Chapter Three

"Chloe?"

She blinked. Her memory was swept away from her eyes like dust with a broom. She was in the present now. For a moment, her heart leapt into her throat as she saw that her surroundings were dismal and somewhat gray… but then she remembered where she was. It was good to know where she was, comforting or not.

"Chloe?" the voice asked again, gently. Like a cool ocean breeze.

She didn't respond. Her mouth felt desiccated, as always. Her eyes burned. It felt like she had been crying. Yes, she could feel the dried tears on her cheeks. But she merely stared straight ahead, trying to bring herself completely into reality. There was darkness in the corners of her eyes, telling her that she could slip into a vivid memory at any time. She didn't look at the source of the voice. She stared ahead, straight ahead, staring, staring, seeing nothing.

"Chloe, talk to me. What happened to your hand?"

The words were faint, but she turned her right hand over anyway so that the palm was facing up towards the ceiling. The scars were deep and visible. She stared blankly down at the palm, feeling lost and shrunken. How had this happened? How… no wait, she remembered. She knew how that happened.

"Please, Chloe. You never told me what happened to your hand."

The darkness in the corners of her eyes began to advance, clouding her already obscured and surreal vision of the world. It blew before her, like a black cloud, shrouding the room from view. When the smoke cleared, she was in the room with the Table. But she wasn't on the Table anymore. The two guards were dragging her to the doorway, and He had already left the room. She knew that she was being taken back to the little square room again. Panic and frustration welled up inside of her, and she did the only thing that had become natural to her during her stay there.

She screamed.

The guard to her left, not having expected such a shrill, piercing sound to permeate his ear, lost his grip for a moment and sent the left side of Chloe's body tumbling to the hard floor. The other guard held fast to her right wrist as she continued to scream, holding her right hand in a fist.

"What the hell? Shut her up, will ya?" the guard that had let go ordered in a deep voice.

"What do you want me to do?" the second guard replied scornfully. "Why don't you go get a sedative from that table over there?"

The guard who had let go strode over to the equipment table and stared down at it, looking too afraid to touch anything. Chloe was finding it hard to keep up her deafening, ringing note; her throat felt like it was tearing from the sheer volume. She wasn't sure exactly why she was doing it— perhaps to stall for time. Perhaps the answer would come to her if only she could keep screaming.

"Aw, shit. I can't find nothin' in this mess. Ya wanna c'mon over here and gimme a hand?" the guard called over to the one that still had a hold on Chloe's wrist. Mumbling about the first guard not being able to do anything properly, he dragged Chloe by the arm over to the table. It felt like her shoulder was about to pop out of its socket, which only incited her to scream louder.

This was it. They were at the equipment table. Chloe looked up at the many gadgets there, praying that she could find something useful if only she could sit up and see over the top. Luckily, the first guard knocked something over and it shattered on the floor.

"What's the matter with you? Luthor will kill us both!" the second guard shouted, and—miraculously—he let go of Chloe's arm. The latter stood up slowly behind him, pulling herself onto wobbly legs as she quickly surveyed the table. Neither of the guards seemed to take notice that she had stopped screaming. There really was a ton of junk on there, that was for sure. Spare parts for different machinery were strewn over the top haphazardly. The closest thing to her was a metal pipe. She grabbed it hastily, not sure why, and stuffed it up her pant leg to hide it. With a glance over to the guards to make sure they still weren't paying attention, she grabbed the green syringe and without hesitation plunged the needle into the nearest guard's back.

Loud hollering filled the room as the man bent forward and collapsed onto his knees, pain engulfing him. Chloe wrenched the needle out of his back and turned to the other guard, who eyed it warily. Feeling in control for the first time in several weeks, Chloe darted forward, wielding the huge syringe, and swung it down onto the raised arm of the other man. The need inserted into his flesh and created a great gash as he tried to pull it away. Blood dribbled down his arm as he, too, doubled over in agony, his shouts soon joining those of the other guard. Dropping the syringe on the floor, Chloe bent down and grabbed the keys from the pocket of the first guard. Then she turned and stumbled over to the door, limping slightly because of the pole in her right pant leg, which forced her leg straight like a splint. She wasn't sure why she still had it with her, but having a weapon felt good, so she allowed it to slow her down slightly as she hurried to the doorway.

Yes—yes—she was almost there! Freedom was nearly upon her. She arrived at the door and began inserting random keys, trying to find the one that would open the door. The guards continued to groan behind her, too absorbed by the pain to notice her escape. At last she stuck a small silver key into the lock and turned it—yes! She turned the handle and wildly threw the door open, taking one hurried step out into the hallway.

But the corridor was blocked by an infuriated bald man in a black suit. Chloe felt her stomach bottom out and heard the distant tinkle of keys hitting the solid floor after they slipped from her slack grip. He stared at her, fire in His eyes, and then grabbed her by the shirt collar and pulled her up close to His face. "Where do you think you're going?" He muttered menacingly before dragging her back to her little square room and chucking her inside, locking the door hastily.

His footsteps faded away in the distance, and Chloe crumpled to the floor, conquered, her eyes burning once again with tears. She had been so close, so close! She tried to curl up her legs into a ball, but her right leg was uncomfortably straight. Reaching into her pant leg, she discovered the pipe. A split second of anger ignited inside of her, and she chucked the pipe as hard as she could across the room. It clanged loudly on the wall, and the sound echoed and echoed and echoed…

She found that her right hand was balled into a fist again. Flattening it out, she gazed down upon her palm, down at the three symbols etched into her skin, and realized how lucky she had been that He hadn't seen them. If He saw them, all hope was lost; He would know that she was somehow connected to the stones… the caves… Clark…

Clark. The thought of him made her body heave a sob. Why hadn't he come to save her yet? He was always there when she needed him. Now she needed him more than ever. Only he wasn't there. He wasn't coming to save her. She looked down at her palm again, wanting nothing more than to see Clark's face again, to know that everything would be all right. But she didn't know if it would be all right. She didn't know if anything would ever be all right again.

Yet maybe there was a way to stop Him from finding how about Chloe's palm… maybe… Her eyes turned up to where the pipe had fallen on the floor, and an idea lit up in her mind. She crawled over the smooth floor until she came to the pipe, which she automatically picked up in her right hand—after all, she was right-handed. But she switched it over to her left hand, feeling the cool tube against her skin, feeling the power to destroy the evidence in the palm of her hand.

Her breath quickened. She had never done anything to harm herself before, not intentionally and consciously. She sat up straight, bracing herself, lifting the tip of the pipe into the air. Her right hand was open, palm facing up, and lying steadily on the gray floor. With one huge breath and a leaping of her heart into her throat, she thrust the pipe downward. The tip connected with her palm sharply, and she quickly pulled it along the skin, consumed by the horrible sensation of her flesh being scraped off. Scarlet liquid oozed from her hand. She didn't feel it because of the rare adrenaline pumping through her body. Lifting the pipe, which was now bloody at the tip, she forced it down onto her palm again, scraping away more skin and leaving it clotted at the end of the pipe. When she was done, her palm began to throb, and she looked down at it.

Feeling slightly sick with the image of her bloody, mutilated hand, she dropped the pipe to her left and leaned back against the wall, taking in deep breaths and trying not to vomit. Her hand stung and ached, but the symbols had been erased. Chloe gave a sigh of relief and closed her eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness.

The next thing she knew, she was being jerked awake by the loud bang of a door swinging open and clanging loudly against the wall. She blinked the blurriness from her eyes and found Him standing in the doorway, His mouth set in a straight line as He attempted to prevent rage from pouring out over the floor and setting fire to the entire room. He looked as if He wanted to run in there and scream at Chloe, but He didn't move.

"I hope you realize the damage you have inflicted upon my two most faithful and hardworking guards, not to mention the destruction of some very valuable equipment, " He spat through clenched teeth. Hands clasped loosely behind His back, He began to stroll calmly into the room. The door was still wide open. Chloe's eyes flickered to the opening in the wall, a deep longing welling within her. He noticed and looked over in the direction of the door. "You want to try running again?" He asked softly, bending down close to her ear. "Go ahead. Run." Chloe didn't move. "No?" He stood up, striding over to the door and gently closing it, seeming to have conquered His rage. "Wise choice. I have a guard on duty at all hours now. If you try to run, he has permission to shoot you."

Chloe felt her heart skip a beat and was momentarily startled that she still had a heart, and it was indeed still beating. She thought she had died long ago.

"So, Chloe," He began again, returning to the matter at hand. "You had a little fun in my lab earlier today, didn't you?" His eyes began dancing around the room as if searching for some kind of sign of Chloe's wrongdoings. Instead, all He found was a lone pipe lying abandoned at the far end of the room. Oddly enough, one end of it was caked with dried crimson residue, which appeared to be blood. A look of curiosity overcoming His face, He made his way over to the pipe and picked it up. "How did you get this?"

Chloe tried to keep her face impassive as she clenched her right hand into a fist. The wound throbbed harder when she did so, and she tried not to yelp out in pain as her fingernails dug into the freshly bleeding cuts. He strode back over to her and raised the pipe up, examining the tip. When His eyes turned back to Chloe, they lingered on the single drop of blood running down her wrist.

"Open your hand."

Chloe only clenched her fist tighter. More blood oozed out and fell into a small puddle on the sterile floor. He reached forward and easily forced her fingers open so that He could see the mangled pulp of her palm.

"Did you do this to yourself?" He questioned, His eyes never leaving her outstretched hand, which He held up so that He could assess the damage to the subject. Chloe gave a tiny, reluctant nod of affirmation. "And how did you get that pipe in here?"

Deciding that it was no use staying quiet, for it would only grant her some unwanted pain, she mumbled, "I took it from the other room."

"I surmised as much," He retorted coldly. "How did you get it in here without my noticing?"

"I hid it in my pant leg," she responded bluntly, dismally. Her voice echoed the quiet gloominess of the gray room.

Upon retrospect, she regretted saying that. She wished she had lied rather than told Him that she had used her clothing to hide a weapon. Because shortly thereafter, He took away her remaining dignity when He took away her clothes. She was given a flimsy, thin, white hospital gown that fell to her knees and had no sleeves; the back was only tied, so she constantly felt unwanted cold air on her back, which was partially revealed through the opening in the fabric. It was uncomfortable, and she longed for the familiar sensation of warm jeans against her thighs. But alas, they had taken everything—including her shoes—and she was left with even less clothing to protect her from the merciless cold. But at least He was satisfied now that she wouldn't have any place to stash a stolen weapon. All she had left was a thin papery gown, the scars on her hand, and the cold.

And, of course, He tried to pry from her lips why she had performed such a heinous act upon her own hand. She lied, of course, claiming that it was a moment of madness, that she had gone temporarily insane and had taken out her lunacy on her innocent hand.

"That's all? You plead temporary insanity?" His eyes drifted over to her clenched fist. "There was no motivation behind such a specified attack?" Chloe was silent. He held up the syringe.

"No," she coughed.

Then He had her sign her name.

"I think Atticus Finch would agree that you're right-handed," He told her, the corners of His mouth twitching up into a malicious grin. "So if you were right-handed, wouldn't you have automatically picked the pole up with your right hand?" He stepped closer to her, bending low over her face and whispering into her ear, "Or are you ambidextrous?"

True, Chloe had read To Kill a Mockingbird. Yet she hadn't realized His tactic until it was too late. After that, He became more suspicious as to why she wouldn't have held the pipe in her right hand if she were truly just taking out her anger in a moment of craziness. There was something more to it, and He knew that.

Only time would tell how much He could figure out.

x-----x-----x-----x-----x

"Chloe?"

The mist fell before her eyes; everything was hazy, as usual. She blinked, trying to diffuse the fogginess as she fought to remain in the present, in reality. The memories of destroying her hand were fading away, and when she looked down she now only saw the ridges of the scars disturbing the smoothness of her healed skin. That was all in the past. Lost in the cloudy, broken pieces and the grayness of the past.

"Chloe, why did you do it? Why did you hurt your hand like that?"

She must have been talking during the memory. Sometimes that happened. She must have murmured a few things, sparking the person's interest and concern. But she stared on, she stared on, into the fathoms of the room on the brink of reality. She opened her mouth.

"I had to protect the secrets," she whispered monotonously. Her eyes were unfocused. Her mouth was dry. Her mind teetered in the shadowy corners where memory and present blended together to form a cruel, distorted, dreamlike world.

"What secrets?" The voice was calm. Soothing. Warm.

Chloe leaned forward, completely present and aware of reality for a brief moment, to the person seated at the other end of the table. "The secrets of the cave."