The Lost and the Forgotten

Chapter Six

The lockdown station is actually decent. It's not all trashy like I thought it would be, and instead it's clean. It's simply just a small building with the cafeteria and several rooms. By the time we got here, the sun has gone down, revealing the city's lights.

The old woman shows me to my room and locks me in. It's small, with one cot and a small bathroom consisting of a sink, toilet, and scummy shower. The window beside the cot views out over the city. No bars are placed on it, but someone said back in the lobby that they were indestructible.

I take off my boots carefully, trying to keep the knife inside. A camera is positioned in front of the doorway to watch my every move. In my boots are off, I slide them under the cot and lay down. You can feel the bars underneath it press against your back, but at least it's a bed, not a sleeping bag. Rolling to my side, I face towards the window and look out. It's low enough to where I can see from laying down.

Beth floats into my mind and I feel an ache. I miss her. I should've never left her. She needs me in times like these, and I abandoned her. I think of her big blue eyes and how wide they were when I said goodbye. My eyes water, and all the tears from today beg to come out. I don't resist. No one is here and the camera can't see me. The tears pour out and I begin to cry. My mother died. I left my sister. I was caught and now in prison. John could be dead. Molly could be dead. There's no hope.

+++

I wake up abrubtedly. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but I guess I needed it. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I look out the window to get a sense of what time it is.

The sky is pink with purple clouds swirling around. the sun peeks over the tops of the buildings, indicating that it's early in the morning. The streets below are deserted with papers drifting in the wind, shattered bottles, broken glass, and plastic bags. It weighs down your spirits, seeing the city deserted when it once had cars and pedestrians roaming about. It was lively. Now, it just looks like a ghost town.

My stomach begins to grumble loudly. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. When will they bring me something to eat? A cranberry and orange muffin sounds mouthwatering at the moment.

Swinging my legs over the side of the cot, I stumble towards the mirror in the small bathroom. My face is pale and worn, purple lining the under of my eyes. It's not form being tired, it's from stress. Pure stress that I put myself in, thinking I could protect the ones I love and figure out what I can about these people. But all I have accomplished is getting caught, and thrown into this nuthouse. And the worst part is, is that I'm hungry. Starving.

My muddy brown hair hangs in wavy, greasy locks over my shoulders and to the center of my back. Running my hands through it gently, I feel tangles and oil. The shower to my right begs me to be used, and I don't object. I take off my clothes and hop in, feeling the cold water sting my skin. In a way it awakens me from my deep sleep of thoughts. A generic bar of white soap sits on a dish, untouched. At least they're kind enough to give me a new soap. Grasping it in my hands, in rub it into my hair and massage my scalp. I stand outside of the water pouring out of the shower head so I don't freeze into an ice cube. Lathering the soap onto my skin, I rub it in with a washcloth and step into the water stream, gritting my teeth. I rush to rinse myself clean, and get back into my dirty clothes. My body heat repels against the dense material, reviving me. Later, I simply French braid my hair and sit on my cot with my knees to my chest, staring out into the open veiw.

The city seems so peaceful from up here, if you don't look down to the trashy streets below. If I closed off my thoughts, I could imagine that things were normal again. Like I just took a nice warm shower, and my stomach is grumbling because my mother is in the kitchen, singing and making cinnamon rolls, and the smell is feeling my up inside. My room is cold because my father forgot to turn the heater up early this morning before heading off for work. I'm so stressed out from a test coming up, that I must do well on to counter-out my previously failed one. If I feel myself with these lies maybe I can enjoy this moment of relief. I can feel whole for just a moment. Like my mother always told Beth, imagination is the key to escaping this world and living in your own.

But my world is this. I can't torture myself with these thoughts of healing. I can't think my wounds are stitched, when really they're still gashed wide open, and I'm loosing blood, which represents my endless hope of thinking I can make a difference in this world. I can't. I can't. I can't. I tell myself that until it seeps in deeper than it should.

I begin to scream and grab the sides of my cheeks with my fingernails. I'm starving, and they won't feed me. I'm cold, and they can't provide blankets. I'm grieving, and they're watching me from a camera, and not comforting me. My mother died, and the others could be dead, too.

"You stupid people! I hate it here and I want out!" I sound childish. I jump off my cot and throw anything I can find. A bar of soap is all I can come across, and I chunk it at the camera. "You killed my mother! You're holding me hostage and I will kill you! I will kill you! I promise you that!" I scream until my throat stings.

The door stands before me. I wonder if it's unlocked... Lunging at it, I jingle the knob. Locked. I hate them. I could rip their hearts out with my bare hands if they'd let me out of here.

I sob into my hands and flop back down on my bed, burying my face into my pillow. I pull the thin sheet over my head and cry harder, like the sheet is soundproof. Hours pass before I calm down. Noon comes and goes, and soon the sun is setting. I haven't eaten all day, and I feel as if I will die.

Night falls and I'm still sitting on my cot. This is only day one of 365. I'll die before then, I tell myself. It's the truth for me at the moment. Now I wished I would've lied. Maybe I could've said my name really was LaQuisha. Maybe I was here reporting back from duty, ready to kill mor innocent beings. But I didn't. I can't tell lies. It feels... Wrong.

Today was slow, and now I should try to got to sleep, with this grumbling stomach. I feel empty inside, probably because I am. Forcing my eyelids closed, I think of something special, like the memory of my mother tucking me in, telling me everything is going to be alright. And I hold onto that.