Purpose (Wonderland #1)

01

"Godhood is just like girlhood;
a begging to be believed."
–Kristin Chang

Celine

I started my official bucket list at my twelfth anniversary.

My bestfriend, Sasha, introduced the concept to me very late at night. Ever since, I kept adding random wishes to my imaginary list; from eating melted marshmallow to travelling to the furthest place from my spot. It seemed idiotic to me at first, and it seemed idiotic to the all the girls back there except for Sasha, because we all had a lingering feeling we were never making it out of there. But it quickly became a coping mechanism for me. When the walls felt too close, the bed felt too rough and the sheets felt too dirty, I wished for a bigger room, for a softer bed, and for cleaner sheets. And when their palms on me felt too dirty, their breaths felt too hot and their words felt too filthy, I wished for them all to die a slow, gruesome death.

However, waking up to the sight of me in the National news on TV was definitely not at the top of my bucket list.

I don't know what they're saying, the volume's too low and I'm too physically exhausted to move my limbs and get the remote. All I know is that it's me they're talking about. Because there's like, a picture of me. Eight-year-old me. I probably wouldn't have realized it was even me if it weren't for my name displayed in big bold letters across the screen.

I woke up a few minutes ago, with a band tightened around my head, and my hands needled with long cannulation tubes coming out of whites patches sticking to the back of my hands. There's a weird sour scent mixed with the clean smell of the white sheets against me.

Everything is white. Walls, bed, sheets, doors, chairs, my skin. There's not an ounce of blood inside of me, I can see the outline of the veins on my arms. I have always had a tanned skin tone, but that is replaced with a scary paleness.

The hospital is comfortable, much more comfortable than the bed I'm used to sleeping in, but with the soreness of my muscles, I can't really enjoy it. All I can do is watch the mouth of a middle-aged woman move as she clearly talks about me. I make out a sentence written at the bottom of the TV: 18 year-old Celine has finally been found, after a decade long of disappearance.

But that's not what catches my eye, it's the picture of young me that does. The more I look at it, the more my heart aches. I am sitting on a red sofa, holding a doll against my chest, smiling while the flash of the camera reflects on my happier, lighter eyes. I remember vividly when that picture was taken.

I was eight years old, and it was summer. It was just a normal day, and I was playing with my doll when my mom suddenly came up to me and said "say cheese!". That's when I giggled, and then I heard the click of the camera. I can even remember when the light blinded my eyes and I closed them.

If only I had known that that was one of the last normal days I would ever have.

The door to my hospital room opens suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. It's an older woman, wearing a white blouse.

When she notices I'm awake, she smiles softly and closes the door behind her. I don't smile back because honestly, I don't have the energy to.

"Hello, Celine. I am Emily, your doctor. How are you feeling?" She says while checking something on the machine next to me.

When I don't answer, she stops whatever she's doing and gives me a worried look. "Celine?" She presses.