Authors: Abigail Collins
At one point, I feel a prickle in the base of my neck, an unpleasant sensation like being stung by a bee, and I almost move before Cyrus reminds me again not to.
The Digit sitting in the chair behind the computer is typing sporadically, staring transfixed at the screen without even blinking. The microchip in his forehead is covered up by his bangs, and he somehow looks more like a human than Cyrus and Tesla do. He could be someone’s neighbor, their friend, even a part of their
family
, and no one would even notice that inside he’s as far from any of those things as possible.
“Alright,” Cyrus finally says, after a half-hour that feels like days. My neck is getting stiff, and I can hear my headache pounding in my ears. “You’re not done yet. Sorry. But almost.”
He chuckles. Apparently the look on my face is funny. I couldn’t feel
less
like laughing.
“You’re going to hear a series of words,” Tesla chimes in. “They don’t mean anything, and they aren’t related in any way. You don’t have to say anything – in fact, it would be best of you’d refrain from reacting as much as possible. Just stand there and listen. Think you can manage that?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Sure. But what does this have to do with me lying or not?”
I’m overstepping my boundaries. But I’m tired and confused and more than a little angry.
Cyrus smiles, but it stretches his face in a way that looks more grotesque than reassuring. “You’ll see.”
That’s all he says. I expect him to be the one who says the words I’m supposed to be listening to, but it’s actually the man – the
Digit
– behind the computer who says them. When he speaks, it surprises me so much that I flinch. His voice sounds too deep for his body, and his eyes are still glued to the monitor in front of him.
The words start out simple.
“Tomato.”
I am reminded of a pasta dish with tomato sauce that Roma taught me how to make last week.
“Umbrella.”
When I was little, a girl in my class had walked me home under her own umbrella during a heavy rain when I’d forgotten mine. That was the first time Crissy and I had ever properly spoken, and we’ve been best friends since.
“Staircase.”
I can’t help but think about the stairs in my home – my
old
home – and my last time walking on them. How Fray had to guide me because my legs and my mind were too weak.
The words continue, each presenting me with a different mental image of the first scene that replays in my memory that I relate to that word. I barely even glance up at the Digits; I almost forget that they are in the room with me. My memories feel strong right now, for some reason. I feel like I’m reliving them, feeling all of the emotions associated with them afresh.
For the happy memories, this is a good thing; the sensation I feel is uplifting, and I actually catch myself smiling unconsciously more than once. But the more time passes, the worse the feeling becomes.
“Home” is the first word that triggers a negative image in my mind. I think about the last time I was inside of my home – about my mother’s body, still splayed out and unmoved, and my father’s strange disappearance. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I blink them back. I am suddenly vividly aware that I am being watched.
The next word is “red,” followed by “suitcase,” then “bedroom,” and finally, “bullet.”
I’m not quite sure how to react to the last word. I know by now that the previous few words were intended to remind me of my parents’ deaths – from the red of their blood to the suitcase Fray and I packed our belongings in before we left our home. I am reminded of the sound of the weapons the Digits used to murder them, ricocheting as they hit their bodies and split them apart. I don’t know what kind of weapons they used – all I know is that they were made of metal, and that the wound in my shoulder where the shrapnel from one of them was embedded still hurts.
They might have been guns; I don’t know. I’ve never seen one in person, and they don’t teach us about weapons in school.
I don’t react – at least, not physically. I might flinch, once or twice, but I keep my feet grounded and my hands steady. I close my eyes tightly to block out the faces of my audience.
“Teresa.”
I squeeze my eyelids together tighter. My hands are shaking; I bite my tongue as hard as I can. They know my mother’s name.
I know immediately what the Digit is going to say next, but it still hits me like a punch to my stomach.
“Rault.” My father’s name.
I take a deep breath. The images in my brain are projected so clearly that it feels like I’m reliving the moment my parents died all over again. There’s so much blood. I can hear screaming, echoing off of the walls and ripping out of my own throat like poison. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“…Fray.”
That’s the last I can take. Somehow, the pictures mix together to create a scene that involves my little brother being torn to pieces by the Digits’ machinery. Seeing his body like that, laid out in just the same way as my mother’s…
“
Stop it
!”
I don’t expect my voice to be so loud, and I only realize after the fact that I’ve even spoken at all.
The Digit telling me the words looks surprised, but Cyrus and Tesla don’t. If anything, they both look amused. I can’t help but wonder if this is maybe the reaction they were hoping for.
I clench my hands into tight fists at my sides and take a deep breath. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I count to ten and try closing my eyes, but every time I do I am presented once again with the haunting image of my brother dying and I when I blink it flashes in front of my eyes.
The sound of keys being tapped echoes in the silent room. No more words are being directed at me. I’m guessing that there’s no reason for them to continue with their experiment. They’ve got all of the information they need.
I pull the band off of my head without even thinking about it. I hear a soft popping noise and feel another stinging sensation in the back of my neck, like something has just detached itself from my skin. Yuck. My forehead is covered in sweat and my hands are shaking.
The metal circlet bounces on the ground but doesn’t break, and as soon as I throw it down the blue lights on both it and the floor dim.
But I don’t walk away. I stay standing, in the middle of the circle, holding my hands together in front of myself and trying not to think about the potential consequences for what I’ve just done.
“Well done.”
Cyrus’s voice is light and cheerful, and he claps, hard and slow. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, or if he’s genuinely pleased with my actions.
“Fray is your little brother, right?” Tesla asks me. Her tone is just as whimsical as Cyrus’s. I have no doubt in my mind that she knew my brother’s name long before I even came here – she’s just trying to get a reaction out of me, and she’s doing a great job of it.
I nod, unable to force out the words. I look up and am greeted by the smiling faces of two Digits and the inquisitive expression of another.
“You’d better take good care of him, then,” Cyrus says. He doesn’t say it like it’s a threat, but it still sounds like one. “You can go now, you know. We’re done here; you did well. I expect we’ll meet again, someday.”
My heart skips a beat. I don’t know how to react to what he’s saying, so I choose to push it aside and try not to think about it.
Instead, I find my footing and step outside of the circle, quickening my pace the closer I get to the door. None of the Digits move as I pass them, and I close the door behind me without looking back.
I wonder how long it will be before I can sleep without having nightmares.
Chapter seven
My head doesn’t stop pounding for days. I am right about the nightmares; they are recurring, consistent, and each more vivid than the last. Fray wakes me up nearly every night – sometimes more than once – and shakes me out of my dreams, and twice now Roma has come into my room to check on me after the noises I make when I sleep woke her up.
I feel guilty, involving these people in my own problems. They’re worried about me, and they shouldn’t be. I should be worrying about
them
, especially Fray. His shoulders are far too small to be carrying the burdens of both of us.
Sometimes it feels like the memories Cyrus summoned in the building he took me to weren’t real until he brought them to life. It’s almost as if they were photographs floating around in the back of my mind that the Digits set on fire and burned into my skull. And even the good memories seem twisted, somehow. Like all I can see are the dark spots in my vision, and all I can think about is this
feeling
I have that my mother betrayed me.
“…and I told her not to. It doesn’t even look
that bad
. Right?”
Crissy looks at me hopefully, and I wish I was better at pretending to listen when people are talking to me. I’m spacing out more than usual today, and we haven’t even gotten to school yet.
“Um, right,” I say, praying she doesn’t see through me even though I know she already has.
She raises an eyebrow at me, but instead of getting angry, she stops walking and pulls me back with her by my elbow.
“Okay, you know what?” she says, turning both of us around. Her grip on my arm is so tight I can feel her nails digging into my skin. “You need to go home. I’ll go too, if that makes you feel any better. I wouldn’t mind missing one of Mr. N’s Creative Lit sermons, and you look like you could use a good nap. When was the last time you slept?”
I try to pull my arm away, but Crissy just hooks her other hand onto it and pulls me along harder.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I sleep every night. Fray and I go to bed the same time you do, remember?”
“I know that you
go
to bed, but you don’t
sleep
. You ironed a
hole
in Ivy Landstrom’s pajama pants yesterday because you fell asleep
standing up
in the middle of the
day
.”
“Your mother patched them up and they look just fine,” I retort defensively, even though she’s right. And I can’t see Ivy being the type of woman to appreciate having a smiley-face sewn into the butt of her trousers, as much as I admire Roma’s handiwork. “And I didn’t fall asleep. I was
thinking
.”
“About what?”
“You know…” I say, airily waving my free arm and making circles with my hand. “Things. All kinds of things.”
Crissy rolls her eyes at me, but her expression is serious. “Like the things the Digit who came to get you asked you about last week?”
“How did you – ?”
“Mom told me,” she interrupts. “And Fray said you’re having nightmares. I thought I was just hearing things, but
really
, Everly? You couldn’t tell me about something like this?”
“There’s nothing to tell, I swear. They asked me about my parents… and I told them what happened. Which is nothing you don’t already know, by the way.”
Crissy’s grip on my arm is really starting to hurt. I tug on it and try to get her to stop, but all I do is slow her down and loosen her hold slightly.
“And that’s what’s got you so shaken up?” she asks skeptically. “A few questions?”
“They asked me about my
parents
, Crissy. You know, the dead ones? The ones who died practically right in
front of me
?”
My tone comes out harsher than I intended it to, but it’s enough to make Crissy stop in her tracks and relax her grasp on my arm just enough to let me pull it free. She’s looking at me like she’s never seen me before.
My heart is pounding and I feel like I’ve just been slapped awake, but the guilt that washes over me when I see the hurt look on Crissy’s face melts away my frustration. I realize that she’s only trying to help, in her annoying-best-friend kind of way. I just wish she would stop, is all.