Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Who’s the better player now, little girl?
Before I change my mind about leaving her, I force myself to pull away and go on a hunt for Dad. I’m also keeping my eyes peeled for the CUP Star soldier, the dimwit doctor duet, and the mysterious S. This event is exactly what I’ve been working up to my entire life. It’s a culling of who’s who, giving me an eagle-eye view of the most elite and powerful this country has to offer. If there are clues to be had about Calista, at the top is where I’ll find them. I know this deep in my bones.
Calista, I haven’t forgotten about you.
It’s definitely crossed my mind several times that the texts “she” sent could have been fabricated by someone else. But, even if they were, it won’t change my objective to find her. That just means whoever has her is working overtime to make sure I don’t find her.
And that thought always circles me right back to my dad. He knows my desire to find Calista.
As if I have the power to make him materialize, I find Dad in conversation with a couple of men. When I approach, I recognize them to be Gideon Langston and President Huxley. They all three turn to see me at the same time. The tension that forms at my presence sends my senses on high alert.
What is it about me that they would all react that way?
Several theories assault me at once, but I don’t have time to ponder any of them thoroughly. I offer my hand in greeting, shaking hands with both Gideon and Huxley.
“Gentlemen,” I say in a forced, amicable tone. “What did I miss?”
Dad’s gaze remains impassive while Gideon’s jaw muscle ticks. They’re hiding something. It’s then I realize Huxley’s expression wildly differs from theirs.
He’s beaming at me.
Not that fake, practiced smile from on stage earlier.
No, this one is real, genuine, and honestly, off-putting.
Huxley continues to watch me like one might as their toddler takes his first steps. There’s a familiarity and pride there that makes me want to turn on my heel and run far from this weird fuck.
And yet…
My body feels unusually warm. There’s a tingle that starts from my head and dances its way through me to my extremities. I move my fingers and fist my hands, trying to shake the strange sensation out of me.
It’s a nice event.
Everyone’s so friendly.
If only we could pass this feeling to our friends, families, and even foes. This could be a new era. President Huxley truly is the best man in the position we’ve ever had.
Wait, what?
I realize all three men are watching me with interest now. My head feels fuzzy inside. Like I’ve been drugged.
The wine?
I watched the bartender open the bottle. It would have had to have been tainted before the cork popped. That’s not it.
I like this song.
Wait.
This song is the same song they were playing in the background when we arrived. In fact, I think it’s the only song, playing over and over on repeat.
The whistling is never ending. It makes me insane. Why must they play this part over and over and over again on repeat. To make me lose my mind?
Of course they are.
That’s what they do.
I yank at my restraints, to no avail. I’m desperate to beat my fists against my skull to get the music out of my head. At the very least, I’d like to cram my fingers into my ear canals to dull the sound.
I’m forced to listen, though.
There’s no escaping this.
How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? It’s long enough that they keep fluids in me intravenously. Someone comes in periodically to change the piss bag hanging off the side of my bed.
I’m held captive by faceless monsters and tortured by a stupid, annoying, unfinished song.
“Don’t Worry Be Happy” by Bobby McFerrin.
One of the piss bag changers told me the name. They said I ruined the song for them. Me. The one trapped and held hostage by said song.
I can’t escape it.
It’s maddening.
Thoughts turn to mush inside my head. My brain tries to grasp on to memories or make sense of where I am, but I can’t think.
A hoarse moan rips from my throat. I hear the young man begging. The young man is me.
The pleading falls on deaf ears.
Sometimes, they turn the whistling part of the song up louder, drowning me out.
My eyes burn and I know it’s because I’ve been crying. I think it’s because my heart aches, but I can’t seem to remember why.
My family.
Think.
The whistling splits my mind into so many fragments, I have no hope of holding it all together. It’s slipping through my fingers, crashing to the floor, and shattering into even smaller slivers.
This is hell.
What is hell?
I have a brief, fleeting thought of a woman with dark hair and a loving smile. Who is she? Mom. I have a mom. My trembling lips tug into a small smile as more tears form.