Fragments

Then

Every once in a while, the Inhabitant rebels would hack the system and broadcast these propaganda shots. They're meant to increase support, but it's failing.

They make us more afraid.

Those eyes haunt my sleep and lurk in my most faded of memories. They are flat; with no promise of life or light.

"Mom," I whisper, reaching out for her hand. She takes mine and squeezes it tight.

She stands and turns off the TV.

"I'm going to bed," she says, and I begin to worry. She's swaying, unsteady on her feet. Slight tremors run up her spine, as though she's shivering. But that's not right - the temperature is thirty-six degrees celsius.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Look at me. Please."

Her head is still turned away.

"Mom."

She starts to walk.

"I need to know. Please. Mom!"

She's not listening.

I stand up and go to her side, taking her hand and stopping her in her tracks. It's when I pull on her that she finally reacts, flinching. I let go, but not before seeing the bruises that colour the paper-pale skin of her wrist like spilt ink.

Despite its usefulness, the chip has one weakness - it's temporarily disabled on sudden impact. People escape treatment by smashing or banging their wrists against something hard. Some use a hammer.

I remember the posters stuck up to the school walls - Fragmentation Symptom No. 1: Loss of feeling.

Mom uses the edge of a table, but I didn't see her do it recently. I thought she was fine. She was always prone to Fragmentation attacks, but I thought it was easing off. I thought she was winning, and her Inhabitant was starting to fade away.

I didn't know it was worsening.

"You could've told me!" I shout, yelling more of fear than of anger. I let her hand drop. She winces."Why didn't I know?"

She turns to me, and finally I see it - the clouding of her eyes. Grey wisps drift over her brown pupils like tendrils of curling smoke.

Why didn't I know? Why didn't I hear?

"I didn't want to wake you up. And I have pills - "

Sleeping pills. My eyes widen. Used sometimes to make the Inhabitant fall asleep. If those who take sleeping pills wake up in control, they're lucky.

Lucky. How many times had she gone under, not knowing whether she would wake up as herself?

"Mom..." I look at her, unable to speak, partly because I'm amazed that she's still here. "I can't - I can't lose you. Not you too. Please."

The grey in her eyes is starting to concentrate. She tries to blink the wisps away, but they swirl, uneasy.

Her feet start moving from side to side, unable to keep their balance, as if they were drunkenly dancing on the scuffed linoleum. I look down, and see her fingers jerking up and down. Twitching, like current surged through her body once in every few seconds.

Fragmentation Symptom No. 2: Uncontrolled spasms.

She notices me staring and takes a shaky step forward. I resist the urge to run.

"I won't. I promise. You know I always put up a fight. You know - " She takes my hands and looks at me. I can't bear to see her eyes, afraid that the life inside would be blacked out any second.

"Yes."

I let go and back away a few steps, towards the bedroom. I see the hurt on her face, the way she holds herself like she's broken somehow, and I know she knows I don't trust her.

"I'll - " Mom looks at me again, still beseeching, but I turn away. Her voice sounds defeated as she says, "I'll go to bed."

I don't reply. It's only when she enters her room, when I hear the screech of the rusted locks as she shuts herself in, when I'm sure I'm safe - do I go into my own room.

I stand on the other side of my door, deciding whether or not to lock it.

She's my mother.

But her Inhabitant is not.

I lock the door.