette around her head wildly. “So you think your name’s Nickel, eh! Well then, Nickel, why the hell did you just come out of that sewer?” Why did I? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure about anything. I didn’t even know who I really was or where I came from. All I knew was that I was Nickel, who came from the sewer.
Then, a few thoughts that didn’t feel like my own, blurrily formed in my mind. I was Nickel Ann Roberts. The next thoughts that jumbled around in my head confused me a bit, and I was taken back:
Programmed to kill Mariah Lindy. Jessica Pen. Alicia Valdquez. Justin Nallison. Robert James. Monica Rimes. Patrick Rose. Isle Dorrin. Alexandria Moneq. Alec Jacobson. Ryan Brown. Samantha Williamson. John Hender…
All the names and even more names became overwhelming, and I grasped my head as a shock travelled from the square in my neck, all throughout my head. I screamed and collapsed onto the floor, images of all these people flashing through my head.
And in front of each picture, flashed the word “kill” in bright, red letters.
YOU ARE READING
Programmed to Kill
Teen FictionNickel Roberts can’t remember a thing that happened to her. She woke up deep in the sewers of New York and found that in the back of her neck, there was a small computer chip. Now, as she wanders the streets of New York, she can’t remember a thing a...