"My child!" screamed my mother. " I won't let them hurt you! Just do what they tell you and you will be fine!"

I was taken from my house, my hardly sane mother, and my life by an iron grip of an unknown man. He pulled me along as I willingly trudged beside him. I knew that my mother was lying. She was too far past insane to start caring for me and telling me the truth now.

But there was still a itch in my brain, in the far right corner, telling my legs to run, my voice to shriek, my mouth to bite my captor.

That was the last thing my father ever told me before he was taken away when I was only two. "Run." He said to me. His crazy brown eyes were drenched in fear. He tried to grasp me with his hands. He had always had big hands; like bear paws. He whispered something intp my ear before he and I were pulled apart by my mother and a man in a green suit. "If they try to take you, run far away. And don't stop until you reach the queen city."

Of course, I didn't know what that meant then. I was only a child. I also didn't know what 'they' meant either.

"W.C.K.D," my mother would tell me. I would huddle in her lap as we sat in the big, leather chair. My father's chair. "It's pronounced 'wicked', like the play."

When I asked why father was taken away, she would grimace and squint her eyes. It was clear that she was hiding the tears that begged to roll down her face. She would put me back on the coffee stained carpet, walk away and lock herself into the room that the happy couple once shared. I would pretend to play with the holoscreen even though there no one to see me fake it. I would hear her screams from up above.

I knew she was going crazy. I knew the symptoms. There were signs, posters, warnings everywhere, telling me what to watch for in the people that I grew close to. The animals were eating at her brain like the starving on Thanksgiving. I would lock myself downstairs when she would go on one of her all-night rages, throwing the table and biting herself. She would shatter the glasses and burn all her clothes, singing a song about crying fire.

No one was there to save me.

Until W.C.K.D came to the rescue.

When I was little, I yearned for my questions to be answered. But now that I know the answers, I wish I had never asked the questions.

But soon, all my problems will go away. All my knowledge about the truth and even the lies will disappear. W.C.K.D will see to that. We're going to discuss the procedure within the hour. They will send me to a place that would, and I quote 'have quite an array of distractions for me to deal with', though they never told me what those distractions were. They said I could help many people if I go, so that is what I will do. I could even help him.

I don't want to go. I don't want to help W.C.K.D . The lies that I want to run away from are what they are giving me if I go.

I don't want to torture them. They don't deserve it. Those people in there are good and are going to suffer if I go. But if I don't go, even more will die.

I didn't know what they were really doing. They told me they were doctors, and I couldn't really see what they were doing to have a real opinion myself. I secluded in the 'guest' quarters with the others. When they started to disappear, they told us they had it. I believed it, of course. But when, they took him away, that's when I lost it. I locked myself in my bedroom; they had to force me to come out to eat food. Soon enough, though, they couldn't even get me to come out. They had to give me food through the window in the door. I haven't been outside that door in two years.

They lied to me about him. They said he was past the gone. They said he had it. They said I could help him if I go, that he would be the first to get the cure. But he wasn't sick at all. He was in there the whole time. I will see him again, they said. They said I could make him remember me; make him love me again.

They said it was possible, not certain. I know that they told another lie.

I don't want to go, yet I let them stick the mask on my face, the metal tools in my brain.

I want to thrash, I want to fight, I want to run away, like my father told me to, years and years before. I want to struggle like I did earlier, before they put me into the cage with the chains around my wrists, nailed into the floor.

They slam the door and lock it. I growl and hiss, like a show animal. Then, they throw in a body. Lifeless, but not dead. The last thing I remember thinking before the lights went out and my brain stopped was this:

"Find him. Tell him everything. Help them escape. W.C.K.D is EVIL."