Grace

Am I… awake?

I’ve finally managed to open my eyes even though they feel as heavy as boulders sliding down a mountain. I can see the wooden ceiling above me and I can spot a torn cobweb in the corner. I can hear leaves rustling against glass and a cock crowing in the distance.

Wait. A cock crowing? Where am I?

I sit up, but groan as I feel a burst of pain in my head as if my skull is threatening to crack open.

What? Did I drink too much again?

I try to remember, but my mind stays blank. I look around for a clue.

The first thing I see is the rustic-looking lamp on the nightstand. Beyond it is a wicker chair with admiral blue cushions and a pillow with a cover embroidered with a pattern of zigzag lines and colorful shapes reminiscent of a Zulu rug. There’s a magazine rack beside it made of wicker as well, but its lone occupant is a copy of Better Homes and Gardens.

Across from me stands a wooden wardrobe with two large doors and four drawers. It looks old but not antique. Maybe it just needs a fresh layer of varnish. And maybe new handles, because the handle on one door is almost falling off.

Beside the closet, there’s a dresser that’s just as old, if not older. It’s in worse shape, for sure. Not only has the paint peeled off, but the top layer of wood has also chipped off at the corners. The mirror is cracked and plastered, too, which is probably why a full-length mirror leans against the corner right next to it.

I turn my head to the other side of the bed and see a ramp that leads up to a door. The bathroom, maybe? There’s also a desk below a bookshelf mounted on the wall, and a chair to go with it. Then there’s something draped in black cloth—an old washing machine by my guess—with two cardboard boxes that look full to the brim on top of it.

I touch my chin.

Hmm. I wonder whose room this is, and whose house this is? Rose’s? Vicky’s?

I sit on the edge of the bed and try to think of the last thing I can remember.

I remember Mom with her raven hair and Dad with his light brown hair and blue eyes. I remember my little sister, Katie, who’s eight years younger than me and never without her inhaler or her floral-printed face mask. Yesterday morning she was having an asthma attack again, so she didn’t go to school. I kissed the top of her head while she was listening to music on her headphones and told her we’d listen to music together when I came back from work.

I remember going to work at the cafe. I’m a waitress there. I remember talking to my co-worker, Phoebe, who was heartbroken because her boyfriend just dumped her. I remember most of the customers, including the old couple that comes in every Thursday to share the tallest glass of hot chocolate we have, with marshmallows and candy sprinkles. I even remember what I ate for lunch—a cheeseburger from the fast-food place across the street. With extra pickles, because I was craving them for some reason. Not that I’m pregnant or anything.

How could I be pregnant? I’m a virgin.

Suddenly, I stand up and pull down my pants. My mouth opens in shock as I realize I have no underwear.

What the hell? Am I not a virgin anymore?

Just to make sure, I touch myself and utter a sigh of relief when I don’t feel anything sticky.

But what if the guy used a condom?

I grip my hair as I try to think about what happened after work. I came home. I know I did. I remember walking home and wishing I had a thicker jacket because it suddenly felt cold, even though it’s the middle of summer. I remember thinking that maybe a storm was brewing.

I feel something in my hair and look at my hand. I frown at the clump of dirt on my palm.

Is that what happened? Did I get caught up in the storm? Did I hit my head? Because it definitely feels like it. If so, did I pass out and then get rescued by someone? Am I at the home of that person right now?

I run towards the window, part the lime-colored curtains and look out.

Tree. Sky. Clouds. Mountains in the distance. More trees.

Why does it seem like I’m not in California anymore?

As my gaze shifts, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane. I touch my cheek.

Is that… me?

I walk towards the mirror so I can take a better look at myself.

Aegean blue eyes stare back at me from a heart-shaped face. Okay. I recognize those eyes. But is that really my nose? And what happened to my cheeks? Or the shape of my whole face? Wasn’t it oval before?

I pinch my cheeks and my lips curve into a pout. Weren’t my lips thinner?

What? Did someone perform a facelift on me while I was unconscious?

And what’s with my hair, I wonder as I see the blonde mess on the top of my head. Did someone dye it? And why the hell is it so messy, even messier than it usually is after I wake up?

I try to comb it with my fingers, but they just end up getting stuck in the tangles. As I remove my hand, I see more dirt on it.

Great.

I look like I’ve just risen from the grave.

I glance at the dresser and open a drawer. It refuses to open all the way at first, but after a bit of rattling it gives in and I smile as I see the brush inside.

Strange. I’m feeling like a kid on Christmas morning over a hairbrush.

I pick it up and start brushing my hair. The tendrils fight back and a struggle ensues. More clumps of dirt get dislodged and fall to the floor.

In the end, I win. I set the brush down and cross my arms over my chest in front of the mirror. This time, I grin at my reflection.

“There. You look presentable now.”

At least, I think so until I see what I’m wearing.

I look down at my shirt and grab it. “What the hell is this?”

I gaze down at the leggings, which are too long for me. “And these?”

They’re hideous and totally unacceptable.

Thankfully, I can still see some potential.

I walk over to the dresser and check the drawer for sewing materials. Finding none, I check the other drawers, but one is empty and the other simply won’t budge.

I glance around the room and see the boxes on top of the washing machine. I lift one, set it down on the floor, and then start rummaging around.

My face lights up when I see the sewing box I’m looking for.

I bring it to the bed and open it. There are only two spools of thread inside, a handful of beads and buttons of different colors and sizes, a pair of folding scissors, and a bunch of needles that are half rusty, but they’ll have to do.

I set to work. First I cut off a third of the leggings so they actually fit me. Then I make ribbons where I cut them to hide the frayed edges and keep the fabric wound around my legs.

I work on the shirt next. I take it off, and as I do, I notice the necklace I’m wearing for the first time—a golden chain and a golden pendant in the shape of a dove.

My necklace.

Mom and Dad gave it to me for my seventh birthday and I’ve worn it all the time ever since. Well, not all the time. I nearly lost it once shortly after I got it, so after that, I never took it off.

I continue with my task. I grab the shirt, cut off a portion of the sleeves and taper what remains into cap sleeves. I trim the neckline as well so that it’s V-shaped and not round. This way, the pendant of my necklace can be seen.

I consider cutting off from the hem, too, after putting the shirt back on. Instead, I grab the fabric I cut off from the leggings and fashion it into a belt around my waist, decorated with a few beads just to add a splash of color.

Better.

Now, all that’s left are the socks.

Striped socks? I don’t think I’ve ever worn striped socks in my life.

I smile as an idea comes to me. I grab the socks and cut off the toes so I end up with arm warmers.

Cool.

I go back to the mirror, and this time, I like what I see.

Now I look less like a zombie. Now, I look more like me.

Well, me with a snub nose and fuller lips. Come to think of it, they don’t look too bad. They actually seem to suit me more.

I look behind the mirror and at the corners of the ceiling.

“Wait. Is this one of those makeover reality shows?”

I don’t see any cameras, though. Maybe they’re really well hidden?

A blush coats my cheeks as a thought crosses my mind.

Shit. If I’m on camera, does that mean somebody saw me touching myself? Or my breasts?

I shake my head and fold my arms over my chest.

“Hey, shouldn’t I have to sign something to be in a reality show? Or at least express my consent? This is illegal, you know.”

No answer.

I look down at my arms and gasp as I see the marks on my wrists. What the…?

Just then, the door opens and a man with wavy dark brown, almost black hair enters the room. A black long-sleeved shirt hangs from his broad shoulders and a pair of faded jeans from his hips.

Wide, jet black eyes peer at me from beneath arched thin eyebrows, one of which has a faint scar above it. A well-defined nose with a slightly bulbous tip, a strong nose, sits above wide, thin lips, divided by a well-kept mustache. More stiff hairs fringe his square chin.

I don’t know this guy.

Good-looking, yes, but a complete stranger.

And yet, he doesn’t seem as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

“You’re awake,” he says as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I thought I heard a voice. You’re Grace, right?”

He knows my name?

His gaze travels over me from head to foot. “You look… nice.”

I grab the brush from the dresser. “Who are you and what did you do to me? Where is this place?”

He puts his hands up. “Careful. You don’t want to kill me with that thing.”

I look at the brush and frown. Then I exchange it for the pair of scissors.

“Whoa.” The man steps back. “Now, that’s a more painful death right there.”

I step forward. “Answer my questions. Who are you?”

“Travis Freeman.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell.

I point the tip of the scissors at his throat. “What did you do to me? Why do I look like this?”

Travis shrugs. “Like what?”

“What is this? Some reality show, or some sick experiment? How the…?”

I’m unable to finish my sentence, because Travis suddenly moves behind me. He places one arm around me so that my arm is pinned against my side. Then he grabs my wrist with his other hand and twists it just painfully enough so that the scissors slip from my fingers.

“Ouch,” I complain as the scissors fall to the floor.

I prepare to hurl even more complaints, but they all evaporate as I realize his arm is pressing against my unprotected breasts through the thin cotton.

I push him away and cross my arms over my chest. “How dare you?”

“I wouldn’t be ashamed about them if I were you,” he says as he picks up the pair of scissors from the floor. “I’ve seen less flattering versions.”

My eyes grow wide. “You saw them?”

“And touched them,” Travis adds nonchalantly as he spins the scissors around.

I grit my teeth. “That’s sexual harassment! I’ll sue you for this.”

“Sue him for what?”

An older man who looks like he’s in his late fifties enters the room.

“Ah, Phil,” Travis greets him as he puts the scissors down on the dresser. “How good of you to join us.”

I turn to him. “Are you the one in charge?”

He shrugs. “I suppose so.”

“I want to speak to a lawyer right now.”

“A lawyer?” He gives me a puzzled look. “But, child, I don’t think we…”

“And I want a phone so I can call my parents.”

“We don’t have reception,” Travis says.

What? “Then I want someone to give me a ride home right now. Or I’ll call the cops.”

“But you don’t have a phone,” Travis reminds me.

“Quit fucking with me!” I shout at him. “I want to go home right now!”

“And where is home, exactly?” the old man asks.

“Pasadena,” I answer.

Travis’s eyebrows furrow. “California?”

“Yes, genius,” I tell him.

“But…”

The old man lifts a finger and he falls silent. Ah, so he knows how to keep quiet after all.

“Child, what year were you born?” he asks me.

“2017,” I answer.

That I remember, too.

“And what year do you think it is now?”

“2038.”

He looks at Travis, whose jaw has just dropped.

“What?” I ask curiously.

The old man exhales. “It’s 2045, child.”

I cover my mouth as a gasp comes out. My other hand grips the footboard of the bed as my knees weaken and wobble.

What on earth?