The Phoenix

ed about her daughter at all? Had Ella been nothing more than an experiment to her, a sacrificial offering to the all-powerful ‘Group’?

Ella was starting to hate this Group. Who were these people, to mess with people’s lives, to separate parents from their children, then return years later and ‘claim’ those children as their own?

Slamming her laptop shut, Ella tossed it angrily onto the bed. It was useless now, ruined, its hard drive hopelessly corrupted. Like my life, Ella reflected bitterly. She paced the room like a trapped animal, feeling at once exhausted and yet full of restless energy. She had an overwhelming urge to know, to understand. And yet it seemed the more she did know, the more tantalizing nuggets of information were drip-fed into her life, the more maddened with uncertainty and curiosity she became. Was she really even a person at all, a human being with a soul and an identity of her own? Was she her parents’ daughter, or their science project? With each new blow she could feel her self-esteem crumbling. But like an addiction, Ella’s need to understand drove her, even though she knew that it could destroy her too.

Seeing and hearing her father had been exquisite joy and yet, at the same time, agonizing torture. Because of all the things he hadn’t said. Because he was here, but then he was gone. And because he hadn’t said sorry.

He owed Ella an apology for so many things. But mostly for never coming back.

Ella ran a bath and climbed into it, making the water as hot as she could stand. She watched as her skin reddened like lobster flesh, willing the unpleasant, burning sensation to drown out her emotional anguish. It didn’t.

You have two choices, she told herself, steam rising up and enveloping her in a thick, heady cloud. You can sink. Or you can swim.

You can control your own life. Or be controlled.

The footage she’d just watched had confirmed the man’s story about her scientific origins. Her mother and father really had tried to program her, like a computer. So she could be useful to ‘The Group’. Seriously. George Orwell couldn’t have made this stuff up. Ella’s parents had believed they had the right to control not just her mind and her body, but all her future decisions as well. Her ‘destiny’, as Ella’s father had put it. Clearly the Praegers had been brainwashed by ‘The Group’. And now, from beyond the grave, they wanted to send Ella off to be brainwashed too.

No. No way.

Ella had already resisted her grandmother’s idea of ‘destiny’ – a life of isolation and Christian piety up at the ranch, cut off from the rest of the world. It had been painful to break away, but Ella had done it. And she could do it again.

OK, so her brain had been messed with. That was a problem. But it was a problem she could fix on her own, without the help of the cult that had screwed her up in the first place. She could still lead a normal life if she chose to. The kind of life that Bob had, in the city, with a job and a family and friends. She could do it. Bob could teach her how to do it.

Except … the voices. The headaches, the nausea, the endless roar that wouldn’t ever switch off. They would drive her mad in the end. How could she hope to hold down a job, or a relationship, when at any moment deafening tangles of noise and pain could ambush her, bringing her, sometimes literally, to her knees?

She had to learn how to control the voices. How to master the unwanted ‘gift’ that her parents had given her. Because unless she could do that, no life she chose would be worth living.

Climbing out of the bath, dripping wet, Ella lay back on the bed and let the cool air of the room suck the heat out of her body.

However she felt about the man – however profoundly she hated him right now – he was the key to her future. Not because she owed a damn thing to him, or her parents, or their stupid Group. But because he might, just might, be able to teach her how to master the voices in her head. Or at least to introduce her to people who could. Maybe, just maybe, if those voices stopped, she might stand a better chance at interpreting the real voices of those around her. Of reading social cues. Of fitting in.

‘Where are you?’ Ella shouted out loud. ‘Where the hell are you, you son of a bitch?’

‘Close your eyes.’

Ella spun around, grabbing the throw rug from the foot of the bed, scrambling to cover her naked body. His voice was so clear, at first Ella thought he must be standing in the room. She looked around, her eyes darting to every corner of the hotel suite, but there was no one there.

‘You’ll hear me better if your eyes are closed,’ the man repeated.

Only then did Ella realize, with a sinking heart, that his voice was actually coming from inside her head. Unlike all the others, though, it was crystal clear, like a telephone call on a perfect, crackle-free line.

He’s transmitting to me?

Despite herself, she was fascinated. How the hell was he able to …?

‘Don’t try to answer me,’ he instructed her. ‘It won’t work. You can receive but you can’t transmit. Just listen.’

Perfect, thought Ella bitterly. So you’re in control. Again.

‘I’m glad you saw the footage,’ the man continued. ‘I expect you have questions.’

Just a few.

‘You’ll have a chance to ask them at training. It starts tomorrow at our upstate facility. They’re expecting you.’

Of course they are.

‘Find something to write with. The information I’m about to give you is important. Do not share it with anyone.’