Chapter 4
Downers and Uppers
*
Bright lights, burly guards. I fight but I am weak; I feel like I haven't eaten in days. They take me to another room, with a tile floor and a drain in the center. In case it gets messy. That chair. I know what that chair means, and the IV bags on either side.
All the times I've sat in that chair, it never gets any easier. They know the right interval to use so that my body never adapts to the drugs.
*
It's hard to summon Julia. I want to cry.
*
I wince as he slides the needle in my arm. My right arm. Then my left arm: another sharp, short pain. I want to rub the spot, soothe it. I wish he'd put the needle in my elbow, so I couldn't see it. I wish I could rip the damn thing out and run.
Oleg is to my right, twisting the valve open. The fluid is cold and I can feel it as it runs into my wrist, and slowly moves up my arm.
I struggle to keep my eyes open. Barbiturates. I can't identify the particular one they use. It doesn't matter; it won't help me to know this enemy. I fight the dark.
*
"I will kill you, you son of a bitch! I promise you!"
I am seething, fighting against the restraints. I can't pinpoint the moment I woke up. I feel like I was already yelling, screaming, squirming against the thick canvas straps, since the moment I was born. My heart is racing, like I've had had ten too many double espressos and haven't slept in a week. Amphetamines, I tell myself. But knowledge doesn't lessen the sensation.
"I will kill you! I will make you pay!"
He laughs, chuckles really, amused by my efforts. I will kill him. The rage inside my mind is louder than any scream I can force out my throat. Inside I am on fire. I am exploding with it. Shaking, from the drugs, yes, but more from my rage, that threatens to consume me.
He starts the drip on my right again. It takes longer this time, but the battle is a lost cause.
*
I come to my senses gradually this time. Still in the chair, but so comfortably numb. I think I smile. I can't tell; I can barely feel my body, as if separated from it by miles of fog.
Narcotics.
"Julia, your father's name was Kenneth Thorne."
There are pictures on the wall, but I can't close my eyes. The lids are hold open and rewetted at regular intervals. The excess saline runs out the corners leaving tracks down my face almost like tears would.
"Your two brothers, Daniel and Tom."
Two tow-headed boys and a small girl laugh and run across a suburban yard, the sprinklers running. It is late summer, flowers in bloom and heat heavy in the air. A front porch, with an Adirondack chair to the left of the door.
"You were the only survivor."
A flash of orange flames.
"Confirmation at the Old Souls Church."
Gothic architecture. Gray stone. Then the same girl in a confirmation dress, all white sateen and lace, blond pigtails. I can't turn away. I can't close my eyes. I can't do anything but watch, absorb the information, and try desperately to remind myself of who I am.
I am Sydney Bristow. I am going to kill this bastard. But without the amphetamines the rage is hard to find.
"You lost your family in a fire. You were the only survivor. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family." Vengeance strikes a chord. Vengeance I can comprehend, more and more so every day. He sees it in my face, and I see triumph dawning in his.
"You became a contract killer. You showed no pity. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family. Julia will eat well. Live well."
*
This time I feel a hard mattress under my back. I smile. He thinks he has me. Completely, now. He thinks his work is almost done.
What he doesn't know will kill him. Someday. I have become an expert in patience, in that agonizing length of time between seeing something I want and reaching out to grab it.
My head hurts more than by body. I listen for guards. Hearing none, I let myself fade back out.
*
There is a plastic mirror above a plastic basin of water. My hair is blond. I comb some of the knots out with my fingers. I splash my face with water and watch the drops course down my gaunt cheeks, slide over my lips. Aside from the blond hair and dark circles under my eyes, I see my mother in the mirror. Hard angles, all the softness scraped away. I am just as bruised as I thought. Dark blue marks cross my upper arms from the chair. Finger sized imprints above my collarbone and at the base of my neck. Doubtless there are more but I don't bother looking for them.
I bring my fingers to my lips, feel their give. The only generous part of my body.
Who am I? I am not Julia, but I've come so much further than I thought Sydney ever could. Another voice asks if it even matters. I stumble back to the mattress on the floor. I readjust the same stale pillow under my head and close my eyes.
*
*
Bright lights, burly guards. I fight but I am weak; I feel like I haven't eaten in days. They take me to another room, with a tile floor and a drain in the center. In case it gets messy. That chair. I know what that chair means, and the IV bags on either side.
All the times I've sat in that chair, it never gets any easier. They know the right interval to use so that my body never adapts to the drugs.
*
It's hard to summon Julia. I want to cry.
*
I wince as he slides the needle in my arm. My right arm. Then my left arm: another sharp, short pain. I want to rub the spot, soothe it. I wish he'd put the needle in my elbow, so I couldn't see it. I wish I could rip the damn thing out and run.
Oleg is to my right, twisting the valve open. The fluid is cold and I can feel it as it runs into my wrist, and slowly moves up my arm.
I struggle to keep my eyes open. Barbiturates. I can't identify the particular one they use. It doesn't matter; it won't help me to know this enemy. I fight the dark.
*
"I will kill you, you son of a bitch! I promise you!"
I am seething, fighting against the restraints. I can't pinpoint the moment I woke up. I feel like I was already yelling, screaming, squirming against the thick canvas straps, since the moment I was born. My heart is racing, like I've had had ten too many double espressos and haven't slept in a week. Amphetamines, I tell myself. But knowledge doesn't lessen the sensation.
"I will kill you! I will make you pay!"
He laughs, chuckles really, amused by my efforts. I will kill him. The rage inside my mind is louder than any scream I can force out my throat. Inside I am on fire. I am exploding with it. Shaking, from the drugs, yes, but more from my rage, that threatens to consume me.
He starts the drip on my right again. It takes longer this time, but the battle is a lost cause.
*
I come to my senses gradually this time. Still in the chair, but so comfortably numb. I think I smile. I can't tell; I can barely feel my body, as if separated from it by miles of fog.
Narcotics.
"Julia, your father's name was Kenneth Thorne."
There are pictures on the wall, but I can't close my eyes. The lids are hold open and rewetted at regular intervals. The excess saline runs out the corners leaving tracks down my face almost like tears would.
"Your two brothers, Daniel and Tom."
Two tow-headed boys and a small girl laugh and run across a suburban yard, the sprinklers running. It is late summer, flowers in bloom and heat heavy in the air. A front porch, with an Adirondack chair to the left of the door.
"You were the only survivor."
A flash of orange flames.
"Confirmation at the Old Souls Church."
Gothic architecture. Gray stone. Then the same girl in a confirmation dress, all white sateen and lace, blond pigtails. I can't turn away. I can't close my eyes. I can't do anything but watch, absorb the information, and try desperately to remind myself of who I am.
I am Sydney Bristow. I am going to kill this bastard. But without the amphetamines the rage is hard to find.
"You lost your family in a fire. You were the only survivor. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family." Vengeance strikes a chord. Vengeance I can comprehend, more and more so every day. He sees it in my face, and I see triumph dawning in his.
"You became a contract killer. You showed no pity. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family. Julia will eat well. Live well."
*
This time I feel a hard mattress under my back. I smile. He thinks he has me. Completely, now. He thinks his work is almost done.
What he doesn't know will kill him. Someday. I have become an expert in patience, in that agonizing length of time between seeing something I want and reaching out to grab it.
My head hurts more than by body. I listen for guards. Hearing none, I let myself fade back out.
*
There is a plastic mirror above a plastic basin of water. My hair is blond. I comb some of the knots out with my fingers. I splash my face with water and watch the drops course down my gaunt cheeks, slide over my lips. Aside from the blond hair and dark circles under my eyes, I see my mother in the mirror. Hard angles, all the softness scraped away. I am just as bruised as I thought. Dark blue marks cross my upper arms from the chair. Finger sized imprints above my collarbone and at the base of my neck. Doubtless there are more but I don't bother looking for them.
I bring my fingers to my lips, feel their give. The only generous part of my body.
Who am I? I am not Julia, but I've come so much further than I thought Sydney ever could. Another voice asks if it even matters. I stumble back to the mattress on the floor. I readjust the same stale pillow under my head and close my eyes.
*
