Amy Cross - Persona

“Help!” I scream, as my whole body starts convulsing with sobs. “I don’t want this! Let me go! Stop—”

Suddenly the machine comes to life above me, clunking heavily as the metal arms and gears start to move. I stare in stunned horror as the lights start to turn in a series of concentric circles, and my terrified face is reflected in the mirror at the very center of the device. At the same time, several mechanical arms start to adjust into new positions, each with a long, thin needle at the end. A moment later, there’s a loud banging sound followed by a repetitive, echoing thud that seems to be coming from the ceiling, and finally the metal disc starts to shudder as it descends toward me. Pneumatic valves hiss and stutter.

“No!” I shout, filled with panic. “You’re not allowed do this to me!”

“You want to serve your society, don’t you?” Doctor Phillips asks calmly, her voice barely audible over the machine’s approaching hum. “You’re so lucky, Asher. Most people struggle to work out where they fit in, but you’ve been chosen to play a very special role. The war has been going on for so very long, but it’s people like you who offer us a chance to finally win. You’re going to be useful , Asher. Don’t you want to be useful? So few people get to be truly useful.”

“Stop!” I shout as the machine comes closer and closer. The mechanical arms are constantly adjusting, as if they’re working out exactly where to insert their needles once they reach my face. At the same time, a pulsing light has begun to flash in the machine’s center, constantly cycling between a blinding white glare and a hollow darkness. It’s trying to make me go to sleep like last time, and I can still see the lights even when I squeeze my eyes tight shut.

“Let the machine lull you to sleep,” Doctor Phillips’ voice continues nearby. “You can’t fight this, Asher. You can’t even try. Embrace your destiny.”

“No!” I scream, but when I squeeze my eyes even tighter shut I find that the light is somehow still pulsing, flashing through my mind. I squeeze tighter and tighter until my eyes hurt, but a moment later I feel the tips of the needles touching my face in several different spots, slowly pushing down until they start to perforate my skin. I try to scream, but the light in my mind is too strong and I don’t even know if anyone else can hear me. Finally, I feel some kind of liquid being pumped into my face, burning as it enters my brain.

When I try to scream again, I can feel the inside of my skull vibrating. After that, I slip into darkness, and everything goes quiet.

Thirty years later

I can hear them out there in the rain. Shouting. Arguing. Waiting for me to make a decision. The chaos of angry, scared people who live in constant fear. People who look to me for answers when things get tough.

“It’s time.”

Turning to look across the dark hut, I see Deckard framed in the doorway. I should have known he’d be the one to come and push me, to force me to step up. He never wastes an opportunity these days to express his distrust, or to let me know with subtle digs that he thinks I’m making mistakes. The worst thing is, he’s right.

“I could do it if you prefer,” he continues. “I mean, if you can’t…”

“No,” I reply, getting to my feet. He’d love the chance to take control, to show the others that he’s stronger than me. It’d make him so happy if he could chip away at my authority just a little more. “It has to be me.”

“So have you made a decision?”

I pause for a moment, listening to the raised voices outside, coming from the main part of our little town. The people of Steadfall are angry and frustrated, and they need a strong leader to take a stand. They need someone who’ll make quick, firm decisions. The problem is, their idea of a strong leader might not be the same as mine, so which role do I choose to act out in front of them? Do I give them what they want, or do I impose my will? Why can’t I just know instinctively what to do in these situations?

“Asher,” Deckard says after a moment, “the longer you wait—”

“I know,” I mutter, heading over to him. I’ve been sitting here alone in the hut all morning, trying to make a choice, and now the bright light actually hurts my eyes for a moment as I reach the doorway. I look out at the patch of dirt that serves as our community’s meeting point, and I see that pretty much everyone has come to take part in this moment. There’s so much noise out there now, so many people are jostling for position and shouting their opinion. So much anger and fury and hatred, and I’m supposed to make everything okay again. They want blood, and anything less will just add fuel to the fire.

“I’m ready,” I say finally, as Deckard steps up behind me. “I’ve decided what we’re going to do.”

“Kill him!” an angry voice shouts above the others. “Make an example of him! Show him what we do to thieves!”

“You’re not gonna let him go again, are you?” a woman asks as I walk past her, making my way through the crowd. A cold wind is blowing steadily out here now, but that hasn’t deterred people from gathering for the spectacle. “You can’t let him walk away, not this time. He’ll just come back again and again!”

“Stupid bitch!” another woman sneers.

I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response. I’ve been called worse.

Up ahead, old Harry Shaw is on his knees, held down by two men who have their hands planted firmly on his shoulders. Harry is naked and covered in mud that has begun to mix into his wounds, and it’s clear that he’s taken another beating. People are standing back from him a little now that I’m here, but only because they know I don’t approve of mob justice. I don’t want Steadfall to be completely lawless. When a problem like Harry Shaw comes up, I want it dealt with fairly.

Right now, that means I have to decide his fate.

His life is in my hands.

I’ve encountered Harry several times over the past couple of years but I’ve never worked out his age. He’s so thin and wiry, he sometimes seems pretty young, but occasionally I also see lines on his face that make me think he’s in his fifties or even sixties. Life on the island is hard, and the lines of fear are often indistinguishable from the lines of age. Right now, Harry’s terrified white eyes stare at me from his mud-stained face as I step closer. We’ve been in this situation so many times before, and I’ve given him so many final warnings. Clearly the diplomatic approach is never going to work.

“Thief!” a man shouts.

Stopping in front of Harry, I watch as he struggles to get to his feet, only for the men to keep him on his knees.

“Let me go,” he stammers. “I won’t come back this time, I swear. I’ll go far way, I won’t steal anymore. You’ll never even see my face again!”

“He’s said that every time,” one of the men sneers. “How many times have we caught him stealing from our camp? How many more times have we spotted him but no-one managed to catch up to him? He’s nothing but a common thief!”

“I’ll handle this,” I say firmly, interrupting him as I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Harry’s face.

“What are you gonna do, then?” a woman shouts from the crowd.

“She won’t do anything,” another woman hisses. “She’s too weak.”

Turning, I see the baying faces of Steadfall’s residents. It’s hard to believe that just five years ago, this was a barren patch of land that I decided to turn into a town. Now, somehow, we have fifty-six residents who’ve arrived in dribs and drabs, and we’ve even managed to create several small wooden huts. Progress has been slow but steady, and Steadfall has come to resemble a rickety old town that somehow functions on a day-to-day basis. Right now, however, the citizens are after blood, and when I glance back at Harry I can’t help realizing that he’s become a real test of my leadership. I know people have been whispering, suggesting that others should take control of Steadfall, and I can’t afford to take another wrong step. I know exactly what they want me to do. Sometimes I think I should just give in and let them choose, but then this wouldn’t be my town anymore.