Imagine Me

Or maybe even a hotel room.

Everything is extremely white. Sterile. I’m in a big white bed with white sheets and a white comforter. Even the bed frame is made of a white, blond wood. Next to the various carts and now-dead monitors, there’s a single nightstand decorated with a single, simple lamp. There’s a slim door standing ajar, and through a slant of light I think I spy what serves as a closet, though it appears to be empty. Adjacent to the door is a suitcase, closed but unzipped. There’s a screen mounted on the wall directly opposite me, and underneath it, a bureau. One of the drawers isn’t completely closed, and it piques my interest.

It occurs to me then that I am not wearing any clothes. I’m wearing a hospital gown, but no real clothes. My eyes scan the room for my military uniform and I come up short.

There’s nothing here.

I remember then, in a moment of clarity, that I must’ve bled all over my clothes. I remember kneeling on the floor. I remember the growing puddle of my own blood in which I collapsed.

I glance down at my injured hand. I only injured my index finger, but my entire left hand is bound in gauze. The pain has reduced to a dull throb. I take that as a good sign.

Gingerly, I begin to remove the bandages.

Just then, Anderson reappears. His suit jacket is gone. His tie, gone. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the black curl of ink more clearly visible, and his hair is disheveled. He seems more relaxed.

He remains in the doorway and takes a long drink from a glass half-full of amber liquid.

When he makes eye contact with me, I say:

“Sir, I was wondering where I am. I was also wondering where my clothes are.”

Anderson takes another sip. He closes his eyes as he swallows, leans back against the doorframe. Sighs.

“You’re in my room,” he says, his eyes still closed. “This compound is vast, and the medical wings—of which there are many—are, for the most part, situated on the opposite end of the facility, about a mile away. After Max attended to your needs, I had him deposit you here so that I’d be able to keep a close eye on you through the night. As to your clothes, I have no idea.” He takes another sip. “I think Max had them incinerated. I’m sure someone will bring you replacements soon.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Anderson says nothing.

I say nothing more.

With his eyes closed, I feel safer to stare at him. I take advantage of the rare opportunity to peer closer at his tattoo, but I still can’t make sense of it. Mostly, I stare at his face, which I’ve never seen like this: Soft. Relaxed. Almost smiling. Even so, I can tell that something is troubling him.

“What?” he says without looking at me. “What is it now?”

“I was wondering, sir, if you’re okay.”

His eyes open. He tilts his head to look at me, but his gaze is inscrutable. Slowly, he turns.

He throws back the last of his drink, rests the glass on the nightstand, and sits down in a nearby armchair. “I had you cut off your own finger last night, do you remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And today you’re asking me if I’m okay.”

“Yes, sir. You seem upset, sir.”

He leans back in the chair, looking thoughtful. Suddenly, he shakes his head. “You know, I realize now that I’ve been too hard on you. I’ve put you through too much. Tested your loyalty perhaps too much. But you and I have a long history, Juliette. And it’s not easy for me to forgive. I certainly don’t forget.”

I say nothing.

“You have no idea how much I hated you,” he says, speaking more to the wall than to me. “How much I still hate you, sometimes. But now, finally—”

He sits up, looks me in the eye.

“Now you’re perfect.” He laughs, but there’s no heart in it. “Now you’re absolutely perfect and I have to just give you away. Toss your body to science.” He turns toward the wall again. “What a shame.”

Fear creeps up, through my chest. I ignore it.

Anderson stands, grabs the empty glass off the nightstand, and disappears for a minute to refill it. When he returns, he stares at me from the doorway. I stare back. We remain like that for a while before he says, suddenly—

“You know, when I was very young, I wanted to be a baker.”

Surprise shoots through me, widens my eyes.

“I know,” he says, taking another swallow of the amber liquid. He almost laughs. “Not what you’d expect. But I’ve always had a fondness for cake. Few people realize this, but baking requires infinite precision and patience. It is an exacting, cruel science. I would’ve been an excellent baker.” And then: “I’m not really sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it’s been a long time since I’ve felt I could speak openly with anyone.”

“You can tell me anything, sir.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m beginning to believe that.”

We’re both silent then, but I can’t stop staring at him, my mind suddenly overrun with unanswerable questions.

Another twenty seconds of this and he finally breaks the silence.

“All right, what is it?” His voice is dry. Self-mocking. “What is it you’re dying to know?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say. “I was just wondering— Why didn’t you try? To be a baker?”

Anderson shrugs, spins the glass around in his hands. “When I got a bit older, my mother used to force bleach down my throat. Ammonia. Whatever she could find under the sink. It was never enough to kill me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Just enough to torture me for all of eternity.” He throws back the rest of the drink. “You might say that I lost my appetite.”

I can’t mask my horror quickly enough. Anderson laughs at me, laughs at the look on my face.

“She never even had a good reason for doing it,” he says, turning away. “She just hated me.”

“Sir,” I say, “Sir, I—”

Max barges into the room. I flinch.

“What the hell did you do?”

“There are so many possible answers to that question,” Anderson says, glancing back. “Please be more specific. By the way, what did you do with her clothes?”

“I’m talking about Kent,” Max says angrily. “What did you do?”

Anderson looks suddenly uncertain. He glances from Max to me then back again. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere.”

But Max looks beyond reason. His eyes are so wild I can’t tell if he’s angry or terrified. “Please tell me the tapes were tampered with. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you didn’t perform the procedure on yourself.”

Anderson looks at once relieved and irritated. “Calm yourself,” he says. “I watched Evie do this kind of thing countless times—and the last time, on me. The boy had already been drained. The vial was ready, just sitting there on the counter, and you were so busy with”—he glances at me—“anyway, I had a while to wait, and I figured I’d make myself useful while I stood around.”

“I can’t believe— Of course you don’t see the problem,” Max says, grabbing a fistful of his own hair. He’s shaking his head. “You never see the problem.”