Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

That’s an extreme example , Wallace admitted. This is a guy who’s been sitting in the lotus position since he was four years old. But the principle is the same. It’s workable. He’d smiled a thin, crooked smile. We like workable.

I’ve turned Barnaby’s lessons into a small salvation, and it is keeping me tethered to myself, in the dark.

Everything is black when I close my eyes, as now, but once they are closed, the light goes on, or the sun comes up, or the moon rises.

Right now I am in a meadow at noon. The meadow is full of flowers. They stand as tall and thick as wheat in a field and are a rich riot of rainbow colors. They are vivid and vibrant and beautiful. In the center of the meadow is a large circle of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Birdsong and wind are the dominant sounds, both low and perfect. I am overwhelmed with images that contain beauty but no sense: a silo filled with sawdust, rich in smells; apples with sugar sores; fresh cut wheat, spring’s rebellion.

I sit on the grass in the meadow and I talk to my unborn child. It is neither he nor she, it is a small blur of roughly human-shaped light. I speak to it aloud, but it talks to me with its mind.

“What do I do when he knows about you?” I ask, and then laugh at my own poetry. “Time, time, to make up a rhyme. But seriously, baby, what do I do?”

You wait, Mother. And you hope. If you want to, you can pray, but only if you want to. The faith you need here is in you and me. God needs no faith to survive. He is here now beside you, regardless of your regard.

Baby is very theological, which I find somehow both comforting and annoying.

“God, here? Give me a break.” He is here.

“Reaaaaally. What kind of God are we talking about? The serious-looking dude with the big white beard? The Indian-type God with eight arms and a mysterious knowing smile? Or should we go animal? A white buffalo in the distance, maybe?”

God doesn’t have to be an embodiment, Mother. God can be an activity. God is loving a husband, raising a child. God is reading a good book or saving a life. God is pride in a job well done and forgiveness given when it’s deserved. You don’t have to prostrate yourself, or burn incense, or live in fear of a lightning strike. You just have to live and love and do your best in both. That’s God, and that’s heaven, and it’s not something we have to wait until we die to find. It’s here, now, in all of us.

Baby is wise, of course, as all disembodied children of light tend to be. The words ring in the meadow air, even though they were only thought, not spoken. They are dulcet, birdsong, pure.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, smelling the flowers. I turn my head toward the sky so the always-high-noon sun can beat down on my face unencumbered, and I taste the sun-sugar on my lips. I close my eyes behind my eyes, but here there is no darkness, only light.

“Jury’s still out, baby, but I have to say, I like that version of heaven better. You know the problem I always have with the heaven concept? The people who believe in it have no vested interest in leaving behind a better world. You know what I mean? I don’t buy into the whole reincarnation thing either, but at least it tells you, hey, you’re coming back to this world, so it’s in your interest to leave it in better shape than you found it.”

Baby glows brighter, then softer.

Belief isn’t important, Mother. What you do right now is who you are.

I smell the jasmine and I laugh. It doesn’t belong in this beautiful place, that laugh. It has too much despair in it.

“So what does that make me? I escape in my head to a place that does not exist but is more real to me than reality, and I speak to a glowing baby/theologian that’s actually just a collection of cells in my tummy. I guess that makes me nuts, huh?”

It’s keeping you sane, not making you crazy.

I consider this possibility.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall jolts me away from the light. My eyes fly open and I am in the blackness again.

No, no, no, keep your eyes closed this time! That was the plan!

Create victories , Barnaby Wallace had told us. It doesn’t matter if they’re small. It only matters that you can feel them. Torture, imprisonment, these are about taking things away. Find things to keep. Might be exercise. Might be small bits of disobedience. As long as you feel like you’re doing something to prepare for the eventuality of escape, you’ll probably stay sane.

The footsteps approach and I squinch my eyes shut, as tightly as I can. The footsteps stop and the lights come on. Even through my eyelids, it’s almost blinding. I hear the sounds of the locks being disengaged. I open my eyes a little. The light comes in, but I am not blind. Good! Good!

I keep my eyes open now but feign the usual disorientation and blindness. The door opens and I look while trying to appear as if I’m seeing nothing. I see Dali for the first time. I am both elated and disappointed.

He’s a small man, dressed in a baggy jacket over a T-shirt, loose blue jeans leading down to hiking boots. He’s wearing a ski mask over his head, which hides his features. He approaches me with the stun gun, and I scan for any other distinguishing marks as I pretend to be blind. I see one thing just before the gun contacts the side of my neck. It’s subtle, and I am uncertain. I have no time to process it fully before my body begins to spasm, and I go down.

He shocks me again, twice. Grayness soaks my vision and I really am blind.

A moment later, the prick of a needle and a white light explodes inside my head like a bomb blast. I fall into it.

I wake up as before, facedown, shackled, bound. I shiver against my will at the thought of getting whipped again. I wonder frantically what I could have done to deserve punishment?

Watch that “deserve,” Barrett. That’s prisoner-think. That’s victim-think. You don’t deserve anything that’s happening here.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here, number 35,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring you here because of any infraction. You’ve been a model unit.”

Unit. Number 35. Just storing meat.

“You’re here because I’m going to be asking you to make a choice. I’m going to ask you to decide whom I cripple and release: you, or number 36.”

“Who is number 36?”

“The other young agent I brought here after you.”

My heart lurches. Leo?

“Cripple and release? I don’t understand.”

“You’ve seen what I’m talking about. Dana Hollister is an example.”

Now it’s my stomach that responds. It rolls dangerously.

“I don’t want to make that decision.” My mouth is full of phlegm and bile. I force myself to swallow it all down.

“If you don’t decide, then you are the decision.”

A moment of blackness, almost like unconsciousness, passes over me. The world’s full of cotton.

“Why?”

“They’re continuing to hunt me. I need to send another message.”

“It won’t work. They won’t listen, don’t you see? There’s no reason for you to do this if it won’t make a difference.”

“It’s going to happen. The question: Who is it going to be?”

“Why do I get to be the one who decides?”

“I flipped a coin. You won the toss.”

I can’t speak for a moment. My face wants to twist into a sob. I fight it back.

“Why—why am I here, in this room?”

“I’m going to bring him in, and then I will leave you two alone for five minutes. You can tell him about the choice you have to make or not. I’ll leave that up to you. You are not allowed to discuss the subject of escape. When the five minutes are up, I’ll come back. I’ll return him to his room, and then I’ll ask you for your decision. The procedure will be performed an hour later.”