Lit Read online

  For the first half of my drink, I watched her. I figured as long as I didn’t join the line, as long as I didn’t watch the line, I wasn’t a part of the line.

  I was better. Smarter. A voyeur. I was different.

  I knew that I would never be the type of person that stood in line just for the off chance that-

  What if-

  But maybe-

  Those thoughts never crossed my mind. I was part of a second ring, an outer ring. A ring that found the nucleus too bright it burned. I didn’t have an Icarus complex. I wasn’t Icarus.

  And yet now in the dormitory, I’m weak-mindedly following strangers out of the door and through the next door.

  The second door from the original three doors.

  Door two opens into a high school cafeteria. I instantly stop.

  Two people walk around me. No excuse me. Pardon me. There is no contact, no apologetic shoulder hold. People flow around me like I’m a concrete median that’s always been there.

  The dimensions of the high school cafeteria do not make sense. Basic physics denies it. The cafeteria should explode into the dormitory. The two rooms cannot physically exist next to the other, not with this construction.

  I step inside the cafeteria.

  Questions funnel in and out of my thoughts faster than a second-hand tick.

  I look around. There is no actual second-hand ticking.

  There are no clocks.

  There are at least thirty long tables with pre-fabricated stools nailed down to the ground. Expansive windows line the perimeter. Each window is fitted with floor to ceiling hurricane storm shutters.

  I’ve never been inside a high school cafeteria. I’ve been on the other side of the window. I’ve been under the high school stadium bleachers. But I’ve never been inside the building.

  A part of me should feel nostalgic. Instead, I follow eleven individuals to another line and pick up a fire hydrant red plastic tray. Fire hydrant red? The words produce a visual of highly saturated color. The color is passionately vibrant. It’s deep. Its fire hydrant red. But what’s a fire hydrant? My mind skips the clutch at the thought. My thoughts aren’t shifting. I’m sitting. My elbows are on the table. I cross my ankles, uncross, cross. Cross. I wish cross was spelled crox. Crox would provide the verb more authority and less suspicion. To have croxxed seems intense.

  The air doesn’t smell toxic, but I still instinctively hold my breath. I eat bland oatmeal with a warped spoon like everyone else. And just like everyone else, I keep my thoughts to myself.

  I watch and judge a jury of possible peers.

  I await the process.

  Voir Dire

  To speak the truth.

  Not including me, there are seven females and six males. We all sit scattered at different tables, looking in various directions with faraway gazes.

  The air is churning. Everyone is handling their mental floss. The liquid ‘go with the flow’ mentality is solidifying. Word bubbles pop. Thoughts form crystalline structures of cohesive intention.

  I try to speak.

  I try to make noise.

  I add nothing.

  My warped spoon clinks in the bowl. The leftover oatmeal congeals and hardens. My appetite doesn’t have my focus. I need leverage. I need secrets. I want to find the smartest kid in class and sit next to them. My eyes scan across a meek, ashen female. She would be the wrong kind of nerd. My eyes continue to scan and spy two stereotypical jocks.

  My perusal continues until my eyes ping on the dark-haired woman from the communal.

  My heart lurches and swells.

  The high school bell rings signally the end of our meal. Everyone stands and files themselves out of the room. We are on the silent move again. I deliberately weave myself through the herd. I move towards the sensation of static electricity. The soft hair on my arms sways upright like a wheat field in the breeze. I’m drawn to the dark-haired woman’s force. A foot perimeter surrounds her. She has an allotment of room, an extra allowance of personal space compared to the others.

  I move to within six inches of her.

  No one is acknowledging how creepy I am right now. I wouldn’t care even if they did. But it is strange that no one is giving me questioning glances.

  The dark-haired woman is creating a buzzing in me that is making me feel alive. I don’t remember the last time I felt.

  I don’t remember.

  The first door is in the same location and open. There is only the width of a nickel between doorframes. The third door is closed.

  We return to the dormitory. I find a new bunk next to my new dark-haired best friend.

  3

  Missing Persons

  The door bashes open and Guardian’s signature clomping travels between bunks. He passes by the strangers I can’t vocally meet. He passes us without comment or concern until he reaches a backdoor and states, “Come”. The backdoor opens with no locks. He holds it wide like a doorman at a ritzy New York hotel.

  Noon sunshine streams through the doorway.

  Everyone moves, except me.

  I didn’t see. I never saw the backdoor and a part of me is bitter and kicking that I didn’t check. The bunks seemed endless— there never seemed a need— there just didn’t — I have done nothing…

  But follow the herd like cattle. The ongoing sensory deprivation has disrupted my basic functions of existing.

  This is the opposite of ADHD.

  My mind…

  … has a sluggish cognitive tempo. SCT.

  I am on track with other symptoms of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder; difficulty remembering things, difficulty following instructions, doesn’t pay attention to details, makes careless mistakes-

  “Lily! Come!” Guardian shouts.

  Fuck, now everyone knows my name.

  I’ve got sunshine in my eyes. The last time I felt the sun on my face was… over twelve hours ago? How many hours have I been here? I’ve only slept once, right? Right?

  I walk through the backdoor and sink into the sun’s heat; it soaks into my pores as if the sun’s rays are a hot mug of tea on the grayest of days. It’s a warmth that I have missed without knowing to miss it.

  The sunshine is in my eyes and I let it shine.

  I walk further onto the plush green grass. Kelly green, shamrock green, emerald green, green-green blades are brushing against my slippers. It’s like the dirt has an army of green swords and I’m the giant they weren’t prepared for.

  The sky is a clear blue—no pollution, dust, or particles to scatter the light waves—pure sky-blue reflects. It’s a beautiful day to be alive.

  I align myself next to everyone else. Megalithic standing stones surround us as if we are in the center of Stonehenge.

  I turn back around and see a hobbit door built into a slight hill where the backdoor should be. This door has a small window. There wasn’t a window on the backdoor when I originally walked through it, but now with the door closed, the window is visible. No one appears to be on the other side. No light shines through.

  My surroundings offer nothing more. Vast green prairie lands spread out across soft hills in all directions. No humanity, virtue or sin around but mine and my silent companions. I take a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. The air is different here. Clean, not processed or filtered. The air is just air.

  A female voice fills the air like God speaking from the heavens, “Stand straight.”

  There isn’t a ceremonious display or a dropping of speakers. Nothing visually changes.

  We all stand up a little straighter and listen to what? Air?

  A woman, leans forward at a ninety-degree angle and smells the air. Her nostrils flare.

  The moon rises in a straight line as if a plumb bob dropped from the center of the sun and reeled the moon up. The sky blackens from the solar eclipse within the time it took the woman to return to her upright position.

  Tick…..Tick….tick…tick..tick, tick, tick, tickticktick, a small, propeller-like shutter s
ound from a vintage projector erupts from the moon. A missing person poster projects against the black sky. The female voice reads the information. “Stephanie Wilson. Missing from Marquette, Michigan.” The ashen girl from the cafeteria gasps and brings her hands to her mouth as if held breath could stop the voice from uttering more words.

  I know that voice.

  “Hair Color: dark brown. Eye color: brown. Details: Stephanie was last seen leaving Clover Park. She was wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans. She has a daisy tattoo on her left wrist.”

  I drop to my knee. A hive of bees gets shaken and released in my brain.

  My palms press against my temples. Blood vessels narrow...

  Another missing person poster replaces Stephanie’s image. The whirl of the projector is like a tornado. “Jasmine Benton. Missing from Minot, North Dakota. Missing since November 18th, 2011.”

  The stinging is everywhere. The stingers come from beneath my skin and push upwards, thrusting out.

  “Jasmine was wearing jeans, black Nike shoes and carrying a red backpack. She was getting into an older, tan Chevy Monte Carlo.”

  My other knee meets the former on the green blades. My fingers skim my skin. I feel riddled with slices. Why do I feel like I’m bleeding and short-circuiting simultaneously?

  “Willow Robinson. Missing from Carmel, Indiana. Missing since November 29, 2011. Current age:19. She has an infinity tattoo below her right elbow and a feather turning into birds on the inside of her right forearm.”

  It could be my brain bleed is part of the short circuitry? It’s credible—then all at once: Hudson.

  “Rose English. Missing from Toms River, New Jersey. Missing since November 28th, 2011. Current age: 23.”

  Hudson. His name comes at me like a hammer striking the head of a nail.

  The heavy hand of his name and memory — “Bethann Edwards. Missing from Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Missing since November 19th, 2011. Current age: 31.”

  Where is Hudson?

  I was just with him. Wasn’t I? In the woods?

  “We have a situation,” Guardian says.

  Bodies of the ten shuffle.

  The female voice continues. “Dahlia Santos. Missing from Creede, Colorado. Missing since November 26th, 2011. Current age: 27.”

  Beep. The radio scratches back, “Ruby?” It’s the same voice that responded to Guardian from the well-warehouse-room.

  “Not with Ruby-”

  Beep.“Who?” Interrupts the radio.

  “Dahlia was at 2381, Georgia Ave. Apt 6, where she was staying with a friend.”

  How did I get here? How do I get out of here?

  Guardian’s voice is right above me, “Lily.”

  A new missing person poster projects against the black sky. “Ruby Stevens. Missing from Chillicothe, Ohio-”

  How do I get to Hudson?

  “She’s seizing,” Guardian barks.

  Beep. The radio barks back, “Give her Ipsumroot powder.”

  “Missing since October 1st, 2008. Current age: 33. Ruby was last seen exiting The Green House restaurant wearing a red cocktail dress.”

  “She’s smoking. I threw twice the amount of Ipsumroot,” Guardian says, still relatively close to me.

  The female voice continues her announcement as if I’m not a disturbance. “Lily Williams. Missing from Fishers, Indiana. Missing Duration: not reported. No missing persons report filed.”

  Beep. The radio cracks a comment, “Did the Ipsumroot powder absorb?”

  “Reed Martin. Missing from Pottstown, Pennsylvania.”

  The-announcer-I know that voice.

  “Allan Peters,” she continues.

  “Can’t tell,” whispers Guardian. Or at least it sounds like he is whispering, he’s further away.

  Beep. “Leave her,” scratches back the radio.

  “Liam Worthington-”

  The voice…

  “Wallace Smith-”

  “Bud Holmes-”

  I know that voice. It always keeps Hudson away.

  “Shiloh Patricks-”

  It’s Tracy.

  4

  Know your Variables

  It starts slowly.

  The Ipsumroot powder tossed at me was like smoke forced upon a hive from a bee smoker. The bees in my mind go mute and hide. The powder interrupts my defensive response.

  Air is no longer free-standing and clear, it’s manipulated.

  Hudson is evaporating from my thoughts like fog off a lake.

  My memories become memories of memories. I remember remembering.

  I breathe.

  There is no fire in my coal.

  Then Tracy’s voice smacks my eardrums, “This concludes the inauguration. Beasts are loose for the First Watch.”

  The moon drops like a wiffle ball through the black sky. The sun blinds me. My pupils struggle to constrict to the change in light.

  Ruby is the first to break ranks.

  The rolling hills appear unfriendly now. I don’t touch the megalithic stones like my companions. None of them disappear, but I still don’t touch them. I have yet to move from my knees.

  Everyone meanders and touches the stones in different spots. Perchance, there is a weight transfer key somewhere. Perhaps they need to start re-evaluating life like Indiana Jones or MacGyver and go back to the basics.

  Suddenly Willow, the average girl with inspirational tattoos, brazenly asks, “What the fuck?”

  Everyone stops. It’s as if we collectively heard a baby speak words for the first time.

  There’s a pause while everyone internally asks: Did I just hear that?

  Faces mesh into concerned looks like I’d imagine a deaf person’s face would contort hearing paper for the first time. Their entire life they knew paper as an object and did not understand paper had noise. Who knew paper could make noise? How would anyone describe the noise of a furiously turned page? They never knew. And no one knew how to describe it. You could only hear it to know it.

  And collectively we heard it. What the fuck?

  Then, just as quickly, everyone experiences word vomit. A yell, screams, hollers, and shouts—a heavy rain of verbal spewage. Everyone is questioning, hypothesizing and strategizing what is happening.

  It’s a glorious day for possibilities. The sun is back out. That has to be a friendly sign.

  Someone is going to spread their arms out and start singing the Sound of Music.

  Everyone consumes and distracts each other. Everyone, everyone, everyone, and with all those ones, no one thinks to check the door. I do, and it’s locked. I announce our cage status succinctly by saying, “Door is locked.”

  I’m heard but not trusted. Everyone proceeds to double-check my door handle turning skills. They too cannot gain entry back into the dormitory. Everyone then tries to kick and force the door to open. Everyone but the dark-haired girl, Ruby, she’s posted against a megalithic stone with a heavy lean. All she needs is a cigarette between her fingers.

  I don’t touch the stones, but I move closer to her.

  She stares at me. That I was smoking a few minutes ago hasn’t escaped her. My smoke is another elephant in the room. We’ll circle back in due time. She doesn’t find me a threat. Which begs me to wonder, do I need to be threatening?

  I stand next to Ruby and wait for her to break the word barrier. Now that we have words, I am possessive over mine.

  The buzzing force field around her wraps me in a gravity blanket. I’d rather be out here than back in the mentally castrating bunker. Here I have a fresh breeze, grass at my feet, and words in my head that can erupt out of my mouth. Here is temporarily much better. Here is like a mental vacation, it’s a pretty muse, but holds no sustenance. There’s no food, water, or shelter within eyesight.

  I lower myself back down to ground level.

  Residual powder still sifts and suppresses my defensive responses. I cannot produce an efficient internal alarm.

  I’m smoked out.

  The others exchange na
mes as if the ceremony didn’t just happen and our missing persons’ sheets weren’t roll-called off by Tracy. Two of them high-five whilst trying to decipher the meaning of the stones. They’re on the same page. The other ten are staring at me, but talking to each other. It’s like they’re ventriloquist dolls, their mouths are moving, a few head-nods here and there, yet their bodies don’t move. Those with crossed arms keep them crossed. The ones with hands at their sides don’t even wiggle their fingers. How could they stand there without putting their hands in their pockets? There isn’t a fidget amongst them, which by default causes me to twitch. My fingers brush through the grass and play the strands like a harpist. The ends are crisp, cut with clean sharp blades. Level and even, someone manicured the grass like a golf course.

  There are fourteen stones. There are fourteen of us. There is only one door. I watch at least five people count the stones. Then I watch them recount and check his or her math on all known facts. I find it’s difficult for some to trust their judgment in counting on their fingers when the count exceeds fingers. There are definitely over ten stones.

  Eight individuals nod their heads like they’re in a team-building mystery escape room. They just have to use logic. It will make sense to them. They have to puzzle out the pieces that fit. Know your variables and then find your answer. What are all the known variables of our current problem?

  There are fourteen stones. There are fourteen of us. There is only one door.

  Conceivably it is us. We are the interchangeable variable. The group starts discussing us. There are fourteen of us in total. Six men. Eight women. Through head-nods and verbal confirmations we conclude that we all came here from a well. We are all missing persons. Rewards are most likely offered and available. Posters passed out. Search parties are in effect. We all have persons missing us. Persons missing persons.

  “Except you,” Wallace says. He’s part of the two that high-fived. He’s over six feet tall and well into his thirties, possibly early forties. I don’t remember his age. I can see him as a crab fisherman or pirate. His widow’s peak is strong and dark. The hair at his temples is white; white also peppers the hair around his square jawline. His face is boxy. His nose hooks to the side. He may even be a boxer.