A Girl
She wakes up, her cool blue eyes protesting the painful, searing light illuminating the room. Lifting herself up from the cold concrete flooring, she notes the cheap-looking table and chair dominating the cell, along with the worn-out leather armchair neatly placed in the corner. Eventually, she adapts to the bright light and overlooks the interior of the imprisoning room. There’s a robust and secure entrance to the room; any skillful attempt to escape would be met by a solid wall of cold steel. A vast mirror hanging from the main wall creates the classic illusion of making the place seem bigger than it actually is. The walls are high-quality brickwork coated in a reflective shade of white paint, as if to intensify the brightness of the room.
Suddenly, a tannoy-like broadcast interrupts her line of thought. “What’s in the mirror?”
She gingerly approaches the mirror, presenting her slim and toned physical presence, wearing a dark green pair of shorts and matching t-shirt. Perspiration provides a deep chill to her clear skin. Adjusting her features into a concentrated frown, she notes a swelled and bruised right cheekbone, a faint sting at the back of her head, and a dull headache. Cautiously walking towards the entrance, she nervously shouts, “Heelloo?!”
… Nothing.
The thick steel door is quickly unlocked and two men appear. Reacting to the surprise, she assumes a battle stance. They attack her with vicious and precise force. Unable to match such strength, the girl is quickly overwhelmed. The men say nothing, opting instead to bind her wrists and drag her towards the worn-out armchair. The men drone, “Don’t move!” She obeys, settling into the chair, appreciating the relative lack of pain inflicted.
The two men leave the room with haste and purpose, leaving the steel door secured with three different locks.
Suddenly, her headache intensifies, the source of the pain coming from the back of her head, above her neck, slightly to the left. She closes her eyes in an attempt to reassemble the lost past few hours and restore her equilibrium. Eventually, the pain fades to the original ache.
Disturbed by slow, casual footsteps…
The steel structure is noisily opened once more and a bespectacled man slowly enters, his eyes focused on the confused girl. He is dressed in an expensive-looking white shirt with black trousers, shoes, and a fresh silk black tie, overlain with a full-length white lab coat. His thinning black hair is side-parted, with a spare tuft forming a comma down the left side of his forehead.
Holding a folder containing at least 100 files: “Jessica Ridgewell?” he groans in a strong German accent.
“What? Is that my name?”
Ignoring the question, he introduces himself. “Professor Jurgen Berger, Psychologist,” he says, routinely reaching for a handshake.
There is no recipient.
He moves the table seat and places it in front of her, sits down, and opens the folder, reading out the profile. “Jessica Ridgewell, age 32, 5 foot 2, weighing in at 114 pounds, occupation: landscape gardener.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Ridgewell. Sadly, today I am tasked to figure out who your real employers are…”
“To begin with, I must say sorry. My men were under orders not to hurt you. Clearly, they need to be sent for hearing tests.” His attention moves to the girl’s cheekbone. “That’s a nasty bruise. I’ll have a doctor come in and have a look at that.”
The tannoy screams: “WHAT’S IN THE MIRROR!!”
Recoiling in pain, Ridgewell looks at the man in utter bewilderment, trying to think of something to say.
“You hear something?” the man asks.
“Did you not hear that?! Tell me you heard that?!”
The mirror starts to shimmer and liquidize like a light breeze on a still night pool. Suddenly, the mirror evaporates, revealing a static, lifeless individual. The lack of lighting makes it difficult to make out who it is. The slender build suggests a female, but she could never be sure. As if in recognition, her heart accelerates—not in fear, just a heightened sense of things. Her eyes begin blazing, hungry for ideas on how to escape.
The man slowly rises out of the chair, dropping the folder and retreating slowly towards the steel door, whispering German into his collar mic: “She’s here,” which her mind translates unknowingly.
In a surge of anger, she breaks free of the strappings, striking the professor with a swift elbow-and-fist combination, knocking him clean out. There’s a loud thud as he hits the ground. Searching him, she locates the connected radio and the sturdy set of keys locking the door. An intense siren is activated, and the headache follows suit. Glancing momentarily at the slender figure, she contemplates what she will confront when escaping.
The voice whispers, “It begins.”