RESILIENCE (Resilient Saga Book 1) Page 5

  Each day brings updates about the condition of other victims, how they are doing. One thing is crystal clear: I was ‘lucky,’ compared to the others. I wonder how much Bruno had to do with that luck. For instance, when I got admitted, the doctors said that my nutrition status was delicate. That’s polite doctor lingo for ‘fucked up.’ But then again, it wasn’t as fucked up as the others. I even heard about men losing limbs and women going in and out of operating rooms as if they were fitting rooms in a mall.

  Yeah, definitely fucking lucky.

  I’ve been here for weeks now, and today the doctors come to explain my current health status, how well I’m doing now and the next steps to complete my physical recovery. They seem pleasantly surprised at my lab results, so they prescribe a good healthy diet and recommend my discharge for tomorrow morning. Anxiety kicks in the minute they leave me here alone with my brain. The very thought of leaving this room shocks me. I’m not ready to walk out of here, not even close to being ready to start over and above all, not ready to face the world out there.

  Mr. Sotelo oversees my transport and security. He walks in firmly, leaving the door wide open. I’m sitting on the same chair ‘he’ used to jam the door —I still can’t call him Bruno, it doesn’t feel right, I’m still afraid of him—, dressed in my new clothes and ready to go.

  “Are you ready, miss?” Sotelo asks.

  “Yes, of course.” No, I’m not ready, not at all.

  The second I step out of that room, shaking like a leaf, a man catches my eye. He’s only a few feet away from the door; he’s… very attractive. He looks at me and smiles. I can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. My eyes go straight to the floor and I keep walking next to my bodyguard until we reach the exit.

  I couldn’t even smile back… Yeah, greeeeeat start.

  Parked just outside is an Escalade with tinted windows. Another man opens the backseat door for me. I enter the back of the car and sit. The SUV starts moving, and I start gazing at the world through the window. Judging by what the officer’s telling me, this is how I will look at the world for the rest of my life— through a tinted window. After an hour or so of driving, we come to a stop, the door opens and I can clearly see my new suburb house. The old Cassandra would have thought that the house was a piece of shit; the new Cassandra, on the other hand, doesn’t give a shit. There are two officers by the entrance, they tip their caps hi. There are two more officers inside the house and they greet me the same way, then they go outside. How am I supposed to blend in if I have four officers surrounding me like this?

  “Miss, I know you’re having a rough time right now…” Here comes the pity. “Believe me when I tell you that we will do everything in our power to make sure that you can start all over.” Mr. Sotelo is a chubby man; his belt is way too tight, so the belly pops up like a big balloon and makes him look heavier than he is. The button on his blue shirt can barely hold its place. His armpits are sweaty, his shoes are very worn and his breath smells of a mixture of cheap coffee and greasy donuts. His white hair gives me a hint about his age; his eyes are blue, but different from mine, which are lighter in color. His nearly perfectly round face matches his pale skin with a few pink patches… He doesn’t inspire confidence, awareness, safety or anything good… at all.

  “We’re still trying to locate your mother. She’s the only family member we’re looking for at the moment. For security reasons, we haven’t given your name to the public, so, as far as your relatives are concerned, you are still missing. Now tell me— do you have anyone else whom we can reach out to, who’s trustworthy?” He asks me with a keen look.

  “Unfortunately, no. I don’t have anybody else apart from my parents. They are my only family.” My stomach knots up. I can feel it twisting hard just by thinking about my father being gone; but I can’t show myself nervous to Sotelo. Otherwise, he will realize that I have information. So I hide it, I bury my true emotions. And I’m good at it.

  “Don’t stress yourself, we’re working on it…” He tries to take my hand; I jerk it away in an instant. My sulkiness makes him uncomfortable. “We’ll find her soon enough, Miss.”

  “Thank you,” I reply in a low tone; I have a bad feeling about this. What if they never find her? What if I’m really alone now? The first thing that comes to mind is suicide; I would really do it, I can’t function or be a part of this society anymore. I only want to live if somehow, I find a way to give my mom some sort of peace. She must be destroyed, alone, sad… If my father is really dead, then the only thing I want right now is to be able to speak the words “Mom, I’m here!”. But if that’s never gonna happen, then what’s the point?

  “Please, take a seat.” He points to an old couch; The upholstery is covered in a floral pattern. We sit next to each other; our legs aren’t touching.

  “This right here —he hands me a brown paper envelope— is your new life. The government understands that this is difficult. That is why they are providing with and recommending counseling, so that it may help you embrace this new identity and ease the transition from here to where you need to be; and—”

  “Counseling? I’m not crazy.” I interrupt without hesitation.

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just standard procedure for situations like this,” he adds with a look that’s simultaneously surprised and reassuring.

  “I don’t want to talk to some shrink. I doubt any of you will ever understand what I went through before or what I’m going through right now, let alone help me with any of it.” I’m pissed; my blood pressure skyrockets and makes my head ache. It feels like it’s about to blow. I need to vent. Punching him in the face might do the trick. I would, but I’m still an educated, reasonable human being, so I just nod without further interruptions. I don’t want him to think I might be ungrateful.

  “I understand, Miss. I’m just the messenger. Let’s take a step back and go through the contents of the envelope. Inside you will find your new ID. Your name is now Sarah Fitcher, twenty-eight years of age, born and raised in Texas.” I take the ID card from the envelope. My face is printed on it; my hair is short, and I even look happy in the picture. “You will also find your new SSN card, birth certificate and everything else you had before, but updated to match your new identity. This is your ticket to your new life, Miss Fischer. Welcome.” I try to smile, but judging by his face, I’m not doing a great job. We shake hands; he has a firm grip, showing courage and valor. I just need him to show… himself out. Once he’s gone, I’m left alone. Well, ‘alone’ is a stretch— I still have a security detail 24/7.

  I walk around my new home, I peep inside the kitchen and bathroom cabinets. The walk-in closet is big and reeks of mothballs; the décor in the house follows a theme based on flowers and kittens. I wonder if its sole purpose is to cheer me up. If that’s the case, then I have to talk with the person responsible ASAP.

  The house gives me a weird vibe; I can’t really put my finger on it. Is it unsafe? Do I need an iron front door to feel safe now?

  I open the fridge looking for something to eat. Nothing really catches my attention. I end up taking a Coke. I want to remember how it tasted. I pop the can open and take a big gulp. I spit it out in the kitchen sink immediately—

  Disgusting.

  How could I drink this before? I spill the rest of the content in the sink and throw the can.

  I continue to explore the house, trying to find the bedroom. There are not a lot of rooms here to begin with and finding the right one only takes me a moment— easy peasy. The room is not as bad as I pictured it: its walls are white, and it has a window that provides a view to a very green garden. Is that my garden now? The bed is pushed against a wall and centered to accommodate two nightstands, one on each side. One would have sufficed. Who would ever want to sleep with me? Should that happen again, it will be in a long time, if ever. I sit on the mattress and jump a little to test it. It seems comfortable; the sheets are clean. This is more than I could�
�ve hoped for or even asked for. The house is in utter silence, making my every move super noisy— some of them even echo.

  Silence is often our biggest enemy, because it allows us to think and ask questions that most of the time don’t have real answers. But we come up with answers that lead us nowhere anyway. Yet we repeat this process at every chance we get. Some people say that finding something to do may reduce the chance of overthinking about a particular subject. But what can I do in here? I look around and only see the bags full of clothes, so I start to fold and hang them inside the walk-in closet. I’m still pretty weak, I have some trouble with my arm muscles, so I hit the hangers against the metal rods. The clanking sound hurts my ears. Every noise I make sounds like an elephant stomping around the room. I take my shoes off to prevent my mind from collapsing and start walking towards the bathroom to do yet another underrated thing— brush my teeth.

  The bathroom is pretty simple, but it has everything I need. There’s a mirror in front of me. Since I don’t want to start another staring contest with myself, I throw a towel on it to cover my reflection. It will stay that way until I’m totally ready to face myself again.

  Before I go to bed, I notice something I missed in my previous observation of the room: there’s a small wooden cross over the headrest, big enough to fit in my hand. There’s Jesus, crucified as always, looking sad and in pain. That’s not something I want to see every time I lie down or wake up, so I yank the cross from the wall, I look at it and realize it has no meaning for me anymore. So I decide to throw it in the trash right now. I will take care of the nail on the wall later.

  “He should’ve been there before, when you needed him the most, right?” says Life, not laughing.

  Yup, He should have.

  I finally tuck in and bury my hands under the pillow, just to check if the letter is still there. I hid it when I was unpacking. I don’t know why I did it, it just felt right.

  CHAPTER 8

  SARAH

  Knock, knock…

  A noise wakes me up. What was that?

  Knock, knock…

  There it is again. I get out of bed, moody, like anyone would when a noise wakes them up. I’m wearing my new blue pajama set, buttoned up to the neck, granny style. Yet I feel completely comfortable in this outfit, courtesy of ‘Bruno.’

  “Or the son of a bitch,” Life says sharply.

  I peek through the peephole and discover a short black-haired woman on the other side, smiling…

  “Who the fuck is that?” Life asks.

  I have no idea.

  “Good morning! I’m Dr. Gonzales. I believe you’re waiting for me,” a high-pitched and eager voice says after a second.

  Oh… crap. I completely forgot about the counselor. I open the four bolted locks, pull the door open and wave my hand at her to come in, quickly. She complies taking small steps, like a little pug.

  “Excuse me, but… Were you sleeping? I can swing by later, if you prefer.”

  “What time is it?”

  She looks at her watch and says:

  “Eleven o’clock.” Whoa! I really slept this much?

  “Please, take a seat. Let me slip into something more appropriate. I’ll be right back.” I go to the bedroom dragging my feet from the laziness and sleep. I grab the loosest outfit I can find and put it on. Once I’m back in the kitchen, Dr. Gonzales is sitting on a chair with both hands on the table, fingers locked, as if praying or something. She’s wearing a black tailored suit with a pencil skirt; her hair is perfectly combed and aligned to her face like a helmet. One may even think it’s a wig. I like that. She smiles when I finally sit across from her.

  “This is the part where you offer me something to drink,” she points out. She makes me feel embarrassed, I’m so rude.

  “Sorry. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water is fine.” I reach into the cabinet for a glass and a grab small bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Here you go.”

  “Forgetting about common manners is completely normal for someone who went through a traumatic experience like yourself. Everything will come back to you eventually, you just have to be patient. We will work on that patience. Okay?” I nod; I’m already annoyed by her tone of voice— and don’t get me started on her manners. “Your name is Sarah Fitcher. Right?” She speaks to me while looking down her satchel and browsing through some documents.

  “This is going to suck,” my bright friend yells.

  “Okay, I’m sure they already told you about me and what I do. I’ve been working on this field for more than twenty years. I have my own practice, but the government takes most, if not all my time with cases like yours. I specialize in traumatic events and their aftermath. We’re not going to rush these sessions because it will not be good for either of us. Little by little we will rebuild and repair. I know you may think that your former self is gone, but I can assure you that’s not the case— you merely put a barrier up and shielded yourself from the outside world. You just need to know that you’re not alone; every patient I have treated before had the same thoughts. I will make sure you can return to society, don’t worry.”

  Wait, what? Will she ever ask me if that’s what I want?

  “So, shall we? Where would you like to start?”

  I have no clue, no answer. Three seconds go by and I’m already too anxious to think.

  “Go ahead, tell her about you not wanting to go back to this shitty society,” Life throws in.

  I’m not going to say that to her.

  Other three seconds pass, Dr. Gonzales is still staring and smiling at me like a creepy circus clown.

  “Hey! Wake up, you idiot! Tell her that you don’t want to be a part of the shit show. Otherwise she will brainwash you and that will fuck me up, too.” Life is not handling her shit right now.

  “Do you know what happened to me?” I decide to open with that.

  “Is that the best your brain can come up with in six seconds? Oh boy, Bruno really did a number on you, huh?” Aaaand back to the usual Life.

  “Of course, the whole world knows it. Only a few of us know who you really are. The hostage rescue from the ETA was a complete success and the world rejoiced. I’m aware you were starved and mentally and physically tortured.” She knows some things, others are detailed on a piece of paper she’s holding and reading back to me. Why is she talking about this, listing all the awful things I had to endure, like it’s a grocery list? She’s being cold and insensitive about it. I just want to go back to bed.

  “Yes, that’s right…” She can tell I’m shutting in, so she leans forward and places her elbows on the table.

  “Sarah, when the human mind goes through something this negative and unexpected, it will always be wounded. But those wounds are invisible to the human eye and can only be perceived by trained counselors like myself. Denying this due to lack of physical pain would be to live the rest of your life with an open wound and, trust me on this one, you don’t want that. We are going to talk about those wounds here… and the pain that comes with them…”

  “Can you believe this bitch? Who the fuck does she think she is? Ask her if she was tortured or mentally fornicated like we were!” Life is not a happy camper right now.

  “Mhm…” I’m not making this easy for her. I know where this is going. I do feel physical pain, it’s like having a black hole in the middle of my chest, sucking and crushing everything into oblivion, but there’s no way I’m telling her.

  “Well, my intentions here are noble. I really want to help you recover by releasing all that sentiment you’re repressing. To that end, I need to get you to talk about it, openly and without fear. Do you understand? It must be a natural response from you, or it won’t work. You need to acknowledge what is going on in your mind. I like to say that the mind has a ‘narrator’ who loves to alter the story, which is why my advice to you is to stick with the facts, just the facts. We don’t need a perspective from anybody else. What happened, happened, a
nd there’s nothing we can do to change that.”

  “Well, fuck. She’s totally crazy. Don’t bother trying to talk to her, get her out of here. FAST.” Life’s not wrong this time.

  “I really don’t want to do this.” I cross my arms to show her I really mean it. “I don’t want to be rude, I just don’t think I’m ready.”

  “Completely understandable!” She says while straightening her back again. That’s a sign of retreat and to me, she admitted defeat. “Don’t you worry about it. Now tell me, Sarah. What would you like to do?”

  “Sorry?”

  Where is she going with this? I don’t trust her at all.

  “Yes. When you were captive, what was the thing you missed the most and couldn’t do?”

  “I guess seeing the sunlight…”

  “Great! Let’s go outside, there’s plenty of sunlight to go around!” She exclaims, with more excitement than me, you could say. I can see her intention is to grab my arm; to prevent that, I shift my body slightly. She sees through that and instead walks towards the back door. I haven’t opened it myself. She goes through it and beyond her lies a beautiful garden, with lots of colorful flowers and some trees. I can’t believe this was here and I missed it completely. The moment I step outside of the house, I feel the warm breeze on my face again. I look at the doctor with resentment, I feel like she’s out of place, she doesn’t belong here. I walk past her to at least contemplate this place without her in the picture for a moment…

  “We can sit right here.” She points at a set of garden chairs.

  “I’d rather sit on the grass, if you don’t mind.”

  “Hippie…” says Life disgusted.

  “Better yet!” She pulls up her skirt just a little above the knees and sits on her ankles.

  Looking up from this point of view, the trees look taller and give the impression of a green ceiling, like somehow they’re hugging you. This is what I always pictured when I was in my cell staring at the ceiling. Sometimes Bruno would stare at it as well. I always wondered what he imagined and why. I could never come up with an answer and I probably never will. I notice the doctor is observing me, and she’s about to break me out of this memory.