GENESIS: THE CATALYST

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us, but when the pages are torn out, what remains?"
— Oscar Wilde, De profundis.

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Roselyn sat in the center of the sterile room, her eyes vacant, her mind a battlefield of fragments. The hum of the facility’s machines was constant, relentless, like a pulse that never allowed her to rest. The cold metal of the chair pressed into her skin, but she barely noticed it anymore. She had become numb to her surroundings, as much as she was becoming numb to herself.

A single memory surfaced—Kendall’s laugh. It was soft, warm, like sunlight breaking through the thick clouds that seemed to shroud her mind. She grasped at it, clung to it like a lifeline in a storm, but even as she did, the edges began to blur. Her mind, once sharp and full of life, was now a haze, where everything felt distant and unreachable. The facility had seen to that.

Her heart clenched as the memory faded, slipping away before she could hold on to it. Another piece of herself, lost. The disorientation washed over her again, making her dizzy. She put her hands to her head, squeezing her temples as if she could somehow stop the world from spinning.

“Remember…”

Her own voice echoed in her head, but it was a ghost of a thought. What was she supposed to remember? She didn’t know anymore. Faces, names, places—they drifted in and out like whispers she couldn’t quite catch. Her mother’s voice, her brother’s smile, the way she used to feel—strong, certain, alive. All of it was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand.

The sharp beep of the machines jerked her out of the fleeting clarity she had tried to hold on to. The door slid open, and the guards walked in, their steps heavy and deliberate. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. She knew what was coming next.

Her eyes closed, as if bracing for the inevitable. The sessions. The procedures. They were going to take more of her away. Every time she came back, she was less of herself. And every time, it got harder to remember who she was before all this started.

The guards grabbed her arms, dragging her up from the chair, but Roselyn was too weak to resist. Her feet shuffled along the floor as they led her down the cold, narrow hallway. She glanced at the walls, blank and oppressive, and for a moment, she remembered a different hallway. A different place. It was bright, colorful—was it her home? A school? The memory was gone before she could answer her own question.

She was placed in the chair again, the restraints cold against her wrists and ankles. The machines around her clicked and hummed to life, like vultures circling their prey.

“Kendall,” she whispered, almost unconsciously. Her name felt heavy on her tongue, like it belonged to someone else. But the feeling—the attachment—was still there, faint, a shadow of what it used to be.

“Kendall…” she tried again, louder this time, but her voice cracked. Did she even exist, or was she just another figment of her broken mind?

The machine whirred louder, drowning out her thoughts as the familiar pain began to spread through her body. It was subtle at first, like the sting of a needle, but soon it grew, crawling up her spine, sinking into her bones. She bit down on her lip, forcing herself not to scream.

They wanted her broken. She knew that much. They wanted to strip her of everything that made her… her. But she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Not today.

Her mind slipped again, though. The more she tried to focus, the more her memories splintered, fragments scattering in all directions. Faces—her family, friends, Kendall—all flashing before her like fading images in a dream. Her breath quickened as she tried to pull them back. But it was like reaching for water; the harder she grasped, the faster they slipped away.