RESILIENCE (Resilient Saga Book 1) Read online

  Losing track of days makes you dizzy in a sea of desperation. Time is essential to know yourself, because life is made of infinitely chained moments leading to the future. The future feeds us, the past gives us knowledge; both body and soul need time to adjust and find harmony. When time’s dizzy, it simply can’t work.

  Where’s the day or the night?

  Sometimes, I felt my body kept on living just because. When he began to see it wither away so fast, he started to feed me. For a second, I saw compassion within him. At first, I thought I saw guilt in his eye, so I tried to get close to him using mercy as a strategy. But he’s a smart man, he saw right through that sliver of hope in me, and my punishments became heavier.

  I made the mistake of thinking I could return to my former life and I’ve learned my lesson— you can’t and shouldn’t trust the creatures that feed from the darkness.

  But at the same time, I couldn’t trust God, either.

  So, who do I trust?

  Myself, only myself.

  ‘Punishment’— it’s odd to use that word now. In the world out there, punishment was inflicted by your father whenever you came home late from a date or when you failed a test. Today, the word punishment has a whole new meaning. It’s no longer tied to any logical explanation, as it used to. This punishment is inflicted without logic, it’s inflicted only because he wants to.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about his words and his small, unexpected confession. I’m jumping to conclusions on my own, trying to make sense out of this incomplete puzzle.

  I figured that, to these people, I’m an example of an ‘infidel,’ and since I’m not playing by their rules, I get nothing but pain. But what the fuck do I know about terrorism?

  Jack shit.

  Even though the world is in constant danger and people are victims of it, by finding out about it and becoming one of those victims I realize I know more about the Kardashians than my devilish captors.

  I don’t know my enemy.

  What an asshole I’ve been. I had a naïve, plastic, shallow piece of shit of a mind for years! I’ve done nothing in my entire life. I didn’t take chances or did anything wonderful before the explosion —that’s how I call it, because I didn’t know about the attack. I guess I should find a new word for it.

  I lived to show something I wasn’t… Alone in my apartment, which was beautiful; I had invested countless hours and a lot of money to make it my perfect place, but for what? To impress some people I didn’t even like.

  I wonder what that place looks like right now. I assume my parents got rid of it after packing all my stuff. Probably someone as shallow as me lives there now— a typical single woman, counting calories, avoiding carbs, addicted to the gym and ruled by Cosmopolitan.

  Your regular spoiled brat.

  Knowing I will die here having wasted my entire life makes my soul ache.

  How could I be that blind?

  I’ve been wasting time worrying about what others think of me, trying to avoid carbs and judging people. I felt superior and invincible.

  And now…?

  If only I knew that something this tragic would happen to me, everything would’ve been different. I always fantasize about it, how my life in freedom would be with all this knowledge I now possess.

  I come up empty; there’s no real or fictional answer.

  Any smile or good moment in my memory is being crushed under the overwhelming weight of darkness. It’s just too much, way too strong. Not even hope is present in my dreams anymore.

  I find myself in this cell, on my ‘bed,’ with my bony hands beneath my head, staring at the ceiling. I’m now thankful for at least having a pillow and a mattress. Little by little he started providing me with some things. I wonder if the rest of the prisoners are in my same situation— constantly staring at the concrete ceiling, trying to find a familiar shape in the mold and stains, just like we used to do with the clouds when we were kids. Sometimes I think, why are there stains? Maybe they serve a purpose, like a Rorschach test. Because all I can see are the cruelest and most violent things in life.

  It’s almost impossible not to think this is nothing more than karma —or whatever your religion calls it. I don’t know how good or bad of a person I am. I was a basic bitch. I really was, to everyone but my parents; to the rest of the world, I was cold-hearted.

  Having to go through this makes you rethink a couple of things, and to repent of a lot —and I mean A LOT. Rethinking is more painful than the torture itself.

  I could never see any other victim for more than two seconds, at best. Whenever I heard movement coming from the hallway, I could tell apart the victim from the aggressor. How? Easy, the aggressor’s steps sounded like a military parade, and the victim’s sounded nothing more than a hunk of meat being hauled while tripping with their own fears. Sometimes I rushed to peek through the small peephole on my door, my little window to the world. But I never made it fast enough; yes, I’ve heard screaming, screeching voices, loud noises and even people being raped. I’ve also spent entire nights not sleeping, fearing someone would come for me. But he’s the only one who ever worked on me, nobody else showed up. And I’m grateful that none of those animals walked through my door.

  Just when I realize how grateful I am, she, my ‘inner bitch,’ appears, says, “I bet you never thought you’d be grateful for that!”, and laughs. My ‘inner bitch’ is a product of my imagination who emerged the minute I was brought here. An unavoidable characterization of my conscience that stuck with me, like an annoying roomie. She’s always direct, raw. She’s blonde and wears a tight red dress. She’s ready to party 24/7 and sits on a comfy leather armchair that only fits her perfect perky ass. She’s forever elegant and arrogant; her sarcasm always hurts and sometimes makes me laugh. She’s always laughing her ass off. I call her ‘Life.’

  Now that I know a little bit more about my situation, the fact that they believe their God wants to punish me and I believe mine has forsaken me seems ironic.

  “He hasn’t forsaken you, idiot, he’s ignoring you on purpose,” Life interrupts my train of thought while crossing her legs and holding a glass of scotch. As sassy as usual.

  I run through a dense pine forest. There are so many trees, I feel they’re hugging me. They don’t let me see the clear sky. I really want to see it! I keep running until I find myself in a meadow with green grass that shines so bright, my eyes hurt. I always dream about this place. Even though the sun bathes me and my surroundings, whenever I look up, I can’t see it. But I can see the blue sky. I smell the pines and yellow flowers; I hear the birds chirp loud and clear. Everything’s beautiful here. But a second later, the chirps become screams. I look to the left, then to the right. Something’s off. The screams continue. And then, I hear Life yell ‘Wake the fuck up!’

  Therefore, I do.

  CHAPTER 3

  CASSANDRA

  Through the peephole, I see the hallway lights flickering hysterically. I press my face against the glass trying to see what’s going on, but the movements are too fast for my eyes to follow and the flashing lights make it even harder. Suddenly, a dense smoke screen invades the area. The thunder of heavy footsteps echoing through the hallway, along with the screeches of men and women, is so loud that I get stunned and disoriented —my ears can only take so much.

  Out of nowhere, in a split second, a covered face appears at my peephole and scares the shit out of me. The noise out there is so loud, I can’t even hear my own screams. But I can feel the adrenaline rush. The face steps back. It looks like it’s trying to tell me something. I can see the lips and arms moving, I just can’t understand, I’m still too confused.

  I hear it say, “Get back!” —or at least, I think I hear it. Was that a man’s voice? I take a few steps away from the door anyway. A loud thud follows, then another and another— the man is trying to kick the door down, but it just won’t give.

  “Take cover behind the bed!” he yells at me. My ‘bed’ is a large block of concrete
with a mattress on it. It finally has a purpose. I immediately jump behind it and cover my head with my hands.

  What the fuck is going on!?

  BOOM!!!

  Something blows up —if I wasn’t already deaf, I am now—, the door crashes against the wall. I’m covered in dust, I can even taste it. Before I can even peek over the bed, the man is by my side. He grabs my tiny arm and pulls me out of the cell. I have no time to react.

  I start screaming, because the man is not ‘him’ and this is wrong. I can’t let him take me, I’m scared this one might do to me the things ‘he’ never did. So, I try to fight him, with no luck— he’s too strong. I keep trying, but I can feel the adrenaline slipping away from my body and with it, what’s left of my strength.

  Now, I have no choice but to observe this man. After all, he might be the last person I ever see. He’s all dressed in black, wearing some sort of body armor, a black helmet, a pair of goggles covering almost his entire face and a black scarf with a nasty and frightening skull jaw in white.

  Now I’m being pushed to walk faster. I’m being yelled at as well, but I can’t understand anything, I’m too distracted by my surroundings. Some other cell doors are open. I look inside them as I go by, and I can see blood stains on the walls and people lying on the ground, probably dead for a while. Now there are a lot of people in the hallway running into me. They knock me back and down like I’m made of paper. There’s so much smoke, I can’t see where I’m stepping, so I trip. I look down to see what was in the way: there’s a body. A man, no— a kid, with a puddle of blood around his head. That image hits me hard and I can feel my legs abandoning me; I kneel beside him. My lungs are full of smoke. I can’t go on. I cough over and over, trying to breathe the smoke away. My chest hurts, I can’t take this anymore. My body can’t endure this, and my mind doesn’t want to, either.

  The man grabs my waist, lifts me up, and carries me on his left shoulder. He starts jogging through the endless hallway. I try to get down. I know I won’t succeed, but I try to, anyway.

  There are more doors here than letters in the alphabet.

  “Put me down! You don’t understand! I can’t leave! Please, you don’t understand!” I yell as hard as I can, but he keeps on going like he’s both blind and deaf— clearly, a man with a goal. Finally, I give up and close my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s about to happen. And then it hits me: a cold breeze reaches my face and my arms. My entire body welcomes this chilly sensation…

  My eyes are now open… I am…

  Outside.

  I’m still being carried like a puppet. I’d care, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m disappointed —it’s nighttime. Once again, I don’t get to see the sun. I really wanted to, I miss it so much. Finally, the man carrying me puts me down on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. A doctor is there to tend to my wounds.

  Before they even put a gauze on me, a blanket is provided, for warmth or comfort. Then I remember I’m only wearing a rag that covers my body from shoulders to knees, with no underwear. It’s the very same rag they gave me when they threw me in the cell. Never washed. I’ve always had it on me; always.

  The stretcher beneath me shakes like an earthquake and distracts me before I can see the doctor’s face. The man has been searching for a place to sit and finally finds it. His body’s too big for both of us to fit in here. The ambulance door closes and we start moving. I can see the old derelict building shrinking in the distance.

  Is that in the past now?

  I’m blinded by a flashlight. The doctor —or at least I think he is— is checking my reflexes. The light moves in and out. My eyes have been deprived of such intense light for so long, that it hurts. A lot.

  “You idiot! Be careful! She’s weak!” I hear the man yell. His voice sounds muffled behind the scarf. It looks as if the skull was actually talking.

  “Excuse me, sir! I’m doing my job. Now please, let me do it,” the doctor yells back. “Step on it Jose, come on!” The second those words are spoken, the ambulance speeds up like a rocket. Up until now, I hadn’t notice the sirens were on. “Are you in any pain? Where does it hurt?” the doctor asks as he reaches for my chest with the stethoscope.

  “I don’t feel any pain,” I whisper to the doctor while staring at the man beside me.

  “What!? Speak up, please!” he yells and shakes my arm at the same time, in an attempt to make me focus.

  Before I even realize it, the man grabs his neck and bashes him against a shelf full of medical supplies that fall all over me. I cover my head with my arms.

  “I said be careful, motherfucker. Touch her again and I’ll rip your arm off!” A roaring voice with a menacing expression.

  “Hey! What’s going on back there?” Jose asks and peeks through the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing. Eyes on the road, Jose,” the petrified doctor says. The man lets him go and the doctor composes himself. He stares at the man like he’s the ghost of Christmas past.

  “Apologize,” the man grunts furiously.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” the doctor tells me while looking straight into my eyes. “It was a rough night.”

  “It’s alright.” That’s all I can say now. My throat is sore and dry. I swallow and try to speak again, but I still can’t. Before the silence becomes unbearable, the ambulance comes to a halt and the backdoors are opened.

  “Go, go, go!” someone says.

  I’m being rushed on my stretcher so fast that the hospital walls look like an endless loop. One thing remains constant: the man keeping up with the stretcher. He’s watching me.

  Why is he watching me? Why is he here? Who is he?

  The question that finally made it out of my mouth was none of the above.

  “Is this a rescue?” I can hear my throaty voice; I can hardly speak.

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s starting to look blurry; I’m falling asleep. I’m sure this isn’t death. It doesn’t feel like death —it feels like rest.

  Finally.

  CHAPTER 4

  CASSANDRA

  Iopen my eyes and find myself in a hospital room.

  At first, I feel my muscles numb. I try to move them, only to find them hooked to a bunch of cables that snake up above my head, where countless bags of solution hang in a variety of colors. A pair of monitors display some weird doodles and play strange noises.

  To my right, a window lets in a warm summer breeze. The curtains used to be dark; now their color has faded, but that doesn’t stop them from dancing to welcome me. It’s a perfect picture, I can almost feel free.

  Is this even real? How long have I been out? It’s still night, so I guess it hasn’t been long.

  Through my eyes I try to take in all the information I can about this place; you know, to adapt, not only to the light, but to the change of scenery itself. I try to gather and put together what I can to figure out where I am. The room, average in size, with pale light blue walls —almost a little too pale, you could mistake it for white—, is refreshing. It’s also very quiet, except for the regular beep coming from the machine right next to me. Apart from that, I also have privacy: no nurses in sight. With all that info, I can almost confirm I’m not in the ICU.

  A snort makes me look to the far left: the man is still here, awkwardly sitting on a chair; more like he died and fell on it. Maybe it looks that way because the chair is too small for him. He’s sound asleep. He’s wearing the same clothes, even the scarf.

  Why is he still here?

  I resume my information gathering. My eyes stumble upon a narrow door; I think it leads to the bathroom.

  Oh, God.

  I never thought I’d want so badly to see a toilet again in my life. After being locked away for three years, with nothing more than a bucket to do my business, which they cleaned every other week, I want to see it as much as I want to see the sun.

  I’m determined to do it, so I try to get out of bed without a sound. But the machine has other plans— it starts beeping
like crazy.

  Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

  The man jumps out of his slumber and runs to me.

  “Where are you going? You shouldn’t move yet, Cass… You don’t need to go to the bathroom, they gave you a bag for that,” he says.

  I can’t but look at him in awe and think, He knows my name? He must have said something else, but I was so focused on feeling human again, that maybe I imagined the part about my name.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize automatically, without a thought. “I was just… I wanted to remember how it felt…” Feeling embarrassed, I try to change the subject quickly while I tuck myself back in. “Thank you for setting me free.”

  “I was just doing my job,” he explains in a cold, distant tone. His voice sounds so familiar… I need to hear it again.

  He looks nervous, jittery. He looks at the door, then at me, and then back at the door, again and again. That makes me wonder, that makes me alert. Why is he still wearing the goggles? He tucks me in, stares at me for a few seconds and then breaks eye contact. He seems troubled, like he’s fighting a thought. He strikes me as someone who’s unconvinced right now. He lets out the loudest of sighs and marches towards the door. He grabs the chair that previously supported him and uses it to jam the doorknob. Something’s definitely not right. I immediately hold the mattress tightly. Something dangerous is about to happen. The machine translates into a sound the pounding sensation that runs through my whole body.

  Run! I hear in my mind, but I don’t even flinch, I’m petrified. With his back still turned to me, he begins removing his helmet, then the scarf and the goggles. He takes a deep breath, then slowly starts turning around.

  …

  …

  No way…

  It can’t be…

  This must be a nightmare…

  A sick and twisted fucking nightmare. Oh, God.