Requiem (49 page)

There was a
guitar resting against the sofa. Mother was strumming it but wasn't
playing any music. The door was open. A breeze was coming in. She
could hear muffled voices. Laughter. There was more than two of
them. Three. Four. Five. Six. They were yelling at her. Like a
choir of mocking crows: 'Seliney is a weeny! Seliney is a weeny!'
She hated them. The light broke through and with it came the pain.
Trickling and trickling then pouring over her. She was absorbing it
all like the children's taunting words. Soft bundles of pink tissue
separated and cried for one another, their bloody tears tumbling
down.

The Cockroach
had stopped rubbing himself. He stood in front of her again.

'The world is
bigger than you, Seline. You need to understand that. I'm giving
you a chance to do something important – to matter, to further
humanity.'

She punched him
right in the mouth. His teeth dug into her knuckles. Three stitches
from the school nurse and disappointment from Mother.

Bitterness,
anger, frustration.

'I
will
grind you into the ground, Seline. I
will
split you in two.
And once I've broken you, I will show you the expanse of the human
empire beneath the heel of NeoCorp. The threat that approaches from
beyond the Tryil Gate will be tamed, will be turned on our enemies
and you will play your role – for both sides.'

She pushed him
over the curb. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. It was
the feeling she hated, not him. She would be in her head kicking
them if she could but he would have to make do.

The Cockroach
breathed her in and sighed.

'When we next
see each other, I will not stop until I feel you snap.'

He licked the
side of her face, paused then walked towards the door without
looking back. The Frog opened it and left with him, pulling the
door shut. The metal bolt clanged into place.

Seline looked
at her reflection. For the first time she realised that she looked
just like her mother. 'Why?' she asked the reflection. She fell
asleep with her head down. The blood formed a pool around her
feet.

The tingling
sensation behind her eyes told her she was awake. The door wasn't
open, not even a little. He was probably waiting on the other side,
his mouth open with his dick in his hand, drooling like a limp,
impotent serpent. Her body was rigid, locked in place, like a
miscarriage. Silent. Withered. Cold.

In the back of
her mind, the words were small and weak. Detached from substance.
The sentiment of some forgotten emotion trying to justify
itself.

Death and the
fear of death are two completely different things. One forces you
to give in, the other only asks you to.

Her gaze
shifted around the room. It was unchanged. Lying motionless on the
floor she stared right through the door out into the implacable
darkness that surrounded her and her little white room. Her body
was anchored to the floor. A massive celestial body. She bent the
surrounding space upon itself. A gravitational well that had grown
to the point of collapse. She knew the universe didn't allocate to
her its centre but the weight pressing upon her made it feel the
very same. Her temples pulsed violently. Her brain was jostling and
shifting around as if a mind not her own was occupying her
skull.

She started
pushing herself from the floor. As badly as she wanted to sleep she
needed to get up, to get back into that chair and show them her
lesson had been learned. The Cockroach had waited long enough.

Death and the
fear of death are two completely different things. One forces you
to give in, the other only asks you to.

'Shut up. I
don't need your advice.'

Her lips had
scabbed over, broken again, they continued to bleed. Her muscles
screamed in agony. She placed a hand on the chair to steady
herself. The hand was coated with blood and, save for her thumb,
each digit was furnished with dried clots of blood for fingernails.
She put some weight onto her right leg but could feel bone scraping
upon bone.

She tried her
left leg. At least she could apply some pressure to it. She crawled
up the side of the chair until she was half laying across the seat.
She could see herself in the mirror. Her mind didn't feel like it
belonged to that gaunt, disposed figure reflected back at her. She
was topless. The black underwear she wore were wet with holes and
tears along the stitching. The only remnant of a life outside the
white cell. Lacerations covered her body. Some had dried, others
still bled. She looked like a piece of obscure art or sculpture,
something that belonged in a museum inside a glass case with a 'do
not touch the display' sign running across the front.

She put some
weight onto her right arm. It held her long enough to allow her to
slide onto the chair. The bruises on her back and legs become
familiar once again.

'Are you happy
now?' she said to the mirror.

She waited in
that bleak, expectant silence for a response. For footsteps. For
the Cockroach and the Frog. But nothing came.

'This is what
you wanted isn't it?'

She spat blood
from her mouth. It slapped against the mirror and slithered down to
the floor. Still, the door remained closed.

Death and the
fear of death are two-

'Shut up!'

Death and the
fear of-

'Shut the fuck
up!'

Death and the
fear-

'Just shut your
goddamn mouth... please.'

Death and the
fear of death are two completely different things.

'… I know. I
fucking know. One forces you to give in... the other only asks you
to.'

Death and the
fear of death-

'Are two
completely different things.'

She sighed.
Looked at her reflection. Spat into the drain. She breathed in as
much as she was able. The pain in her ribs kept her breaths
shallow. Seated in the chair... it was a cold comfort, this idea
they'd handed to her. The Cockroach had told her he was proud of
her. He said that he believed in her, that under his tutelage she
would learn something. That same something involved sitting back in
the chair. It involved ignoring the door – any door in fact. To
stop pain all one had to do was remain in place. To stand steadfast
and embrace a sort of numbing comfort and complacency that could
make any reality acceptable. To abandon hope was to abandon pain.
This was what they offered her. It was a whore. A painted cadaver
standing on a street corner awaiting a coinless patronage. The vice
on her skull tightened. She ignored it. She sucked in her shallow
breaths.

The more she
resisted the more broken she would become but to not resist was
surely a form of suicide equal in consequence.

She waited for
some strength to return to her but it wouldn't come. She realised
that this was as strong as she was going to get.

Death and the
fear of death-

To quiet the
voice, to jam a stick through the spokes of her circular thoughts,
she would have to move. It would have to be small steps from here
on out. Small goals. First would be standing upright. Then reaching
the door. Then opening the door. Then...

Whatever the
fuck they decide to do to me.

She pushed off
her right arm and stepped away from the chair to test the strength
in her legs but immediately felt sick. Her stomach contorted and
heaved inside her, forcing its emptiness up her throat. The taste
of blood and saliva. More emptiness ran out her throat in coughs
and dry retches that couldn't deliver on their promises. She leaned
against the chair to let her stomach settle. She waited and waited
but nothing was getting better. With every minute she waited, her
heart felt like it was dropping a beat. She looked at the door then
at her right arm. It was almost completely useless now. Dead weight
save as a device for propping her up on the floor. She wanted it
gone but most of the screws had been bashed into the fibre
plates.

In stages of
spastic, broken movement she pushed herself from the chair. She
swayed back and forward then shuffled a foot towards the door.

She limped
across the room, stopping with every step to listen for movement
from the other side. She reached the door and grabbed the bottom
ledge of the tiny window with both hands. She peered through but
could only see the blank wall of a corridor, running left to
right.

She wrapped her
one functioning hand around the thin hand rail, barely able to
close it into a fist. She tested the weight of the door with a
gentle tug. It didn't move. She gave it another tug. It still
didn't move. She breathed in as deep as she could manage. Then out.
Then in again.

'On three,' she
said to herself.

'One...' she
leaned into the door.

'Two...' she
closed her eyes.

'Three...' she
pulled back as hard as she could, screaming from the pain that
surged the entire length of her body. Her hand slipped from the
rail. She reeled back, crashing to floor, moaning and writhing in
pain.

Still lying
flat on her back she looked back at the door. It was only slightly
opened, maybe just enough to squeeze through. She forced herself
onto her side and shuffled along the floor towards the opening.

She pushed her
head through the gap and looked around. No one. She forced her
shoulders through the gap. She tried to wriggle the rest of her
body through but couldn't find the space.

One fucking
cup size too big.

She tried to
pull her head back into the room but it wouldn't fit, as if it had
somehow grown since she'd pushed it through the door. No angle she
could find would make her head any smaller. She continued to
wriggle and force herself through the gap without success. The pain
turned to frustration.

She struggled
and kicked and squirmed and finally with a last desperate shove
from the hand that she'd pushed through the gap, the door shifted
another inch. She dragged the rest of her body through and lay on
the floor of the hallway, exhausted.

The adrenaline
trickled through her like a dried up creek bed. She sat up and
shuffled to the side so her back was against the wall. This was
where the Frog would normally wait. This is where the Frog would
stand whenever she tried to escape. She pushed herself up with her
left arm. What blood she had left rushed into her head. She almost
blacked out and fell to the floor again but the wall kept her
upright. She began to move past the door but stopped. How far would
they really let her get this time? Maybe if she just crawled back
to the chair and strapped herself in they'd take some pity. Maybe
they'd even reward her. The vice tightened once again. She raised
her bloody fingers to the side of her head.

'Death is the
only reward they can offer,' came her mother's voice. It was harsh
and hurt her ears, her eyes, her throat and spine.

She looked
around but she already knew where the voice came from.

'You say that
like it's a bad thing,' said Seline.

'You think you
can accept death do you?'

She took a deep
breath. 'In the face of what they might do to me, isn't it the
logical choice?'

'Tell that to
the voice inside your head. The one you're arguing with right now.
The one that only gets louder as time goes on and remembers the
things you worked so hard to forget. The one you see in the
reflection when you're debating the merits of your own
torture.'

'You aren't the
one going through this!'

'I am.'

'Bullshit. You
have no idea what it's like.'

'I do. And if
you can convince every single memory that they truly mean nothing
to you then walk back into that room, strap yourself in and wait
for death. I'm sure they'll give it to you. It won't come
immediately, you know that, but if you keep your hopes up it might
come eventually.'

'Don't fucking
patronise me.'

'Then make a
decision.'

'There is no
decision to make! If I keep going they'll do a lot worse than kill
me. If I go back they might at least show
some
mercy.'

'Make the
decision. Sit back down and hope for the mercy of death or keep
walking and hope for freedom.'

'How am I
supposed to know what to do? Every time I get up they just hit me
harder. Each time, the fall becomes further and further. They've
shown me what hope is and it can't be trusted. Either way I'm
fucked. I don't know what I'm supposed to do any more. I don't know
what I should want. I... I can't make this decision.'

'Then let me
make it for you.'

If she'd looked
she would've been able to see back into the room but she didn't.
The vice loosened. She staggered down the hall way, tripped and
forced herself up again. She placed her hand on the wall for
balance then realised it was easier if she just leaned her entire
body against it. She made her way down the hallway until she came
to a massive door that sealed it off completely. She couldn't see
any way to open it, no buttons, no panels, no handles, just a
smooth, clean surface.

She looked
behind. Droplets of blood followed her down the hallway like a
trail of breadcrumbs. As far as she could tell, the door was the
only way forward. She leaned against it, light headed and unsure
how to continue. Before she could react, the door opened. It parted
right down its centre. Seline stumbled through the opening. She
fell. Something soft and wet cushioned her fall. Amidst the blood
and bullet holes that covered the man's body she noticed the number
two circulation around his arm.

She pushed
herself from the body, slipping in the pool of blood that had
collected on the floor. She looked urgently around the room.
Several metres away, mounted on the wall was one of the station's
automated defence turrets. The gun was pointed at her. If it wanted
her dead then she would already be a body, lying like Swiss cheese
on the floor. She looked at the body again. Thin wisps of hair had
unstuck from the bald crown. There was a large hole through his
neck and some of his lower jaw was missing. His thin dark
moustache, although stained with blood, remained intact. The
centres of his eyes were no longer shivering. The Cockroach was
dead. Seline didn't care. She only wondered why.