when he needs you.”
“So I’m just supposed to stay in my room?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, then he spun and stormed away. I watched him go, then turned the knob and opened the door to my room.
It didn’t feel like mine.
It was stark white, just as white as the corridor we’d just walked down. The furniture was a drab gray in an uncomfortable-looking modern style. There were no windows at all, not a speck of artwork or personality anywhere. Nothing personal.
Surely I’d had at least a picture of Mama around? Maybe I’d had to leave it at StrikeForce. At some point, I’d have to make sure I got it back, if that was the case. Along with my other stuff. My afghan, my books. I glanced around. Not a single damn romance novel in sight. Had I left all of those at StrikeForce as well?
Thinking of romance novels made my stomach twist weirdly. My heart gave a few hard thumps. I pressed my hands to my cheeks and realized that my face felt warm, as if I was blushing. What the hell even was this, now? I shook my head and walked through a doorway. A bedroom, more white walls. A narrow dresser, a nightstand with a lamp on it that looked like it came directly from some 1980s corporate office: stark, gray, and boring as hell. The enormous king-size bed with its fluffy comforter and excess of pillows seemed out of place. I took a moment to slowly open all of the drawers and closet. There was a red and black uniform in the closet. I guessed that was mine? Beside that was a black and gray one. I couldn’t see myself actually wearing either one of them.
I clearly needed to readjust to my life. How long had I even been undercover? And what had they done to me, exactly? More answers I guessed I could only get from Connor, I thought with a grimace. In the dresser drawers were lacy, satiny bras and panties that I can’t imagine having picked out for myself. I picked up one silky bra, noting that it was padded. Did I really wear this shit? I glanced down at my less-than-impressive chest. I guess maybe I did.
I left the bra on the bed and walked through the doorway on the left side of the bedroom. There was a bathroom with a deep whirlpool tub, a pedestal sink, and a small separate room for the toilet. An array of bubble baths and lotions sat on a shelf, and I looked at them. Roses, peonies, lily of the valley. No lavender?
Wait. Did I even like lavender? Did I like any of this shit? Did I like push up bras and thongs and rose scented lotion? Did I like Connor? And why did the name Killjoy keep floating into my mind when I thought of him?
What foods did I like? Did I prefer baths or showers? What kind of music did I like?
I thought, and realized I didn’t know. All I knew about my preferences were what was in this room, and none of it felt right for some reason.
I slid my body down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, looking toward the whirlpool tub with its array of bubble baths. I closed my eyes and tried to remember something, anything, about what I liked. The only thing I could remember was romance novels, and I wondered why I knew that. I held onto it like a lifeline, like a security blanket as I tried to remember more. Whatever had been there, once upon a time, was gone, thanks to whatever StrikeForce had done to me.
Wait.
They were the heroes. Did heroes mess with people’s minds? Would they have just gone in and started erasing shit?
Maybe it hadn’t been that. Maybe my brain had been damaged somehow. In a fight, maybe? Or if they had actually been evil enough to try to mind control me, maybe the trauma of them messing with my brain had caused me to lose some things? If that was the case, I was definitely going to hurt somebody.
I felt like I was on the edge of panic. Like I was lost, a stranger in my own skin. In truth, my body felt like an enemy, sensing every single thing too strongly. My skin prickled, abraded by the gentle waft of air coming through the heating vent across
“So I’m just supposed to stay in my room?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, then he spun and stormed away. I watched him go, then turned the knob and opened the door to my room.
It didn’t feel like mine.
It was stark white, just as white as the corridor we’d just walked down. The furniture was a drab gray in an uncomfortable-looking modern style. There were no windows at all, not a speck of artwork or personality anywhere. Nothing personal.
Surely I’d had at least a picture of Mama around? Maybe I’d had to leave it at StrikeForce. At some point, I’d have to make sure I got it back, if that was the case. Along with my other stuff. My afghan, my books. I glanced around. Not a single damn romance novel in sight. Had I left all of those at StrikeForce as well?
Thinking of romance novels made my stomach twist weirdly. My heart gave a few hard thumps. I pressed my hands to my cheeks and realized that my face felt warm, as if I was blushing. What the hell even was this, now? I shook my head and walked through a doorway. A bedroom, more white walls. A narrow dresser, a nightstand with a lamp on it that looked like it came directly from some 1980s corporate office: stark, gray, and boring as hell. The enormous king-size bed with its fluffy comforter and excess of pillows seemed out of place. I took a moment to slowly open all of the drawers and closet. There was a red and black uniform in the closet. I guessed that was mine? Beside that was a black and gray one. I couldn’t see myself actually wearing either one of them.
I clearly needed to readjust to my life. How long had I even been undercover? And what had they done to me, exactly? More answers I guessed I could only get from Connor, I thought with a grimace. In the dresser drawers were lacy, satiny bras and panties that I can’t imagine having picked out for myself. I picked up one silky bra, noting that it was padded. Did I really wear this shit? I glanced down at my less-than-impressive chest. I guess maybe I did.
I left the bra on the bed and walked through the doorway on the left side of the bedroom. There was a bathroom with a deep whirlpool tub, a pedestal sink, and a small separate room for the toilet. An array of bubble baths and lotions sat on a shelf, and I looked at them. Roses, peonies, lily of the valley. No lavender?
Wait. Did I even like lavender? Did I like any of this shit? Did I like push up bras and thongs and rose scented lotion? Did I like Connor? And why did the name Killjoy keep floating into my mind when I thought of him?
What foods did I like? Did I prefer baths or showers? What kind of music did I like?
I thought, and realized I didn’t know. All I knew about my preferences were what was in this room, and none of it felt right for some reason.
I slid my body down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, looking toward the whirlpool tub with its array of bubble baths. I closed my eyes and tried to remember something, anything, about what I liked. The only thing I could remember was romance novels, and I wondered why I knew that. I held onto it like a lifeline, like a security blanket as I tried to remember more. Whatever had been there, once upon a time, was gone, thanks to whatever StrikeForce had done to me.
Wait.
They were the heroes. Did heroes mess with people’s minds? Would they have just gone in and started erasing shit?
Maybe it hadn’t been that. Maybe my brain had been damaged somehow. In a fight, maybe? Or if they had actually been evil enough to try to mind control me, maybe the trauma of them messing with my brain had caused me to lose some things? If that was the case, I was definitely going to hurt somebody.
I felt like I was on the edge of panic. Like I was lost, a stranger in my own skin. In truth, my body felt like an enemy, sensing every single thing too strongly. My skin prickled, abraded by the gentle waft of air coming through the heating vent across
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