It felt as if things had been ruined forever between Lana and me. Weeks went by without a word from her, and although the cessation of Pavi-talk was a relief, the guilt gnawed at my insides. We had been friends ever since we discovered that we both hated Blind Mag's music at the age of eleven. Many a glorious day had been spent in our rooms, happily bashing that "weird-eyed freak" or trying on each other's parents' makeup.
And now the days of innocence were long gone. It was only really apparent after the incident how much of my time I had spent with Lana. Jobless and without any real hobbies, I took to wandering the streets. It only depressed me further to see the deteriorating state of our poor city. Any grass that had survived the massive industrialization was now brown and dead, sprouting up from split concrete. Everything felt mechanical and utilitarian. The weight of our oppression bowed my shoulders. And yet, people were said to be freer than ever. How quickly we forget our debts when our leaders are whispering a constant stream of assurances in our ears.
My walks irritated my left knee. The old scar itched where it had been operated on back when I was fifteen. Fortunately, the procedure had not been too costly and we had been able to pay it off immediately. There were no Repo Men in my future. I was only the second-hand victim of repossession.
My aunt's untimely death had sent ripples of mild shock through my family. It wasn't as if people were overly fond of her. She was, after all, that relative we all have: the type to light up a cigarette at the dinner table; the one whose laugh is as overbearing and obnoxious as the persona; the person who we could all do without at the family function. Like Amber Sweet, she had been addicted to the knife. Every time she stepped unwelcome onto our doorstep, something was different about her looks. Once, her chest had tripled in size. Another time, a lengthy scar snaked its way from the crook of her neck to the base of her sternum. Sometimes we could only guess what organ had been replaced or enhanced.
Needless to say, we were less than surprised when told that her gutted corpse had been found behind one of her haunts. The Repo Man had not only claimed GeneCo's organs, but some of her still-functioning originals as well. It seemed her debt had grown over time to a point where even a refund was insufficient.
A small part of everyone in the family had known that this day would come. My aunt had not had anywhere near the amount of money needed to pay for the operations. Nevertheless, because a Repo Man had affected us—albeit indirectly—we were perturbed. It gives one a sense of vulnerability. Before it happens to you or someone close to you, the Repo Man feels more like a myth than a living, breathing entity.
I felt the same sense of disturbance as I meandered through the haze of my misery. It seemed as if what I had done to Lana had cursed me in some way, like the Repo Man would come and take away the heart I didn't deserve.
Sometimes, when the sadness overwhelmed me completely, I wished that I had taken Pavi's hand that day. Maybe if I had, I would have had someone...someone.
It was a day. I wasn't sure which day. I awoke groggy, in discomfort and curled into a painful little ball. Once the bleariness had cleared from my eyes, I was able to conclude that I was in an alley. At first unsure of how I had gotten there and somewhat worried, I leapt to my feet. As far as the dim light could let me see, there was no one else around. The gloomy side street was bare save for a dumpster, out of which poked a couple of fingers.
I repressed a shudder and headed for the main road. Although not fully certain of what had happened the previous night, I could now vaguely recall sitting down in the alley for a quick rest. I must have passed out from exhaustion. My walks were getting increasingly hazardous, it seemed.
With a start of fear, I checked out my body, looking for cut marks or puncture wounds. If someone had snuck up on me and shot me with Zydrate...but I saw nothing. True, I bore none of the hangover I associated with the day after an injection, something I had experienced only after the operation five years ago. A sigh of relief escaped my lungs as I darted into the smoggy sunlight—and promptly ran into someone walking by.
Before I could clear my head once more, I heard an all-too-familiar voice.
"Bella?"
