I Painted My Feet Red

I lie on the cold, tiled floor watching Director Mika’s tail drag behind her. She paces in a circle, and records her thoughts. The bright light gleams on her scales, making them appear more orange then cool red.

“Subject 34, formally known as 985-06, continues to show remarkable tolerance to the elixir,” she says. I shudder at the word. I don’t know what the elixir is, but it burns my throat. Some of the others call it Sun Tonic. From the blinding yellow color to the hot taste, our name is more accurate then Mika’s. “He did not pass out during the session, however…”

I tune her out and I wonder when I can put my clothes back on. The weight of my collar presses down on my neck. I shift slightly, not enough to alert her, but enough to feel more comfortable. I wince at the pain that shoots up my spine at the slight movement. However, I feel better. My head turns to the other side and I spot a surgical knife under the examining table. It isn’t far from me. An arm’s length. I can see the steel blade. The way it curves. I know that blade. How it feels sliding into my skin. She used it to cut me up. Did it fall when I flailed off the table? Or, did she bump into the tray when she dragged me to the center? I swallow hard. I look up at Mika. I see her black hair draping down her coat, contrasting with the pristine white. I look at the knife. My fingers twitch. I stop breathing. My heart hammers in my chest. It’s all I hear as I stretch my arm across the floor. I snatch the handle and pull it close to my person.

My attention snaps to Mika. Her attention is elsewhere, not on me. To engrossed in her duties. I try to silent my heartbeat. I don’t know what I’m doing. Why do I hold this knife? What do I think I can do against her claws? Her fire? I should put it back before she turns around. Before she sees the edge. Before—

Her angled face comes into view, blocking the light up above. Her hair dangles in front of me. I squirm under her calculated eyes. “Subject 34, it is time for you to return to your apartment. Get up and put your clothes back on, please.” She smiles, it’s soft and warm and my stomach twists into knots. She offers a hand. I obey and grab it with my own. My pale, freckled hand is a stark contrast to her vibrate skin. It is an awkward fit too, just like others of her kind, she has two thick fingers and a thumb. They are also long and incircle around my palm. She helps me up, and I pray to any god listening that she doesn’t notice the knife clutched in my other hand. I should just give it to her. She will believe me if I told her I found it. I’m her favorite.

When I stand at full height, I am at eye level to her throat. She grins sweetly at me and turns back around. “You know where your clothes are.” She waves her hand to the neatly-folded gray garments on a metal table next to the door.

I swallow again and stare at the knife in my hand. I look at her. She isn’t paying attention.

“Subject 34? Why are you not doing as you are told?” she asks over her shoulder.

I lick my cracked-lips. “My name is Rowan Hawkins.”

~

I hit the tile floor, and a trail of bloody footprints follow in my wake. The fire in my lungs leaves my throat dry. I have nine-minutes and thirty-six seconds before the guards discover Mika’s body. My neck is light without my collar. My magic rolls over me for the first time in five years. At this distance, the guards’ thoughts and emotions invade my mind.

I wonder what she cooked for dinner tonight…

I fucking hate this shift! And I hate this asshole more…

Maybe I should get her flowers! I haven’t surprised her in a while…

If I hear about his perfect wife again, I’m gonna rip his fucking throat out. I swear to the Creator, I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do it…

I stumble and slid to a halt. My blood-stained hands slip on the slick walls and I can’t catch myself. I fall into a heap on the ground. I tug at my hair. I bang my head. I got to get the voices to stop. I can’t do this. I can’t. More voices, more feelings float in-and-out of my head.

A guard on the floor below. Should I ask him what he thinks about the new policy? The onslaught is getting worse. I can hear their voices inside my head. Not just thoughts, but what they sound like. Gruff, and worried. Terrified.

A sectary above me. Her voice is nails scrapping at my mind. There was another incident today. Worker 976-13 lost three of her fingers in an accident… Prim, crisp. Educated. Annoyed.

No. He might turn me over to Director Mika…

We had her replaced quickly, but the loss of production was substantial. We need a safer environment for the workers. I propose we remodel our factories after the dwarves…

Exhaustion. I am done for today. I cannot do anymore paper work…Rage. More and more of the workers are acting up, revolting. We need to silence them.… Frustration. If we do not change our means of production…Fear. What if The Director already knows I—no. don’t think it. Not here, not now.

I hit my head once, twice, three times, but the voices won’t be silent. A dry sob escapes my throat and slap my hand over my mouth, smearing blood on my lips.

Get it together. Get it together. I used to be good blocking everything out. I can do it again. I know I can.

I need to calm down. I need to stay calm. They will find me. Maybe I should end it now?

A laugh, not a sob, breaks out of my chest. Yes, kill myself now before they find me. Murder-suicide. I laugh again.

No! No! No! I can’t. I can’t give up! Not now. I killed Mika. I can escape. I will escape. I close my eyes. I push pass the screaming in my head and focus on a memory. It’s what my teacher, Professor Grant taught me. Focus on memory when it becomes to overwhelming.

In another life, before this one, I sit with my mother. I am five and she is teaching me how to knit. We are making a scarf for Farther. I am so happy because she lets me pick the color. I chose the bright red of a robin, my favorite bird. Mother hums to the radio when she isn’t explaining her technique. Father comes home, bringing in the cold. His crossbow is firmly in his hand and hunting pack slung over his shoulder. I run toward him, smiling. I cling to the scarf with both arms. But it’s too long for me to carry and I trip over the end. He catches me before I hit the ground.

“…Careful, Ro. I don’t want you to hurt yourself…”

I take in a breath.

And I let it out.

Six-minutes and ten-seconds. I open my eyes. I push myself upward and onto to my feet. There is no hesitation. I bolt down the narrow hall, taking a sharp turn toward the stairs. I burst through the metal double-doors and take two steps at a time. My hand slides on the polished handrail. My heartbeat explodes in my eardrums and the fire in my chest is my fuel.

Five-minutes and fifty-seven seconds. I’m down two flights of stairs. I brush past guards, supervisors, secretaries, and cleaners. They are nothing but low hum in the back of my mind. I get to my exit and I stop at the doors. A strong, dark aura emanates from the other side. One I cannot block out. I know their face and name without need to see: Warden Lindvald

I swallow my panic and terror. I have come this far. I killed Mika. I rid myself of my collar. I know what I must do. I look down at my hands and recall the first time I conjured an illusion.

I am in my home’s kitchen. My mother is washing dishes. I am at the counter reading a picture book. A knight of old battling a dragon. It is an ancient beast, with sharp horns and sharper claws. Its red body stands out amongst the wooden backdrop. With a thunderous, it rains fire on the knight. But his shield is raise high and charges at the beast, sword drawn. Mother gasps and drops a glass. The illusion shatters and I realize I wasn’t reading.

My hands are gone. They are replaced by Director Mika’s. Her three fingers and smooth scales are mine. This is real, not an illusion. Her fingers flicker on and off like a dying light. This is real, not an illusion. Her pristine white coat replaces my stained gray uniform. This is real, not an illusion. I can’t doubt myself. I have long hair. I have a tail. I have horns. My eyes are large and round. I am taller, skinnier. My face is narrow and all angles. I am not a pale-faced human from Faemont, but a red troll of the Mirrored Isles. I am not Rowan Hawkins. I am Mika Leifström. I am not a former slave, but a director of a factory.

Five-minutes and eight-seconds.

I walk through the doors and into the lobby. I’ve never seen this room empty before. The only person here now is The Warden. He sits at the desk, acting as guard and receptionist in one. He glances over his shoulder. His dark orbs widen slightly and his lips twitch upward. Five-minutes and seven-seconds. He stands and turns to face me. His black hair bleeds into his crisp uniform. His scaly skin shines under the yellow lights just as Mika’s. My eyes flicker to the sword on his belt and my jaw clenches. All I have is a blood-soaked knife.

“Director, you are finally turning in for the evening?”

“Yes,” my voice is airy and light, because I am Mika. And how do I talk to The Warden? I search his thoughts his memories to know myself better.

He nods his head. “Allow me to walk you to the door?”

I hold my hand up, “I do not wish to be a bother, my dear Warden.” He frowns, but he’s not suspicious. No. He’s hurt. Careful, I probe his mind to see their relationship and…oh. Oh, no. I did not need to see that. I know what Mika’s naked body looks like, but not the Warden’s and I wish I could scrub my mind of the image.

But I recover, because I have to. “I have a nasty, nasty cold. I do not wish to get you sick.” I manipulate his mind to believe what I’m saying.

Relief rolls off of him in tidal waves. “Ah, I see. I am sorry to hear you are unwell.”

I walk forward to the desk, trailing a claw into the wood. “Do not fret, dear,” my lips curl upward into a sensual smile, “I should be just fine for the weekend.”

He flashes a hungry grin and because I am Mika, I don’t recoil away by the sudden bombardment of arousal. “Good to know,” he simply states. I smile and wave, but I say nothing more.

Four-minutes and thirty-seconds. I don’t get very far. Maybe, three or four steps before The Warden calls my name. “Mika?” He’s concern and confuse.

I turn slightly, and see very human footprints leave a trail to me.

My eyes, drift upward to The Warden’s shock expression. “You are not Mika,” he breathes.

I look down briefly to see a flat chest. No, I am not Mika.

We stare at each other for a long minute. He blinks. I blink. He opens and closes his mouth, revealing sharp teeth. His tail thumps against the hardwood floor. He cocks his head to the right, to the left. Slowly, he shifts from confusion to understanding to uncheck rage.

He hisses and snarls. I take a step back. He draws out his sword. I take another step. He uses the desk as a spring board and leaps into the air. I snap my eyes shut and hold my hands up. He lands with a thud, but the sword doesn’t cut through my flesh. I risk a glance. I see the blade hanging over my head. I look at him. His eyes narrow into slits, his teeth are bared. And his arms are shaking. He can’t cut through my shield. I bring two fingers to my head. Once, I read people like me could drive their enemies into insanity. And that’s what I do.

I don’t break eye contact with The Warden. The light and intelligence etch on his face die. I feel his mind splinter and crack. His thoughts are fractured. He can’t make sense of what’s happening to him. He’s scared of me. He drops his sword with a clank. He stumbles backward, tearing at his hair. Gingerly, I pick up his weapon.

“…I can’t believe you took him hunting! What did you think would happen when you shot an animal? He’s a sensitive boy. He can feel things we can’t. Of course, he ran home screaming!”

I slide the sword into The Warden’s stomach all the way to the hilt. Pain shoots through him and I shudder. I feel his death just as I felt the dear my dad shot years ago. I pull the sword out and he falls forward. Surprisingly, he isn’t afraid to die like Mika had been. No. He’s angry. Angry at me, at himself. He’s angry because he died at the hands of a slave. His disgust and rage consume me. I feel nothing but what he feels. With a scream, and slam my foot into his face and again and again. Again. Again!Againagainaagain! Over and Over!

Until we both feel nothing.

I have forty-seconds before they discover Director Mika’s body.