A Force of Change

"You expect me to let this go? Your transgressions against," and here he paused with disgust at the very thought of betrayal, "against our kind, against those who want to help you." He paused again. "And, more relevantly to our present situation, your transgression against me." He was losing control, anger seeping into his speech. His hand, formerly resting on the other side of the glass pane that sealed me into my half of our small windowed room, pressed against the glass until his fingers turned white. He noticed this and backed away from the glass, collecting himself and beginning anew.

"Though I will grant you style. That stunt in Houston, hovering over, what was it, HBU and convincing enough people that you're the second coming," he laughed, " and to write you in for the presidency? That was nice. Not clever, you're not the first to pretend to be divine, but well executed, I'll give you that." What was taking so long? I was running out of air in my transparent prison.

"But did you think that exposing yourself wouldn't have consequences? Of course you knew. You wanted it, the attention, the drama that ensued. You've never done anything in your life, of course you wanted this." He was right, I did. "But you didn't expect us, you didn't expect me." He took pleasure in this statement. "What now, Rachel? How'll you worm your way out of this one? I'm smarter than you. Faster, stronger, more in control. What could you possibly do this time?" My phone vibrated twice in my pocket during this latest bit of drivel. Judging from the continued verbal diarrhea that spewed forth from his lips, I assumed he didn't hear it. "What ridiculous stunt will you pull out of that ass this time?"

"You're right, you know. But all that silly stuff you mentioned..."

"Control? You still haven't learned."

"Right, so all that stuff you listed off, it's not important." But my phone was. "The major difference between us is..."

He interrupted me again: "That you're a silly girl. We've covered that delicious weakness already."

"...is that I," and I continued even as the bullet, followed shortly behind by the crimson wave that marked his cessation, took a detour through his skull on its way to its resting place in the wall to my left, "have a friend a block down the street with a rifle." A second bullet punched its way through the glass a foot away from the wall. With that structural weakness, the rest of the glass came down easily. I inhaled deeply, my diaphragm pushing down with sheer joy as fresh air streamed into my lungs.

Enough pleasure. I had to leave, all the beautiful stained glass strewn about the floor notwithstanding. That rifle wasn't silenced and the obvious chaos ensued: people were so wastefully screaming, using up precious oxygen as they pointlessly ran aimlessly with half depleted lungs, panting and confusing each other in ways I couldn't have hoped for. What better cover for my escape could there possibly be?

So how did I end up in this situation, so unnecessarily typing out "Nice shot," on my phone?

~

"Where am I?" I asked myself, glancing around.

"A hospital room," came the unexpected reply, originating from a man standing at the foot of my bed. He was taller than me, I think.

"What happened?"

"I think you know." He smirked slightly at my question, his voice betraying his certainty.

"I don't."

"You do," he fired back, starting before I'd even finished.

"Well, you obviously know. Tell me."

"You passed out," he said. He was leaner than me, with hair the same brown color, cut to chin length.

"I did," I said, in concession. I realized now that he was right. He wandered off, something I wished I could do, looking at the table at the opposite side of the room, obscured partially by a big, seemingly soft chair. He picked up a tray, whose corner I saw, raising it several inches above the table. I still could not see anything other than its pale green corner. "What do you see?"

"Nothing." I assumed he meant nothing important. Come to think of it, what could there be of importance on that tray?

"Who are..."

"How are you feeling, anything wrong?" came the interrupting query. It was a question I should have asked myself earlier.

"I'm fine. Nothing feels wrong. I don't even know what happened though." It was true, I was utterly confused. I'd no idea of how I wound up in the hospital, or even in that room, large and out of my budget as it was.

"Do you remember where you were before you fainted?" Again, he asked a question I should have already asked myself.

"I was in a mall, walking..." I drifted off, trying to recall as many details as I could. "With a bag!" Where was my bag? What was in the bag, for that matter? Oh, right, I had just bought a pair of jeans and two shirts, eating up the remainder of my paycheck. Where were they? "Do you know where my bag is?"

"No, unfortunately." He sounded disappointed. How odd. What reason did he have for disappointment?

"Who are you?" I asked again, turning his dismay into my opportunity. His presence was a more pressing issue.

He was silent, waiting for a few moments as if he had to think of an answer. "Richard."

"Hi Richard. I'm Rachel," I offered in reciprocation.

"I know." How did he know? Did I know him from before? No. But he seemed familiar, as if I'd seen him in a dream, or possibly on television. Certainly not in real life.

I resumed questioning, hoping that I would receive an answer that wasn't entirely devoid of utility. "How do you know my name?"

"It's right here, " he said, pointing to something stuck to the end of my bed. How useless.

"Have we met before?"

"No." So then, why was he in my room? I wondered if I could move freely. I'd already shifted slightly in my bed, an action that had resulted in no pain. I tried to sit up. It was easy. Why was I in the hospital to begin with? I felt fine.

"Why are you here, in my room, Richard?"

He hesitated. Then, sure of himself, spoke six words I will never forget. "Because you want me to be."

~

"Who is she talking to?" asked the only man in the room not yet bored enough to sit. His question was met with, in two cases, blank stares, and in the third, a snore. "Answer me," the tall man asked again."

"No clue."

"How useful! have you thought about maybe not working here anymore? You won't be paid much but the permanent vacation will more than make up for it? Should I place the call for whatever euphemism for being fired rolls off your tongue the best? Promotion. Yeah, that sounds nice. Should I make the call to expedite your promotion?"

"Look, we don't know. She's been talking to herself for a good ten minutes."

"And you didn't think to tell anybody, which is the entire point, no, it's the only point behind your ass being plastered to that chair for nine mind-numbing hours every day. You didn't think that if she's talking to herself, that it might just be relevant to my interests?" He added, as an afterthought, "And why is he still sleeping? I know I've been..." He paused, enjoying the process of choosing his next words, "exercising my vocal chords loudly enough. Or did you fail at the other part of your job and bring back decaf instead of regular coffee? Punch him in the face before I do it."

The confused guard did. The sleeping guard jerked awake, knocking his chair off balance. As it slid out from underneath him, he hit his head on the table right behind him with a satisfyingly dull thud. "Rewind the feed," ordered Brian.

"How far?"

"Until she's not yet talking to herself."

"She started as soon as she woke up. You want to watch her just lie there, unconscious? Alright man, whatever gets you off."

"First of all, why isn't the feed there yet? Second of all, that's not what gets me off."

"It's going slowly because I'm copying it onto a flash drive." He added a "Sir" to take advantage of the momentary lull in the string of insulting rants aimed at him for the last five minutes.

"What, competence? I can't believe it."

~

I awoke refreshed. And confused, still ignorant to where exactly I was. Furthermore, Richard wasn’t in the room, which disturbed me slightly. Why? Nothing else seemed to have changed since I’d fallen asleep. When did I fall asleep? It didn’t seem like too long ago. Probably only a few minutes, Richard must’ve stepped out for a drink or…

“Rachel?” came a voice from outside the door, accompanied by several soft thuds against the door. They weren’t quite knocks but they didn’t sound threatening or violent either. They just sounded a bit off. And the voice wasn’t Richard’s.

“Yes?”

“John," said the tall man as he opened the door, caring little for the state of my dress, whatever it might have been, “I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh, hi,” I paused; something about the way he said it struck me wrong. “What do you mean make sure I’m okay?”

“Make sure you’re alright, all of that.” His voice took on a slightly warmer tone, as if to compensate for earlier.

“Oh, but I feel fine. I don’t even know why I’m here. Why am I here?”

“Get up,” he said, with a little less warmness in his voice than could be expected from someone in the service industry.

“Wait, what?”

“Get up. I’ll show you why you’re here.”

“No. Where’s Richard? He was just here, tall guy, about your height, brown hair?”

“Richard, so that’s his name? I saw him walk out a half an hour ago.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Get up.”

“Why?” Truthfully, I didn’t want to stay here any more than he wanted me to stay put. I just needed a reason to trust him.

“Because you’re not leaving until I say so.” Reason found.

“Would you hand me my clothes then?” I hoped he would as I pointed at a chair across the room, my clothes stacked neatly on the cushion.

"Of course." He picked up my clothes, balanced them on his right palm, moved his hand up and a down a few inches, testing the weight, and proceeded to throw the entire stack directly at my face.

Reacting as any human would, I brought my hands up to cover my face as I turned my head away, the soft fabrics hitting me across my forearms. The jacket's zipper wasn't as gentle though, stinging me with what felt like a small cut on my right wrist. The clothes now lying on the bed, I turned my head to face John again, "What the hell was," I froze. My shirt was hovering in mid-air a foot away from my face, bobbing up and down, its center pulled back and the edges flapping about slightly. John hadn't moved, he still stood at the foot of my bed, his arm outstretched and his palm spread out, grinning. Deciding that sitting there frozen wasn't the best of all possible plans, I scampered back, treading bed sheets and pillows under my feet as I strived to get as far back away from the floating blue shirt as I could. Motion across the room caught my attention; John had suddenly broken out into a fit of laughter. He took his other hand out of his pocket, spreading it open with his palm facing up. A small ball bearing sat in the middle of his palm.

Now chuckling, he rolled his palm around, the shiny metal ball tracing a circle until it didn't, as if it were glued to his palm. His face hardened, smile and chuckle vanishing, as he raised his palm up, now facing me, ball bearing still stuck to the middle of his palm. The next thing I saw was a silvery streak in the vicinity of his palm, followed by my shirt flying at the wall to my left. It yanked itself back just short of the wall, falling down, now neglected.

The ball bearing, no longer in John's palm, was now embedded in the wall. From what I saw, I figured that the ball bearing had dragged the shirt to the wall. How, was another question entirely.

"Ready to find out why you're here?" John's grin returned.

"Yes."

"Good. Get dressed. I'm somewhat sorry about the hole in your shirt. And I'll be outside."

"Hole in my shi," I realized what he meant, "asshole."

"I said I was sorry, now...

"Somewhat sorry."

"...now get dressed and stop wasting time."

~

The little ball had torn a hole in my shirt, which amused me as I glimpsed my belly button through the opening before I zipped up my jacket to hide the damage. Amusement that quickly gave way to curiosity and confusion. I'd just seen somebody make a shirt, my now torn shirt, hover in mid-air and launch a little metal ball into a wall without moving their hands. How? And what did I have to do with it? Either way, it was clear that John had the upper hand here: that little ball bearing would have likely killed me if he'd aimed it at me. Obeying was the smart choice, so I, by routine, checked the room for anything I might've left and stepped out.

"Let's go. This way is the exit, marked clearly by the big red exit sign. We're into full disclosure. We're going the opposite way, call it a tour if you will. You're free to leave at any point, but we'll probably drag you back here to finish the tour."

"So I have to go."

"Oh no, of course not. That wouldn't be fair. We offer alternatives."

"Such as?"

"Well, let's just say you wouldn't like them, you'd go into withdrawal and convulse. It wouldn't be pretty."

"Wait, what, withdrawal, like addiction withdrawal? What are you talking about?"

"Yeah. Oxygen withdrawal. I heard it's pretty nasty. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

This took a turn for the worse. "I don't."

"I don't either." A turn for the better. "Let's go."

I went.