Puppet (14 page)

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I
sit in silence while the administrator smiles at his witty choice of words, shaking with silent laughter.  His clear, gray eyes smirk at me, although they almost seem expressionless and frozen like ice.  He reminds me of a marionette, going through all the motions without any feeling.   

“Strings?” I prompt.

“Yes,” he nods, still laughing in his silent, quaking way.  “You know...” he gestures to me.

“I get it,” I snap.  “I meant what do you want me to do?”

Edelin slowly stops laughing and fixes me with a long look, as if contemplating his choice of words.  He brushes his slightly long, black hair away from his face as he watches me, his eyes beginning to narrow.  With each passing second, my anxiety worsens and newer and more horrific ideas spring to mind.  “We’ll let you live,” he goes on.  “If you can prove you’re...good, so to speak.” 

“Good?” I echo blankly. 

He nods. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask in frustration. 

“As in doing what you’re told.  Not misbehaving.  Being a good girl.”  His tone is patronizing and overly saccharine.   

“Doing what
you
tell me to do?” I try to clarify.

He shrugs indifferently.  “Head Devere and her administrators.” 

I pause for a moment, thinking of all the things they could ask me to do.  And how many of them wouldn’t be considered
good
.  I can feel a knot forming in my stomach as well as a rising surge of panic.  I want to bolt for the door, to get up and run away, but this room, the guards and my leg all hold me back; chain me to this room and to what I am and what I can do.  “And if I refuse?” I ask, and although I already know the answer, I’m praying I won’t hear it said aloud.

“Then, we’ll kill you, Miss Trump,” he replies, seeming oddly happy about it.  His eyes sparkle as he watches me squirm under his gaze.   

I want to snap at him to not call me that, but Penelope or Pen doesn’t seem much better.  Penelope is too comfortable.  Pen is too personal.  Pen is what James calls me.

I stare down at the bandage wrapped around my leg, feeling the dull pain intensify when I concentrate on it.  I see a small red smudge beginning to appear and I wonder how much blood I’ve lost.  I feel slightly lightheaded but it might just be from nerves. 

“So, Miss Trump?” Edelin asks.  “What’s it going to be?” 

“What exactly will I be doing?” I reply, fishing for more information.

“Whatever we tell you to.”

I glare down at my white sheets and grit my teeth together.  Helplessness is a feeling I’m way too accustomed to; a feeling I detest.  I think about James and what he would tell me to do if he were here. 

“Okay,” I finally say, although halfheartedly.  My hands clench together, turning my knuckles white. 

“You’re agreeing?” Edelin presses.

“Yes,” I snap.

He smiles his eerie smile again, showing too much teeth.  “Good.”  He follows my gaze down to my leg.  “That should heal soon,” he states.  “Then we’ll get down to business.”

I look up to him in puzzlement, but he only smiles again and leaves before I can utter a sound.  The door closes behind him and the noise echoes throughout my room like a fading drum.  As I look around I realize this area is less like a hospital room and more like a jail cell.  The walls are white and when I look closer, padded, like an insane asylum.  Anxiety creeps over me at the comparison.  There’s nothing in the room other than my bed and the IV stand beside me.  I look over at the door to see one of the guards watching me through the window.  When our eyes meet, he looks away. 

I stare down at my hands, still bandaged from when Jed had last changed them.  The white medical tape is a rusty brown from blood and dirt.  I was supposed to change them in the last few days but never really got the chance.  Suddenly I remember our bags but when I look around, I see that there’s nothing in sight.  Just like I suspected.  James probably has them.  Or, at least, I hope so. 

I also hope they’re telling the truth and that he’s home with Jed.  I think about last seeing him, leaning over me, telling me something I couldn’t understand while the world around me went fuzzy.  I can imagine his reaction when he was sent home and I was kept back.  I can almost see the anger, hurt, and fear in his eyes.   

The remembrance of our hands clasped together and his lips against mine suddenly assaults me and I feel tears spring to my eyes.  I’ve never been the kind to cling to someone, or to need a person there to help me, but for some reason I want James with me more than anything else in the world.  He’d tell me its okay and he’d figure it out with me in that calm and collected way of his.

I squeeze my eyes shut and realize that he was right when he called me rash and hasty.  I wonder why it took me so long to realize that I’m a better person when James is around. 

I feel a tear slide out of the corner of my eye but I bite my lip and tell myself to hold them back.  For someone so supposedly powerful, I’m so incredibly frightened.  It’s as if Jed’s marionette experiment made me weaker, instead of stronger.  Now I’m somebody that’s important, valuable, and also a problem.  Jed’s experiment only made me more afraid than I already was.  Of everything.  The world.  Of people.  Of me. 

I suddenly think about God and my conversation with James on the train.  I clutch the cross around my neck and start to pray for the first time in what I know must be years, begging for help.  To help me fight the overwhelming panic stirring deep within me and the itch to run when I know I never can.  I feel my fists unclench and my chest suddenly relax as I sit as curled up as I can be, my arms huddled around my middle, holding me together as I try to stay in one piece. 

19

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A
week goes by before they let me try to wobble around on crutches and when I do it’s too painful to really perform successfully.  But by the end of the month I’m able to limp around the room without too much pain, although sprinting for an exit wouldn’t exactly be a viable option.  I’ve only seen Administrator Edelin once since he first introduced himself and he only came by to observe my progress.  I’m mostly just visited by the doctor and a few nurses and none of them are very friendly.  They act like I’m a threat and that treating me for a gunshot wound is a waste of time.  Like I should have been left to bleed to death on the pavement.  Sometimes I wonder why they didn’t.

I think back to when I was shot and James caught me as I fell to the ground.  I think of the words forming on his lips, the words that disappeared before I could understand them.  I wonder what he had been saying. 
Don’t let them
...what?  The only memories I have are the colors dancing across my vision as I closed my eyes.   

I haven’t met or even glimpsed Head Devere and I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved about it.  Just the fact that I’m in one of her facilities, most likely close to wherever she resides, sends shivers up my spine.  I’ve only seen her in pictures, sad-looking and reserved.  She always seems angry in a quiet kind of way. 

I still don’t know what I’ve really signed up for yet.  I’m being treated and my wound is healing but what will come after this, I’m afraid to find out.  What did my life cost? 

“Penelope Trump,” Administrator Edelin says one day as he stalks into my cell, two other administrators in tow. 

I look up from the magazine I’d been reading.  For the fourth time.  I watch them in silence as the administrators position themselves in a huddle behind Edelin as if afraid to come near me. 

“We’d like to ask you to demonstrate a few things,” Edelin explains.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, thinking of all the demonstrations I’ve gone through, over and over, the same thing every time. 

One of the administrators pulls forward a large bag I hadn’t noticed until now; black like their suits.  He reaches in and pulls out a large cooking pot, placing it on the bed in front of me.  I stare at it blankly. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask after a long pause where no one offers any information.  “Cook?” 

“Crush it.”

I shake my head, the words
I can’t
about to form on my lips when I realize that my throat won’t allow me that lie. 

“Miss Trump,” Edelin says in a patronizing manner.  “We had an agreement.” 

I grit my teeth together and reluctantly reach out to bend the edge of the pot, curving the top slightly inwards. 

I see Edelin’s eyebrows crease together slightly.  “That’s all?” he asks in a tone suggesting he knows the answer.  His fingers tap impatiently on the suitcase. 

I nod, clamping my teeth together, holding the truth inside of me. 

“What about your car?” he asks, his tone darkening.

“Extreme circumstances,” I answer, edging around my lie.

“I doubt it,” one of the other administrator’s jumps in, his tone betraying his frustration.

I glare at them, wishing they’d leave and that I’d suddenly lose every ‘gift’ that Jed had given me.  I glare at the slightly bent pot, thinking.  “My friend was stuck and I had to get him out,” I state, reaching for my magazine. 

“Bend the pot,” the second administrator demands, stepping forward. 

I ignore him and turn the page, feeling anger and frustration boil inside of me as well.

“Bend it!” he shouts and suddenly he reaches towards me, to take the magazine or to slap me across the face, I’m not sure.  But I don’t give him the chance. 

Anger courses through me as I reach up to grasp his wrist in my hand before it’s even a foot away from me.  I hop off the table, slightly unsteady on my feet, but the glower in my eyes makes up for it.  I squeeze the man’s wrist and his eyes widen in shock.  He takes a step away but I follow him.  I’m not holding his wrist particularly hard but he makes a small sound when he tries to yank away and is unable to.

“Go ahead and break it,” I hear Edelin say from beside me and I turn to him in shock.

“What?” I ask hollowly, my anger suddenly washing away. 

He smiles.  “You heard me.  His hand.  Break it if you want to.” 

I stare at him in disbelief and when I turn back to the administrator, fear darkens in his eyes like venom, overtaking his every move.  Alarm at what I’m doing suddenly registers within me and I instantly drop his wrist in shock.  He steps away, rubbing the red marks on his hand in the shape of my fingertips.

I grit my teeth and turn back to the pot, taking it in my hands and crumpling it to the size of my fist within seconds.  “You want it crushed?” I ask.  “Here.” I fling the contorted pot at the wall, watching as it bounces off the padding and clangs to the floor, one of its handles shattering off and clinking to a stop. 

Edelin smiles although the other administrator still looks pale and frightened.  He glances at Edelin in fearful anger as if he’s too afraid to oppose him but still surprised at his nonchalant regard.  The third one just watches me like I’m a wild animal, afraid to come near me but too intrigued to leave.

There’s a long pause while Edelin regards me with his creepy smile.  “Thank you, Miss Trump,” he says, although it isn’t much of a thank you; more of a gloat.  He turns to the other two as if questioning them.  “I believe that will be all.” 

I watch them walk away, taking the pot and the bag and locking the door behind them.  The sound echoes throughout the room like a bell that never ends, slowly fading off and being replaced by the ringing in my ears.  Dread clamps around my heart as I stare at the wall where the pot tore the padding and made a dent on the polished, white floor.   

Marionettes can do card tricks and crush rocks between their fingertips.  They can dance and twirl faster than the human eye can see and sprint across a stage before you notice that they’ve moved.  But they can’t grab someone.  They can’t catch a squirming person or chase them.  They can’t kill.    

But I can. 

20

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T
he door to my cell room opens and Administrator Edelin stands outside it.  “Miss Trump,” he greets me with a smile so fake it makes my teeth hurt. 

I hop off my bed where I had been sitting to watch him.

“Please come with me.”  His voice is monotone and his manner is stiff. 

I raise my eyebrows in surprise, but he only beckons me impatiently.  I hurry out the door and follow him down the long corridor, the cold floor seeping through my slippers and making me shiver.  I haven’t left my room at all since coming here, other than to use the bathroom only a few doors down.  Edelin’s dark boots make clicking sounds against the linoleum floor while my padded shoes make a scuffing noise.  All of my old clothes had been taken away and in replacement, I was given plain dark pants and a T-shirt.  I don’t even have my old shoes anymore. 

“Try not to limp,” Edelin tells me irritably while I try to ignore the slight stinging sensation that remains of my wound.  He opens a door and ushers me inside an area much like my room, although more of a typical jail setup.  Four cells with bars for walls line up against the back wall, three of them occupied.

“This is Penelope Trump,” Administrator Edelin introduces me as if we’re at a party.  I give him an odd look.  The three men eye me suspiciously without a word, their eyes flicking between me and Edelin.  “I trust you’ve heard of her.  The living marionette,” he adds upon their silence. 

I see one of the men unwrap his fingers from around the metal bars and bring them to his side as if afraid I might reach out and grab him.  As if my touch will disintegrate him on the spot.  Administrator Edelin turns to the man on the far right whose sharp eyes are glued on mine.  He looks unlike the other two in the cells beside him, disheveled and dirty.  In contrast, he has on a suit and tie, smudged and ruffled, but still expensive-looking.  I look away from him and around the room, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. 

“Miss Trump,” Edelin says.  “Would you mind letting this gentleman out of his cage?”

I give him a quizzical look and then turn back to the man who’s eyeing me angrily, although why, I have no idea.  “The key?” I ask after a pause, holding out my hand.