Existence

Untitled Part 3

I crept down the hallway, toward Amelia's cell. I had been assigned early morning check-in for her. I took this task as my chance to set things right after what I had done the night before. Guilt weighed on my conscience for not speaking up or stopping the inhumanity. There was nothing I could've done to change the past, but I could try my best to change the future.

I stood outside her door, key in hand, but hesitated to open it. Instead, I listened. I heard scuffling, moaning, and words. So many words.

Through the metal door I deciphered, "No, no, no. He can't be anywhere near us. He couldn't. He's... different. No, that's not possible! It DOESN'T EXIST. No, you need to SHUT UP!"

Her volume had been increasing the whole time; her voice rising to shouts at some unknown being.

I quickly began to unlock the door. I didn't want anyone else hurting her. Bursting through the entrance, with one hand on the assigned firearm at my hip, I beheld something that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Amelia was lying on the padded white floor, on her side, mumbling to an empty room. Her messy hair had be tangled into one single knot over her shoulder. There was dried blood on the inner side of her elbows, probably where the researchers had tried to draw blood but not bothered to bandage her. The circles under her eyes that were meant to be lilac we're black; she probably hadn't gotten decent sleep in years.

She wore her regular uniform- white cotton shirt and pants with her plain silver ring- but they had been demolished. What looked like black grease stains blemished the clothing in random spots. There was a gaping hole down the back of her shirt, probably from some horrific procedure the night before. The demolished blouse revealed pale skin, adorned with both vivid white scars and thick fresh lashes.

My breath was caught in my throat. I felt an overwhelming compassion and desire to help her. I felt the same sympathy and amazement I had felt the night before, looking into her eyes. She was a person, not an experiment, she was intelligent, not insane, and most importantly, she needed me.

As she heard me enter the small, unfurnished room, and tried to move away. She couldn't. The physical, mental, and emotional toil of the previous night had taken its toll on her; she was so weak.

I took my hand off of my gun, closed the door behind me, and approached her slowly. She moaned and tried to drag herself into a sitting position while he stared at me with big green eyes.

"I'm here to help." I said softly.  Her head was leaned up against the wall, and she was breathing shallowly. She trembled, swatted at her ear, and to the wall whispered, "He's not for you, hush, it doesn't exist."

"Please let me help." I pleaded.

"Why would you help me?" she asked hesitantly. She had a certain look about her; like she was extremely cautious, but still maintained a small spark of hope that I could be different. "This is all your fault. You-" she cried out here, and fidgeted a bit, "You could've st-stopped them." her voice broke.

A single tear made its way down my cheek; "I know, I'm sorry." There was a comfortable silence as I approached her.

"Please let me help."

She didn't say no, so I took her silence as a yes. Grabbing a first aid kit from the hallway, I made my way back into the room. Closing the door behind me, I made my way to her.

"I'm going to start with your arms." I said, "But I'm going to have to sit you up." She moaned as I held her as delicately as I could under her arms and leaned her shoulders against the wall. A few tears escaped her eyes as she trembled; the pain of her back must have been killing her. She mumbled to herself as I used the rubbing alcohol to clear her skin of the dried blood. Slowly wrapping her arms with clean gauze, her shuddering subsided.

“Okay- I’m really sorry, but I’m going to need to bandage your back.” I said softly, understanding how hard it must be to accept help. She simply nodded, and wincing, pulled herself off of the wall and into a kneeling position. Knowing the wounds needed to be cleaned, I drudgingly doused her in alcohol. She groaned and cried, but never complained. She helped me bandage her torso, and then she turned to look at me.

We sat on the ground of the small unfurnished room, our legs crossed, facing each other. Her hands were constantly fidgeting, her eyes constantly in motion.

“Thank you.” she whispered. “No one usually helps.”

“Of course,” I said, looking at her intently. After a moment’s hesitation, I continued, “I’ll always be here.”

She nodded, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and then her agile hands began picking at the knots in her reddish-brown hair. I remembered seeing a comb in the first-aid kit, so I got it out.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing to her thick locks with the brush. She slowly nodded, and lowered her hands as I went and knelt behind her. As gently as I could, I began to work out the tangles in her disheveled hair. A few minutes later, my curiosity prompted me to strike up a conversation.

“What doesn’t exist?” I asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.

“What are you talking about?” she snapped back. “Aliens, peace, superheroes.”

“Umm, what?”

“All things that don’t exist. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a tad more specific.” she responded quickly, her hands twitching again. Her quick sarcasm caught me off guard. I recovered quickly, explaining myself.

“Before I came in, I heard you talking… saying something doesn’t exist. I’m just curious- what is it?”

She was quiet a moment before concluding, “That’s n-none of your business. People l-like you wouldn’t… you couldn’t understand.”

That stung a little, but not really knowing what else to say, I responded, “Okay.” I just continued to methodically smoothing her wavy auburn hair; finding knots, untangling them, and combing through the hair. This process continued for some time, about twenty minutes, until Amelia looked more human. Standing, I returned the supplies back to their kit and started for the door. Her bony but surprisingly comforting hand grasped mine, and I turned to face her.

“Please… I would like if you,” she paused and shifted spastically, as if suddenly very uncomfortable, “Please come back.”

I felt a strange tug in the pit of my stomach. I gazed into her deep green eyes.

“I promise.”

She nodded and ducked her head, letting go of my hand. I felt somewhat deflated, losing that strange sense of comfort, but continued out the door and bolted it behind me. Taking one last glance at her through the door’s small window, the tug in my stomach returned.

She was lying on her side, her small frame curling in on itself, with her mahogany hair falling over her eyes. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her soft lips were quickly moving.

She was beautiful.

Walking down the hallway, to return to my room, my confusion about (and attachment to) Amelia Burke grew. And it continued to grow; quickly.