SONYA BLADE

"Sonya, do you know why I'm here?" Six-year-old me shakes my head. I don't know what a social worker is. All I know is that the robust Black lady, who introduced herself as Dora, seems nice. She even brought crayons to my house. It was the premium box with the built-in sharpener. My mom never bought the good stuff, no matter how much I pleaded.

Dora asks me to draw a picture of my family. At my age, I only draw stick figures. I use yellow for my mom's curly blond hair. My brother, Daniel, has a frown and crossed arms. My dad is the last one.

"Why is there an "x" over your dad?" she pretends it is passing curiosity; I don't realize she's analyzing my every move.

"He's never home." I draw myself next. I'm the shortest stick figure, with yellow hair and blue dots for my eyes.

"Is that you? Why are you frowning?" she asks.

"He's never home." I don't understand my dad's deployments or the insurmountable pressure he's always under. All I know is that when he's gone, the world is joyless and terrifying. My mom, Erica, goes out all the time or falls asleep with a big dark bottle in her hand. Worst of all, I'm always left alone with my brother.

When Herman Blade comes home, however, Erica Blade toes the line. She knows he won't tolerate her drinking and neglectful actions towards his children. She hugs us when he's around.

"Was he home when you fell down the stairs?" Dora presses me.

I eye her. She is a short lady with long brown hair pulled into a bun. She has a kind smile, which contrasts with her drab gray dress. It's a mix between a church and a work dress. She tries to act friendly, but my heart thumps as her questions become more specific. "Yes," I say, my tone measured.

"Sonya, could you draw me a picture of that day?"

My hand freezes over the brown crayon. I retract it carefully and look at the woman. "I don't want to draw anymore." I push the papers across the small play table, accidentally knocking a pile of crayons onto the hardwood floor. I let out a panicked shout.

"It's okay," she assures me. "I'll get them." I look around the room. We're in the old den in my childhood home.. It is truly a sign of the time; seventies wood-paneling and dark brown shag carpet. There is even one of those gaudy floral couches. My dad's record player will be the focal point for most of my youth. He hates the concept of television sets.

He wouldn't live long enough to see mom buy one.

My eyes turn to the sliding wood door that separates the den from the rest of the house. It's closed for privacy; however, I notice a shadow through the cracks. My back straightens in my chair. The lady stands up and smiles sadly at my tense posture.

"Honey, you need to know that anything you say is between you and me. I'm here to help you," she whispers. My eyes are glued to the door.

I know that shadow means Daniel is listening. It doesn't really matter what I say, he's going to do something to get back at me. My brother will hurt me or something I love. He is the reason I don't have pets.

I learned my lesson after Daniel held my hamster, Hannah, over the toilet. I remember her squirming and writing as he threatened to flush her if I didn't give him the five-cent toy from a fucking cracker jack box. Dad didn't understand why I let the neighbor's daughter take Hannah although it clearly broke my heart. I handed her over with tears in my eyes.

Suddenly, I'm watching myself in the third person. I see this tiny, super-scrawny girl with blond pigtails and wide blue eyes. I wish I could warn her that things will get much worse. Daniel is a monster, and the next ten years are going to be hell. I'm dying to make her tell the social worker about the misery I'm living in, but my body freezes in place. I can't talk or move. A force grabs my head and turns it towards a mirror.

I see a lonely girl crying in her bedroom. She hugs a pillow to muffle her sobs as tears soak into her pillowcase. I recognize the room, her pink bed set, and her blond pigtails. She looks a lot like me, but the similarities end right where my ex-husband's features begin.

I don't need context to know she is crying because of me. I know the tears of a lonely daughter mourning her neglectful mother.

I have cried them and caused them.

Footsteps come down the hall. I wish it were me coming to comfort the young girl. My hopes that Johnny Cage would help her are dashed as a young boy with dark circles under his eyes slams the door open.

Leave her alone! I scream in my head. I can't move, I can't stop him, I can't plead for help. I'm trapped. If I were alive, this would give me a fatal heart attack.

Too bad I'm already dead, and this is my eternal punishment.

I thought that people who give up their lives—those who make the ultimate sacrifice for another person (or better yet, persons) get a one-way trip to heaven. In one of my favorite novels, a character died by jumping in front of a bullet for a child. I thought, yeah, it's a tragedy, but they are set up in the afterlife. Totally worth it.

Don't get me wrong: That's not why I pressed that button and sacrificed myself. Intentions do matter, and a person who sacrifices themselves for a reward probably won't get that reward. I can't say for sure. I don't decide whose soul goes where. I'm just hoping they dropped the ball with me. Otherwise, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" has an entirely new meaning.

I'm in "hell" now, and nobody can—or will—tell me which twist or turn brought me here. I expected a judgment day like the Bible details, in which they give an account of my rights and wrongs (both of which I have many) and then given an official judgment based on the tipping point of my soul. I didn't get that. I just woke up here. Nobody gave me any introduction, explanation, initiation, or fucking orientation.

For some reason, they don't torture me in the conventional sense. I thought souls burn for their punishment. I thought they got whipped while thousands of needles are pierced into their bodies. I thought it was creative down here.

Maybe I'm lucky in that way. Perhaps I should feel fortunate that they don't use pain.

Somewhere deep within, however, I wonder if it's a genius move on their part. Maybe hell knows that emotional and mental torment is what hurts me? I was a fucking marine. The Special Forces prepared me for torture. They also taught me to ignore my emotions, push them down, and not let them get to me at the moment. I was damn good at that. We always heard—and I know I've said it to my men—"on your feet, soldier. You can mourn after the mission."

I made a mistake a lot of service members do: I never fucking mourned.

Well, I have plenty of time for that now.

I come out of the vision to lie on my side in a pool of sweat and tears. I cough and hyperventilate to the screams that fill the Netherrealm. They are my afterlife's soundtrack, a never-ending loop of wordless agony that sounds like they're piped in just for me.

I open my eyes to the gray slabs that make up all my prison. There is no pattern or texture, or even a spot where the wall gets a shade darker. They didn't provide me with any furniture—dead souls don't need any facilities—so the only thing of interest is a heavy, thick chain that attaches my legs to the floor.

It takes a few seconds and a few deep breaths before I'm calm enough to roll on my back. The chains on my legs pull taut. They barely allow me to move.

"Cass" is the one name that falls from my lips. I miss my girl so much that it hurts. Not just emotional pain or mental anguish—though those are part of it, too—but it somehow causes me physical agony. Right now, my brain bangs against my skull, like a bell clanging at inhumane decibel levels. At first, I think the sound is coming from outside somewhere. I shove my palms against my ears. It does nothing.

That's when I realize it's coming from inside me. There's no escaping it. The more I think about her, the louder the noise becomes. It's like my regrets are manifesting themselves physically.

It's no secret I never wanted kids. I spent my pregnancy wondering if I really, truly had to take responsibility for the child growing within me. The delivery was hell, feeding her was damn near impossible, and the postpartum depression nearly crushed me. Many parents talk about the moment when their newborn first wrapped its hand around their mom or dad's finger, and it bonded them for life. They knew they would do anything for their baby.

Cassie grabbed my index finger, and I felt nothing.

By the third day, I just wanted someone to please give me a break from this freaking child. When the nurses took her to the nursery, I nearly cried with joy. Now, I want nothing more than to have her back in my arms. The irony isn't lost on me either.

The doctors chalked it up to postpartum depression and sheer exhaustion. I went along with it because it was a valid excuse that freed me from any guilt. I had no maternal instincts and no interest in my child. I couldn't admit that.

Unfortunately, there are no secrets in the Netherrealm. Everything comes out in the open, and my punishment, while mild compared to others, is having to face them. I did form a bond with my daughter, eventually. It was never as strong as it should have—or could—have been. I have to take full responsibility for that one. I would do anything for my daughter except put her needs first.

At least I witnessed her become Commander Cage before I died. I saw her grow into an amazing soldier and woman. If only I could be there to watch her become General. I regret my dad dying before I proved myself; I hope Cass knows she already has.

And Johnny… There was still so much left unsaid.

"Ohhhh fuck," I roll back on my side and curl my legs. The chains around my ankles and wrists won't allow the fetal position, but I tuck them as far as possible. My knees rest at least a foot from my abdomen. I still grasp my ears in a futile attempt to stop the pounding in my head. When the desperation hits, I slam my head into the stone floor. "Nnnngh! Damn it!" That amplifies the roaring agony.

This is their first time torturing me, and I'm not handling it well. So much for my training.

Training or not, when the pain fades, and I'm llying in a puddle of sweat, tears, and emotions, I'll still have my memories, regrets, and the next vision coming any moment. I lie on my side and stare at the wall. For a second, I swear I feel five tiny fingers wrap around my index finger. That ends any semblance of pride. The tears fall as I lay my head down and let myself cry, fully and truly, for the first time.

It's time to fucking mourn.