Days Before Dystopia

As I walk home from school, I silently curse the world for what it has done to me. I curse the woman who makes me take the bus home. I curse the bus driver for leaving without me. I curse the frigid January weather. I curse this awful town where no one seems to care. Mostly, I curse the wretched people who put me on this earth seventeen years ago. I curse them for what they did to me and what they made me do. I curse myself for who I have become because of them and all of the defenses and walls I have put up to shield myself from the world’s horrors.

Tremors rack my whole body as I plow through the snow on a sidewalk that looks like it has never seen a shovel. Both of my eyes stream from the brutal wind that rips tears out of the corners of my eyes that freeze to my face the second they leave my body. It physically hurts to breathe, but I embrace the pain because of how it distracts me from the pains of living.

The only comfort I have is that the foster house should be coming into view soon. I am about to turn away from the whipping winds and walk into a wonderfully warm abyss with a dozen screaming children. I am not sure which hell is worse.

A sound disrupts my thoughts. The distinct noise of boots squishing down snow comes from behind me, barely audible through the howling flurries. I turn around inconspicuously to get a view of who follows me.

The man is dressed in all black, making him a dark speck in a sea of gleaming white. His walk is that of a man concentrating on walking casually, but, in reality, there is nothing casual about him. He begins to pick up his pace. Is he following me? I walk faster. He follows suit. I tell myself I am just being paranoid and speed up even more. He matches me stride for stride. I begin to panic and walk faster, focusing only on reaching the house.

It finally comes into view. I have never been so glad to see that horrendous little blue house in my life. My feet slide on the icy ground below as I dash across the street and into the yard. Momentum carries me up the steps in one bound. I slam the door behind me and pant, trying to catch my breath as I yank the blinds away from the window near the door to see the man walking by. He tips his hat to me and continues on with the same powerfully casual stride. The kind gesture only further convinces me that I was being followed.
“Melanie! Melanie!” I turn around to see the two little devil twins running toward me. I roll my eyes in annoyance, resigning myself to their endless torture.

“Tweedle dee, tweedle dumb,” I say, tapping them on the head as I walk past.

"What took you so long?” says Shelby. The twin follows behind me with her yellow locks bouncing against her little face. “Mrs. McCalahay said that you are going to be in trouble!” She hangs on the word “trouble”, drawing it out to aggravate me even more.

“Well,” I say, crouching down so that I am eye level with the little twerp. “You can go tell Mrs. McCalahay that her little rules mean nothing to me. I couldn’t care less what she says. Got that, little munchkin?” I give her a condescending smirk, pat her head, and briskly walk to my room, ignoring the indignant cries that follow me down the hall.

I close the door behind me and lean against the back of the door, breathing in the wonderfully warm air. After a few deep breathes, I calm down enough to open my eyes and take in the scene around me. The first thing I see is Vanessa and Valery, my roommates, working on a project on my bed. They are only two years younger than me, but, despite how close we are in age, I have trouble looking at them with anything other than disdain.

“Get off of my bed.” They scramble to do my bidding. I feel no remorse in ordering them to leave; it’s my bed. I learned at a young age that in order to survive in this world a person has to learn how to claim what is theirs or else they will be left with nothing.

I plop down on my bed and take out my head phones, hoping that the music will drown out my thoughts. I will probably get in trouble later for the way I treated the twins and being late, but, right now, I don’t care about anything other than the music. Slowly, the world begins to fade into nothing except for me and Led Zeppelin.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Melanie Margaret Roland! Get down here this instant!” Her wretched voice pierces through the blaring music. Mrs. McCalahay, spawn of the devil.

I walk down the stairs and cringe as she comes into sight. Mrs. McCalahay is standing at the bottom of the stairs holding Thumper. Her grey hair is twisted into a tight bun on top of her head, and her skin sags off of her bones. Severe cheek bones bring out the cruelty in her eyes. I feel bile rising in my throat at the sight of Thumper in her hand. Last time Thumper came out, Vanessa was given 32 Thumps for each minute she was late. That was last week, and Vanessa still has bruises. I don’t even know how late I was…

“Melanie!” Mrs. McCalahay barks. “What do you mean by showing up approximately 52 minutes late and lashing the darling twins with your sharp tongue?” I fight the urge to run as I get close enough to her to smell her sickeningly sweet rose perfume rising from the bottom of the stairs. She begins warming up Thumper by smacking her left hand with it while holding it in her right. I plea to any God who will listen for help as I see the cruelties my torturer wants to impose upon me written in her eyes.

“I apologize, Mrs. McCalahay,” I mumble. Any excuse would only make it worse.

“Speak up, child! I can barely hear you! What is it that you said? Hmm?”

“I apologize, Mrs. McCalahay,” I say louder, through gritted teeth.

“Tut, tut. That does not sound very sincere. Maybe old Thumper here can teach you some good old fashioned manners. What do you say to that?”

“Yes, Mrs. McCalahay. I agree, Mrs. McCalahay. You are always right, Mrs. McCalahay.” It is becoming harder and harder to stop the sarcasm that threatens to lace its way into my words.

“Indeed. How many should it be? Twins? Any suggestions?” The two little devils begin popping out numbers. 52, one suggests; one for each minute she was gone. 104, the other says; it should be doubled since I also disrespected the two of them. My temper rises as they spit out numbers. I have stayed in this home for a few months now and have managed to hold my tongue, but I can only stand here and be subjected to Thumper so many times.

“How about none?” I suggest in a deadly quiet voice. Mrs. McCalahay’s look of surprise is worth every bit of hell they are about to put me through in the agency for ruining yet another “good” foster home. “I do not deserve any Thumps from you.” My voice is cold and venomous, exposing a dark side of me that I rarely let unleash. “Do you want to know why I was late? I missed the bus and had to walk a mile in the freezing wind!” I cannot stop my voice from rising into a yell as rage courses through me.

“How stupid are you, you insolent child?” Mrs. McCalahay says back with heated indignation. “How could you miss the bus?” A vein by her eye bulges. It is the most beautiful sight I have seen in a long time.

“I am done here,” I say, beginning to walk past her. “Thanks for the hospitality.” This time, I let my words drown in the sarcasm that so desperately cried for use just minutes ago. I curtsy to her from the doorway and pivot on a heel to march out of the door into the bitter cold once again.

As the door slams behind me, I am hit with a gust of wind that I barely register it. I do not feel the snow blowing on my face; I do not hear the wind howling. All that I can hear is Mrs. McCalahay screaming at me to get back inside to be subjected to Thumper. My insane laugh is lost in the wind as I march forward in no particular direction with no plan in mind. All that I know is that I have to get away from that terrible little blue house. Wherever I end up, it is bound to be better than where I was before.

I don’t know how long I blunder about in the snow, fighting against the wind, before the cold begins to freeze my fury. I don’t know how long it takes the fuel that caused me to storm out into this awful weather to begin to die out. As the voice of Mrs. McCalahay becomes fainter and fainter, I realize it was not her actual voice but one that I had created in my mind; how long had this been the case?

I shiver. The full effect of the cold embraces me, and I realize that in my blind rage I left my coat at home. Stupid. I stop walking and look around but only see the white cloud of snow that surrounds me as I stand in the middle of the blizzard.

A cold, heavy lump weighs down my back pocket. My phone! I fumble in my pocket for the device that I so gloriously grabbed in my escape. Hope fills me as I press the power button and dies as the screen stays black. I press it again. Nothing. My eyes begin to tear up from frustration, sending hot tears unthawing a short path down my cheek until they are frozen to a halt. A yell of desperation and anger rips from my lungs and is lost into the wind. No one hears me. I am alone once again. I am always alone. Like every other moment in my life, I will have to figure this out for myself.

I find the nearest street sign. 25th Avenue South. I only made it about five blocks from Mrs. McCalahay’s. Alix. A single word of salvation. She is a “friend” from school who lives about a block away from here. I turn in the direction of her house and stumble through the snow. It is only a block away but seems to be much longer. My fingers begin to burn, and a deep ache that can only come from the cold sweeps through me. My nose begins running, my eyes tearing, but all I let myself focus on is putting one foot in front of the other.

I continue on for a while. I don’t know how long. All concept of time is gone in this frozen tundra. When I look back to see my progress, I am only about half way there. I sigh and am about to turn back when I catch a glimpse of black for the second time today. I whip my head back around and see a man walking behind me. It is the same man from earlier. I turn around and pick up my pace. When I do, I notice out of the corner of my eye that he speeds up as well. I quicken my pace even more; he does as well. I begin to panic and look behind my shoulder again; he is still there. I walk a few steps further and check again; he disappeared.

I whip my head around. Where did he go? I take off toward Alix’s house at a sprint, stumbling through the snow and into the dark night. One thing I know is that I do not want to be caught off guard by that man. I am about to cross Alix’s property line when I slip on the icy path. I begin to push myself up to continue running but am stopped by the very man I run from. He is the same man that I saw earlier. His closeness allows me to get a better look at him.

The man’s skin is a deep brown, not so dark that it is black nor so light that it is tan. A round face is supported by soft eyes and a large nose as well as large lips. His hair is cut short, buzzed so that only a centimeter is visible. A black hat covers the majority of his hair, but the part that is visible is peppered with gray, making him seem at least forty. His high cheekbones should make him look hard and unapproachable, but there is something about this man that is the complete opposite. For a second, I forget the blistering cold. I forget my wretched life. For just a second, everything seems okay. He extends a hand to help me up, and, against my better judgement, I reach out and grab it. His black leather glove feels smooth and comforting in my dry hand.

“Are you okay?” his deep voice rumbles.

“Y-yes,” I stammer in reply between shivers.

“Do you need help finding a place to stay?”

“No,” I answer, a bit unsure what I am answering to. The word comes out like a question, and I am not so sure that it isn’t one.

“Are you sure?” His eyes flickering with depth and warmth.

“Y-yes,” I reply, trying to regain my confidence.

“I hope you find what you are looking for then. Stay safe.” He walks away and disappears into the receding light just as quickly as he appeared.

I continue forward, slightly disturbed by the whole experience. Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I focus on kicking through the snow and making sure not to slip on the ice. At long last, a fleck of red emerges amidst all of the white. I hurry toward it, knowing that it is Alix’s glorious door. My knuckles burn as they rap against the hard wood. The few seconds that I wait are agony. At last, the door opens.

“Hello?” Alix’s voice sounds like an angel of salvation. “Mel? What are you doing out there?” I see her scrunch up her face, lit up by the glorious light and heat inside her house. Maybe she is an angel. Only then do I realize how delusional I must be.

“C-c-can I c-come in?” I manage to croak out in between shivers.

“Oh! I am so stupid! Of course!” She opens the door a bit wider, and I burst my way in. The heat envelopes me, and pain radiates throughout my unthawing body. So distracted am I by warming my freezing limbs that it takes me a second until I glance up at Alix. As soon as I do, I catch a look of disgust on her face that she quickly hides. Her eyes dart down toward my feet, which are now melting snow and mud all over her beautifully white rug.

Shame washes through me. I glance at her, standing there looking as impeccable as always. Her long, straight, blonde hair shines as it cascades down to her belly button. Each of her features are accented perfectly by her makeup, making her look edgy but not trashy. Everything about her screams confidence, and nothing about her is out of place. Her bright blue eyes stare at me and the state I am in, and I want to melt away with the snow that begins to drip from my body.

I catch my reflection in the floor length mirror in her hall. My hair is half soaked from the snow and covered in snowflakes. Mud is splattered across the front of my jeans from when I fell. My face is streaked with tears, but at least I can blame that on the cold. My look of disgust matches hers as I see myself how she sees me.

“Sorry,” I mutter as I crouch down to untie my shoes. A wince from Alix causes to me realize that my shirt is now dripping on the rug as well. “Sorry, again.” At least I won’t be in this town much longer.

“So…Melanie,” Alix says, dusting her hands off as if the snow from my shoes somehow made her dirty as well. “What brings you here?” A smile flits across her face that is all teeth and no heart.

“My parents did not take well to the idea of us going to this party tonight,” I lie. “So I left.” I add in a shrug, followed by the classic eye roll. I know how to play this part. I have been doing it my whole life. “Is there any way I could crash here until the party?” Alix’s face lights up at the mention of the party.

“Of course. I cannot wait,” she says, speaking with hers hands as well. “I heard it is going to be a complete blowout. Kirsten’s parents are out of town, so…” I drown out the rest, because everything she is about to say doesn’t matter. Thankfully, the art of nodding along and smiling at the right time has become one of my best talents.

Alix continues to ramble on and rave about how great the party will be as she leads me up the stairs. I have been to Alix’s house a few times, but the grandeur of it never ceases to amaze me. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, a dangling array of hundreds of tiny, twinkling diamonds. Paintings cover the walls, all originals. The staircase that we ascend is perfectly spotless, the color of pure silver. If a person were to add up the value of the house and then add up the value of the numerous foster homes I have lived in, this house would still be worth more than all of them put together.

She leads me into her massive walk-in closet and looks me up and down, assessing what she has to work with. I look halfway decent. The outfit I wore to school is still on and intact. My hair was ruined by the wind and so was my makeup, but Alix can do wonders with both. She makes it her mission to make me look gorgeous, all the while talking about what the latest issue of Seventeen said would make me look the sexiest.

“There. All finished.” Alix beams in the mirror as she puts down her makeup brush. I turn around to look for myself and am astonished by the progress she made. Gone is the girl from the frozen tundra of earlier, here comes the girl of the party scene. My light brown hair is loosely pinned back so that a few curls escape, saying that I care enough to put my hair up but not enough to obsess over it. The eye shadow she used is black toward the edges, fading into a golden hue at the corner of my eye that accentuates the flecks of gold in my blue-green eyes. She made my skin flawless with foundation. Bright red lipstick tops it off. I actually look presentable. The girl on the outside doesn’t seem to match what I feel like within.

“Now, for the outfit.” Alix begins scanning my body up and down, debating her options. “I am a double zero, so most of my clothes probably won’t fit you. What a shame.” She sighs, as if it were the biggest tragedy that I am a size two. “I have a few things that may work from some of my heavier days, though. Let me check.” Everyone in school has heard the stories. How Alix used to be about my size but then around eighth grade became anorexic. How she feinted in the cafeteria in the beginning of ninth grade from not eating anything for the past two days. How her parents threatened to send her to the hospital right after but she refused and they gave up and were slightly relieved because they cared more about the money it would cost to send her than getting her better. I stare at her protruding ribs and pointy hip bones that jut out from her skin unnaturally and shudder at the thought of how fragile the queen of the school really is.

“Here we go,” she says, emerging from her walk-in closet with a stack of clothes. “I hope one of these fits.” She looks sadly at my figure once more before selecting the first outfit. I fight an eye roll as I grab the clothes and try the outfit on. And then try on the next one. Then, the next. And the next and the next and the next. All of them are fine, but she manages to find something wrong with each one. It either makes me look too slutty or not slutty enough. I am just about to sigh and tell her that she will never make me look exactly like her when she finally puts me in an outfit that she decides will be “decent enough.”

I look in the mirror and see a girl in a tight, black crop top that droops just low enough so that the top of her bra peaks through and the curve of her breasts are exposed slightly. The crop top has sleeves for warmth but stops just above her belly button, leaving a few inches of her flat stomach uncovered. A black, leather mini skirt accompanies it, the waistline landing right below her hips and stretching over a barely acceptable length of thigh. Sheer black tights cover muscled thighs and calves. Some would call her a slut, others a whore, others trashy.

It unnerves me how little it bothers me that this girl is me.

Other people have always dictated every aspect of my life. It seems fitting that someone else should decide what I wear as well. And maybe I deserve to look like a whore because of where I come from, because of what I have done…

I shudder and lock the thoughts that threaten to break through tight in the back of my mind, a place never let myself go and constantly try to forget.

I don’t sound like myself as I tell Alix that my outfit is perfect. A different person follows her down the steps and rides next to her in the car on the way to the party making small talk about Vogue. I tell myself it is a different person, because I refuse be a girl who cares more about her looks than who she truly is.

I have always made a distinction from who people think I am and who I truly am. Lately, the line between the two is becoming more and more blurred. I am not sure where I stand anymore.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


As I walk into the Kirsten’s house, the sound of blaring music envelopes me. I welcome it as the bass drowns out any thoughts, questions, or doubts.

“Hey! Glad you two could make it!” Kirsten shouts over the base blaring from speakers nearby. “The keg is over there,” she slurs, pointing toward a table with Red Solo cups and beer. “Have fun,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows at us suggestively.

“I am going to go over to the keg!” I shout to Alix. When I look over my shoulder, I see her golden hair slipping away into the crowd, oblivious of me and my lost words.

As I begin to move toward the keg, I remember why I started hanging out with the people I did. The popular people don’t care. They don’t care about the details of my life. They don’t care if I put on a face but secretly am hurting so bad that sometimes I can hardly breathe. They just want to have a good time. There is a certain lonely freedom that comes about when no one cares, and, in a life with so little freedom, I crave it.

“Hey, girl. How are you doing tonight?” A guy appears behind me with a flask in his hand, his words pouring out of his mouth all jumbled together and barely coherent. He stands so close that I can feel his breath on my neck. It causes me to shiver. His breathe wafts toward me; he reeks of booze. I look up at him and see a mess brown hair that almost covers eyes that are so dark they look black. I remember this kid from school. His name escapes me, but I know he is one of the popular juniors on the soccer team. As the heat of his hand presses along my lower back, my cold skin burns from the contact. “I can think of a few things I would like to do with you…” he says, his hand slowly going lower and lighting up a path with unwanted fire.

“Get off of me.” My voice is stone cold, and its effect is immediate as he withdraws to prey on his next victim. A shudder wracks my body that has nothing to do with the cold. I am not against drinking, but I am against men. They take what they want until there is nothing left to take and leave the girl desperately alone to pick up the pieces the parasite left behind.

I walk over to the table with the keg and fill up a glass. As I raise it to my lips, I hope that it will wash away my thoughts like it has done to everyone around me. After the glass is empty, it takes a moment for the familiar feeling of a dulled reality to wash over me. I smile as I refill another glass, welcoming the thoughtless bliss. Not five minutes have passed before my drink is gone once again and has to be refilled. I sit near the wall and drink away my problems, not caring about anyone or anything in particular, numb to reality. I can’t think of a better way to spend my Friday.

“Melanie!” Kirsten whines, popping up right behind me. “What are you doing? Stop slouching against the wall and join the party!” She is beyond drunk. Her blue eyes are glossy, and her cheeks flame bright red just like her fiery, bright red curls.
“I am alright here.” The bottom of my glass has never been more interesting.

“No, you are not,” she says with a pout. “Come with me. It is my party. I demand it.” I know she will not be persuaded otherwise in this state, so I reluctantly push off the wall to join her. For a second, dizziness threatens to overwhelm me as she drags me into the middle of the crowd. I lose sight of Kirsten a few seconds after she lets go of my arm. People are dancing and grinding all around me, hot bodies pressing against each other in such a confined space that one person is hardly distinguishable from the next.

I try to shove my way out of the crowd. People are too close. I don’t let people touch me. Period. Even through the dimness of my alcohol washed brain I know I need to get out of this place. I dodge through the crevices in the wall of people but find no escape among the sea of bodies.

A flash of black cloth catches my eye. The man following me earlier is standing on a wall at the side of the house trying to blend in. He stares at me. I shake my head to clear it of its fog. When I look back, he has disappeared. I must be drunker than I thought. I return my focus to escaping the crowd.

“Looks like someone is enjoying the party.” The same guy who talked to me earlier in the night appears next to me. I try to snap out of my fog to retort back, but there is a layer that seems to separate my thoughts from my words, making it not come out right. Nothing makes sense, and I shake my head to try to clear it. I feel a bit tipsy and grab his shoulder to steady myself.

“I think I need to lie down,” I hear myself say as the world spins around me.

“I know just the place.” He winks and grabs my hand. Before he turns, something like hunger or lust flits across his eyes. That’s odd.

When we get into a room, I make to lay down on the bed, but he stops me.

“Come here.” He motions for me to step near him, but I stay in place. Somewhere in my mind it clicks that his bringing me to a room was not an act of kindness after all.

“No,” I murmur quietly. Any force that I try to put behind the words is lost somewhere in the darkness, and the words come out pathetically small and weak.

“I said,” he growls, “come here.” He puts a hand on my lower back and yanks me toward him, crushing his body into mine. I desperately look around the room for escape but see none.

“Don’t fight it,” his oily voice whispers in my ear. I freeze for a second, distracted as I hear a much different voice echoing from my past. It’s normal. It’s good. In this moment, I know that my past will never escape me. I give up and let him do as he wants, for fighting is pointless when I know I will lose.

In the background, the sound of a door being yanked open reaches me but am too distracted to fully comprehend it as I feel his fingers rake across my bare skin. I am concentrated so hard on ignoring the situation that it takes me a second to realize that his hand is no longer there and nor is he.

Something must have changed his mind. I look up and through the blur of my vision see that it was not something but someone. The man in black that I kept seeing follow me earlier is beating him to a pulp before my very eyes.

I do not dare breathe for fear that this is dream, and my breath will shatter the dream, bringing me to reality. The same feeling of safety and warmth from earlier envelopes me as the man’s victim crumples to the floor unconscious. His eyes raise to meet my awed gaze.

“Melanie Roland?’ he rumbles.

“Yes,” I manage to croak out, although it ends up sounding more like a question.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“Why?”

"I will explain everything later. I don’t think you would remember much in the morning if I explained now.” Was there sarcasm behind those words? I start to get up, but my trembling limbs prohibit me from doing so. “Can you walk?” I shake my head yes and start forward only to stumble over my feet and fall to the floor. With a sad glance toward me, he grabs my hand to pull me up and supports me as we exit through a back door of the house. When we get outside, the bitter cold of the night hits me once again. Shivers rack through my body for the third time today. I really don’t like January.

“Maybe you should have worn something a bit warmer,” the man says with a chuckle right next to me.

“Do you find my pain amusing?” I retort. The beer clearly isn’t doing any favors for my filter, but the cold air is at least perking me up enough so that I can say cohesive sentences.

“Obviously not, because if I did I wouldn’t have saved you back there.” His voice has a word of caution in it, reminding me that he is good, that he cares. He saved me. There is a pause that stretches between us, filled only by the roaring wind around us.

“Thanks. For saving me, I mean.” My voice is so quiet and timid that it is barely audible.

"I am just glad I got there in time.” He glances at me with eyes full of pity, and I hate myself for deserving that pity. Silence stretches between us once again. I don’t want to discuss what just happened, and he seems hesitant to broach the subject as well.

“It is not wise to put yourself in situations where you are susceptible to that kind of problem,” he says in a fatherly manner. “The sooner you learn that, the better off you will be with us.” I lower my head, thinking of the stupidity that my anger led me to. It takes a second for the shame to subside and for me to fully comprehend his words. Us.

“With us? Who is us?”

“Later. I will tell you everything later.” We walk the rest of the way in silence. His car is a sleek, black Volvo. The man makes a gesture for me to get into the passenger side of the car, and I do. He slowly pulls out of the parking spot and glides onto the road, passing neighborhoods I have never seen and leading me somewhere new. Somewhere new. The thought gives me hope.

“You can live here for a while if you choose to,” he announces as he pulls up to a large building that looks like an old storage shed in the middle of an abandoned field. It blends into the shadows so well that I can barely make out the outline in the dark of the night as he leads me inside.

I hold back a gasp as I see that it is completely furnished on the inside with shining tiles covering the floor and freshly painted walls that don’t seem to match the exterior. It is too much for me to process, and I decide to think about it all tomorrow as he directs me to a room lined with the shadows of bunk beds.

“Pick a bunk.”

“Who are these people? What are they doing here? What am I doing here?” My eyes lock with his and demand an answers, but he silently refuses to tell me anything. After a pause, he turns his back to me and begins to shut the door.

“Goodnight, Melanie,” I hear as the door closes and leaves me in utter blackness.

I shuffle my way toward an empty bed and collapse into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of men in black following me and boys with long hair sliding their hands across my bare body.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________


“My name is Tim Sharp. Mr. Sharp to you. I would have introduced myself last night, but I doubt you would have remembered it if I did.” The man from yesterday who stalked and saved me sits at the other end of a desk in a room that I assume to be his office. The morning light from the rising sun shines brightly through the window into the room and aggravates my pounding headache as I struggle to follow his words.

“Would you like me to explain why you are here?” At last.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, trying not to sound too curious. He chuckles at my failed attempt.

“Let me start from the beginning. I believe you noticed either me or my men following you, correct?” I nod. “We have been scouting people for the last few months for a new training program. This program is a secret as of now. Can I trust you, Melanie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Sharp takes a deep breath and continues. “We are called the CSCA. The organization was founded as a way for the CIA to get more advanced agents by starting them at a younger age. They are currently wasting too many resources on training. To try to combat this problem, we have hand selected a few people like yourself from the area to pilot this program.”

“People like me… do you mean orphans?” He flinches as I say the word “orphans,” a shadow of sadness flits across his face. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, but then he continues on flawlessly.

“Yes, orphans. The need for secrecy was necessary. Without parents, there are less people who need to know and less way that word will get out. It also gives the orphans a place to stay, helping with the problem of the lack of foster homes in the area.”

“Why is there a need for secrecy?”

“People tend to overreact,” Mr. Sharp says with sigh, folding his hands in his lap. “We were afraid that it would start a panic. People would think that there was a reason to be concerned when there isn’t. Any other questions?”

“No, but…. do I have a choice in this? Can I think about it?” I have never shown an interest in the CIA. The thought has never even crossed my mind. Doubt begins to creep in, and I wonder what exactly I got myself into when I came here last night.

“Yes, of course. Keep in mind, though, that we are short on foster homes in the area currently. You would need to switch towns again, and we are not sure if we could get you in such a high quality home as the last.” High quality? A shudder rakes through me as I think about what they consider low quality.

“You aren’t necessarily required to join the CIA afterward, if that is your concern,” he continues on. “You are only asked to complete the program, which will take about two years.” Only two years. I can do that. Two years of living in the same place. Two years of not being terrified of my foster family and annoyed by the other foster children. Two years of living a life that has some sense of normalcy. I smile. There really is no choice.

“I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure? Once you sign the contract, there is no going back.”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” I say, meaning absolutely every word. This is not only an offer to be a part of this program. It is an offer for security and safety. I will learn how to defend myself. No longer will I need others to rescue me like last night. I will rescue myself. I will defend myself. I will be my own protector.

Mr. Sharp opens a file and pulls out a sheet of paper. He scans over it quickly and then passes it toward me. “This is the contract,” he says. “Sign the bottom, and we are done.” I quickly glance over the paper and scribble my messy signature on the page. I set down the pen on the table with a note of finality and pass the sheet back to him. As I rise and turn to leave, Mr. Sharp speaks once more.

“Melanie,” he says, stopping me with the tone of his voice. “My colleagues disagree with me. They believe that you do not deserve to be a part of this after everything that has been observed and on account of recent choices you have made. They claim you are unstable and reckless. Prove them otherwise, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, looking back with a glance of determination.

As I walk from the room, I feel like a new person. My head still pounds, but I barely notice it. I will have a better life now. Things will get better. I feel a flicker of hope that long ago died relight within me, and, for the first time in years, I don’t blow it out.