Page 33 of Kylie

He didn’t sound like the same man I’d heard before. Not the one in the room or the speaker. He was polite, yet curt. I assumed he was talking to me, but it didn’t matter. Other than the slight shift of my arm, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel my legs at all.

Time stood still while they did whatever they were doing.

I felt movement near my face and then a moment later, I was coughing and gasping, my throat burning as something was pulled out of me.

“She’ll be fine. Give her a minute.”

Fine? I was pretty sure that was a relative term, and it had nothing to do with how I was feeling now.

I continued to cough and sputter, attempting to catch my breath. My chest felt tight, but air was moving in and out of my lungs. Since that other man had asked if I could breathe on my own, I figured that was a good thing.

“Do we need to keep the blindfold on her?” this man asked, sounding irritated.

Blindfold?

I reached for the blindfold, and this time my arm moved, but something stopped it before I could touch my face.

“Can you release one of her hands at least?”

“The shackles stay on,” the woman insisted. “He wants her restrained at all times.”

What I wanted to know was who he was and why he got a say in it.

“I still don’t understand what she’s done,” the man stated.

“According to him, she’s a terrorist.”

I stopped breathing momentarily. A terrorist? Me? What did I do?

“Kylie?”

Exhaling with a huff, I fought the fog that enveloped my memory. I tried to think back to how I ended up here. Wherever here was. Nothing made sense. The last thing I remembered was coming home from school, stopping to talk to Jessie because she refused to have dinner with Dad and me. She could be a serious pain in the ass.

“Kylie? Can you hear me?” the man said, concern threaded through the words.

“Yes,” I answered before I could even think about it.

“At least she’s responsive,” the woman said.

Yes. And she now knows her name, I thought to myself. I’m Kylie. Aside from nomenclature, I couldn’t come up with anything else about myself. How old was I? Where did I live? And what in the world did I do to be classified as a terrorist? Did I kill someone?

Oh, God. I hoped not.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t sedate her anymore,” the man noted. “She’s breathing on her own and her stats are good. I would suggest your boss have her transferred to a prison hospital where they can handle her care.”

A prison hospital?

Cold, slimy fear slithered through me. Was I really a criminal?

“Or will he take her to a black site?” the man asked.

A black site? I had a feeling I was supposed to know what that was, but I came up blank. Was it a place with dark walls?

“That information is above my pay grade,” the woman said. “And if you value your current existence, you won’t ask more questions.”

“Understood. If you need anything else…” The sound of footsteps retreating filled the blanks, followed by, “I suggest you find another physician.”

I felt alone in the room, but I got the impression someone was there. The thick silence settled like a fog until it made my ears itch. I took stock of the smells and sounds once more. They were the same. The scratchy blanket was still spread over me. The harsh scent of rubbing alcohol and cleanser filled my nostrils; the steady beeping sound was interrupted every so often by the click-hum-hiss.