That night, I return back to my punching bag. Just to make sure that I have my fighting techniques down. According to the brochure I got yesterday, if you want to be a soldier, police officer, or anything of an authoritative or law-enforcing sense, then you come to this school. It seems weird to hold all of those classes in the same building as the police department, but I could be wrong. It looks a little too big to be that. Apparently, you move up in the building with each new ranking you receive. I’ll be down here for however long it takes them to realize that I’m much better than a beginner. Until then, I’ll be living in this underground hell with my instructor as my roommate. I’m not excited about this, but I’m excited to get back into the things I used to enjoy.
When I turn back around from gathering my things to go off to bed, I see Derek standing there. He startles me a bit. “God, don’t you have friends or something?” This is actually the most frustrating thing I’ve had to deal with in my entire life. That statement might be an over exaggeration, but Derek annoys me so much as to make everything a hyperbole.
“That is none of your business,” he raises his eyebrows and I start to walk out. “I just came here to tell you something,” he grabs me by the arm again. Something makes me not pull away this time. Maybe it’s the seriousness in his voice that doesn’t make me jerk away. He turns the volume on his voice down a bit, “I know who you are, Christina.”
“That’s impossible.” My response is immediate and it seems programmed or embedded in my brain. I hurry back to my- our- dorm. I roll my eyes at the thought. How could he possibly know who I am? And if so, who am I to him? He closes the door behind him as I slam my water bottle into the nightstand next to our bunks. He then goes into the bathroom and closes that door as well. I can’t begin to understand how he could possibly figure me out that quickly. I want to fall into the warmth of my bed, even though it’s only about 9 o’clock. But I also want to obliterate any thought he has of explaining himself or explaining how he knows who I am. But, just after I’m done taking my light jacket off and changing into some pajama shorts, he comes back through the bathroom door. “I’m almost positive I know who you are,” he says.
“I doubt it,” I respond harshly and immediately.
“Well, don’t.” He comes close to me, looking down at me and into my eyes. I don’t push him away. “You and I are the same person.”
I laugh. “I really doubt that one.” Neither of us moves an inch.
“We have a lot in common. Trust me,” he says to me.
“Please, just leave it alone,” I roll my eyes again.
“Don’t you love anything besides- maybe- that punching bag in there?” He points in the general direction of the room where my punching bag lies. “Don’t you feel any emotions other than frustration?” He switches which eye of mine he looks into.
“If you really knew who I was, then you’d know the answers to those questions,” I move from our continuous eye contact to the couch.
“Well, I might,” He moves next to me, but he doesn’t sit down.
“I doubt everything you’re saying right now,” I say to him.
“Okay, then why don’t you confirm or deny it?”
“Are you suggesting that I tell you about myself?” I ask him, almost enraged that he would ask such a question.
“Dazzle me,” he says. I roll my eyes again as he sits down next to me.
“Okay,” I might regret this later, but I’ve never told anyone anything about me. I was never allowed. I never allowed myself for the time I’ve been here. I’m a bit reluctant to do it now, but what the heck. I’m up for a challenge. “I believe ‘love’ is just a big joke. It’s just something to give people hope. You can never count on anyone to care for you for an extended amount of time. And as for emotions, I’m not frustrated, I’m just fearless. Plus, I don’t let my emotions show to anyone. Not even to myself. I don’t believe in emotions because eventually they will control your life. Emotions lead to fears. And fears lead to setbacks in life. Emotions also lead to love, which lead to unnecessary heartbreaks. I refuse to let myself get into that stuff,” He listens attentively, but I’m not sure he understood everything I just said. I purposely left out where I got my beliefs from.
“What do you think life is about?” He asks, seeming like he just avoided everything I just said.
“I think life is about being who you’re chosen to be.”
“Wrong. Life is about making an impact on the world, the people around you. Feeling and liking things is a natural part of the brain and of the heart,” he explains.
“You don’t understand then.” I look away from him.
He leans in closer to me. My instincts tell me to look to his eyes. Our faces are closer than anyone’s face has ever been to mine. “Make me understand,” he says.
I’m hesitant to make anyone understand because I was always taught to do just the opposite. But something makes me explain further. “I’m not normal. You’ve probably already figured that out, but I’m not. I don’t have the ability to feel. It’s been embedded in my mind since I was born that I cannot feel anything. I’ve always been told that love is something made up by some idiot to give people false trust and false hope. I’ve seen it happen before, and where I come from, they just try to save you from being exposed to that kind of hurt.” I tried to avoid the fact that I’m a technical “foreigner”, but I think I hinted too much.
“I hope you listen to me when I say this: you can’t prevent yourself from getting hurt like you’re some sort of programmed robot. It’s not something that you have power over. Life makes you feel pain to make you feel better when you get over it and to help you recognize the better things that are a part of it,” he pauses for a second, as though he’s gathering his thoughts into sentences. “As far as being who you’re chosen to be, you’re partially right. You get to choose what you want to do because of the things you like. And when you get to be a part of that for the entirety of your life, it feels like you’ve been chosen for that particular job. So, you’re kind of right. But, to further explain: your destiny isn’t chosen for you here. You get to be who you want and you get to be with whoever you want. It’s all up to you.” The phrase “be with whoever you want” is one that I don’t want to hear coming out of his mouth. More so if he’s saying it to me.
“That’s great and all, but that’s not what I was taught. I’ll just stick with what I believe in, thanks.” I get up to go to bed, even though I’m not tired at all. I’m just in a hurry to get this conversation over with. I remember that I have a roommate now and I can’t step all over his freshly made bed, so I decide to try and climb up without the help of my bag. I struggle for a few seconds until I feel two hands underneath the heel of my right foot.
“You know you can climb up the side, right?” Derek says, pushing me up so I can climb into bed. I don’t respond.
