Page 13 of Anarchy Chained: Alpha Thomas

CHAPTER FIVE - THOMAS

It’s not being strapped to a table that starts the panic. It’s not the injection, or the way reality begins to expand almost instantaneously as the burning liquid makes its way up my arm towards my heart. It’s not even the second alarm. I can only see a slice of reality through the nearly shut lids of my eyes, but everyone in this room ignores that alarm.

It’s the memories that come flooding back as they open me up. Not my body, but my mind.

Panic for me has unique consequences. And these people have no idea what they’ve started.

“Thomas,” Yasmine says. Her voice is far away and echo-y. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. Smell her. Sense her in other ways too. There is a spongy aura surrounding her body. Everyone’s body. But all I see is hers, because she is closest to me. “Can you hear me?”

I have known Yasmine since we were small. She was probably my best friend at one time. My only friend for a long time. Her hair was always dark—unless she was standing in front of a window and the sunlight could catch the ends and highlight her head in gold. And it was always long. She was a lot like Molly, I think. Except Molly is a lot younger. She wasn’t even born yet when I knew Yasmine.

“Can you hear me?” she repeats.

It’s dangerous to answer her. I remember this much. Especially under the drugs. She’s a level eight mentalist. Not a ten, like me. But she is a level ten manipulist. And a level ten capturist.

She can steal minds under the right conditions.

She’s wrong if she thinks this is “right conditions,” but I don’t tell her that.

“Thomas,” she tries again.

My very first memory was in my nursery. I was four, maybe. Five, at the most. It doesn’t help to describe the nursery, because the nursery was perfect. Everything was new and high-quality. A finely polished sleigh bed, sized for a small child, with bright white linens, soft pillows and blankets, and stuffed animals.

There were toys to engage my mind and a rocking chair that reminded me of the nurse who cared for me. There was a large mobile in front of the window, just above where I would lay my head at night. It was a flock of flying birds. They would swing and bob on their wire tethers, each one weighted slightly differently to simulate natural behavior. If birds flying in a perpetual circle are considered natural.

“Do I have to dose you again?” Yasmine asks in the now.

She can give me more, but I can’t be responsible for what happens if she does.

The memory of the nursery is always where things start. Something pretty bad happened in there. And when you’re four or five, pretty bad can mean a whole plethora of things that have no real consequence whatsoever.

But that’s not how this memory shakes out because this isn’t a real memory. Oh, the nursery was real. The nurse too. All the things in there. But this… what’s happening to me right now… this is a trigger.

Oh, no. Yasmine is not going to like this at all.

If I had better control of my facial muscles I’d smile. Give her a little peek. A little jolt. A little glimpse into what’s coming.

A chance to escape, maybe. I have never actually hated her. I just… dislike her a lot. Still, I’d let her get away if she could manage it. I’m loyal like that, even though she doesn’t deserve it. She helped me once. We were friends. But then they took her away and she never came back.

She’s not paying enough attention right now. She thinks she’s got me. She thinks she’s the one in control. She thinks a whole lot of things that aren’t really happening.

And why is that?

I’ll tell you. If you can keep a secret, I’ll let you in.

“Come closer.” I don’t mean to speak, but the whisper comes out anyway. This is the part I can’t control. But you understand, right? You’re me, so you must.

“What is it?” Yasmine asks, leaning in. Closer. Then closer still.

“You’re not,” I whisper. Again, not meaning to.

“I’m not what?” she asks.

I don’t think Yasmine hates me either. I think she’s just… one of those women. The controlling types. As least she thinks she is. But no matter how many straps are holding me down to this table, and no matter how many syringes she empties into my bloodstream… she will never control me. I made sure of it.

“Aggressive enough.” There. I said it. A small, weak chuckle escapes my lips. She’s a level two aggressionist, which means she cannot really force people to do things against their will.

“Fuck you,” she whispers back. Her lips are so close to my cheek I can feel her breath.