by Brett Cadigan
Without the pills, I’m starting to remember. The headaches are getting worse. But it’s all worth it. I’m going to rescue her from this cold, antiseptic place.
Oh, no… the headache is coming back. It’s getting harder to hold on to what’s real. I’m blacking out again—
***
I’m at a lunch table with another scientist, Paul. A friend. At least, that’s how I used to see him. The pills make you blind, deaf, and dumb to the reality of our research. They say they’re for our protection, but now it’s clear we’re blinded for the sake of the mission. The cruel mission that bound her to this place, a prisoner behind thick plates of glass.
The monster I used to consider my friend is smacking on a bologna sandwich while he discusses “the work.”
“I’ve been running some new tests on the subject.” The subject. A euphemism to dehumanize her as we poke and prod with pricks and probes. “Hopefully, they’ll lead us closer to isolating the ESP gene. Just imagine the progress once we extract it from the subject.” He slurps up a loose strip of meat, and mustard dribbles down his chin.
How did I see her before I stopped taking the pills? Like an optical illusion, there’s no going back once you see reality. I attempt to empathize with Paul, remembering that I used to be blind too, but it’s impossible. Not when I see him slide the needle in. On some level, he must know. Can’t he hear her screams?
***
After lunch we’re back in the lab, where Paul is finishing his pumpkin spice latte, and I’m avoiding looking towards the cell at all costs. I can’t let the blind see that I know. I’m so close now. Tonight. It will all be over tonight.
The lab is a subterranean maze with the cell at its center, a carefully arranged sequence of security gates, steel bars, and electric fences designed to prevent escape. But as a lead scientist, I helped architect every security measure; in my head is a foolproof plan to bypass every obstacle to her freedom.
My top drawer has the spare all-access keycard, snatched from the director’s office. The middle drawer has my journal, with our escape route, the timing of the guard’s shifts, and the cell’s emergency unlock codes, pulled from the deepest encrypted depths of the decommissioned backup server. And in the bottom drawer, a loaded Sig Sauer P320-M17. I don’t want to have to use it. But I can’t let anyone stop me. And if my rescue doesn’t succeed… anything would be better for her than staying here.
Paul calls me over. “Can you back me up? The subject needs its vitamins.” He waves a large syringe. This is no time to make Paul suspicious. He’s the only one who notices me. He’s the only one who could stop me.
I walk with him to the reinforced glass wall of the cell. I have no choice. I finally look inside.
I can hardly hold in my pain at seeing her in there. She’s so small inside the big glass prison. She must be cold in that hospital gown. No bed. No pillow. Not even a toy. They say it’s a matter of security, but it’s just another cruelty on a mountain of cruelties. She’s just a child.
Paul is busy monitoring her vitals, so I press my hand against the glass. She places her hand opposite mine. I pull away. She’s hurt by the gesture, but I can’t afford any slipups around Paul. I wonder if she knows I’ll rescue her tonight. With her gift—with her curse—maybe she can see it in my mind. God, I hope she can. The “vitamins” are designed to dull her ability, but she’s always been strong. And she’s growing every day.
My head starts to ache, worse than before. The throbbing tendrils of pain slither through my skull until my consciousness recedes.
***
My memories before the lab are hazy. Another effect of the drug? I’ve been doing my best to piece them together in my journal, but it’s so fragmented.
I think it all began when she was born. We knew she was special. Parents know these things. I remember she ate more than the baby book said she would. And how observant she was. And how long it took her to speak.
Money was tight, so I took the job at the lab. How could I not? The salary was more than I ever dreamed, and they needed someone with my exact skills. Back then, we were just studying the most rudimentary of psychic abilities. Testing volunteers with flash cards. We never found anyone who could guess more than half. It seemed aimless, but why should I care? I had my paycheck. I had my family.
Until I didn’t. I still can’t remember what happened to my wife. I can’t even see her face anymore. The mind tries to protect itself when it goes through a trauma.
Now parenting alone, my daughter was always at my side. I wasn’t going to lose her too. That day in the lab when the new crop of volunteers came in, she was so quiet when she said, “Circle, Square, Triangle, Star.” I won’t forget the director’s smile as he looked at the matching cards in Paul’s hands. The process was gradual as they brought her in for more and more tests, and the director’s smile grew wider and wider.
My memory gets fuzzy after that. Maybe that’s when they started giving me the pills. The next thing I knew, she was behind the glass, and I didn’t know who she was anymore. Did she know who I was? I can only imagine how my betrayal must have felt. Once I rescue her, I’ll explain everything. But with her gift, maybe she already knows.
***
It’s the end of the day and Paul and I are walking towards the parking lot. “Oh!” I exclaim. “I forgot my pills. You head on home, I’ll head back and get them.”
Paul cocks his head. “Really? That’s not like you to forget. Maybe you need to adjust your dosage. They say the subject’s abilities are getting stronger. The pills are the best defense we have.”
I respond quickly, “Oh, no, I’m not worried about her.”
Paul blinks. “Her?”
“It! The subject.” I cough noisily. “See you tomorrow!” And I leave him standing awkwardly by the exit.
As I rush back to the lab, I reassure myself that my slipup will go unnoticed. It’s just Paul. He’ll head home to his cat and his Star Trek, and he won’t think anything of it, until tomorrow, when they discover the empty cell. My mind wanders to thoughts of success, driving away into the night with my daughter. The fantasy is so pleasant, I let it wrap itself around me—
***
I wake from another blackout to alarm bells. My head feels like a car that someone else drove into a wall. I’m standing inside the connecting security chamber between the cell and the lab. My mind struggles to process the chaos around me as I assess the situation.
The front of Paul’s shirt is covered in blood and more oozes from his mouth. There’s a large black hole in his chest that I trace back to the gun in my hand. Did I… ? Yes, I must have. I was willing to do anything for my daughter, but I didn’t expect that Paul of all people—He must have figured it out, my slipup, my plan, my daughter—
My daughter.
I turn to the cell door and see the orange light above the door flashing, indicating that the lock has been disengaged. In moments, the electric current running through the cell’s bars will deactivate. The steel cage will slide down into the floor. And the door will swing open. And we’ll be reunited, finally, my daughter and I, we’ll be together again and she’ll be free of this horrible hell.
I open my mouth to call her name aloud, but somehow I can’t find the word. No matter.
“Be free, my daughter, my baby girl,” I sob joyfully.
Paul inhales loudly, and the sound is wet with his heart’s blood. “You… don’t… have… a… daughter!” he gasps. And then, with all his remaining strength, he jabs a syringe into my arm.
Cold shock pumps through my system as the drugs flood my reality. The shock of the chemicals from the pills re-entering my system is a pain beyond imagining as my perception of the world shatters and is replaced by—realization.
Paul is telling the truth. My plan wasn’t my plan at all.
Behind me the door slides open, and a terrible smell like pus and sulfuric acid surrounds me. A tumorous tendril oozes out of the cell as what I thought was my daughter takes its first step into freedom.
AUTHOR BIO
Bretton Cadigan (he/him) lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his spouse, son, and lucky black cat. He completed a bachelor’s degree at Tufts University in International Literary and Visual Studies and is now attending Emerson College’s Popular Fiction MFA program. His short stories have been published in Mobius Blvd, Shlock! Webzine, Leonardo Audio, and more. When he isn’t writing speculative fiction, he enjoys reading graphic novels, playing board games, and falling off his skateboard.
