The Last Day Of Sunlight

The sweet smell of the blossoming flowers fills the warm May breeze. Or at least that's what I heard. 

Funny how less than a year ago, I had done the same thing every day of my life. I woke up in a small apartment, I went to a school that my mother could barely afford and I worked a job with a crappy boss. Seven months. That was the last time I saw the sun. That was the last time I saw another person; and here's how it happened.

The small grey Volkswagen pulled into the parking lot of the cafe. In this town, there is only one cafe. One cafe, and no one with a grey Volkswagen. This was someone new. We don't get many visitors. Our prime location of the mucky end of the lake leaves an everlasting and pungent smell of rotting seaweed and dead fish. You can imagine how every head is turned as the small, pudgy, man stepped out of the front seat. 

The man, who had a round-shaped face and perfectly square glasses adjusted his coat and grabbed his briefcase out of his car. Something about the man seemed oddly familiar. As if I had seen him before. This intrigued me. So, I too adjust my jacket and make my way to introduce myself.

“Alex.” I say, extending my hand. The man, standing there, cold and distant, does not answer. “Alex.” I repeat. 

“Listen kid, I don’t shake hands and I don’t care to know who you are.” Abruptly, the man pushed past me and made his way into the cafe. I look up to the burnt-out sign and then back at the door. I see the man through the glass and the several others who make their ways to introduce themselves. One by one, the man makes a point to avoid any senseless knowledge like the names of a couple of millennial's wanting to be nosy or the best local eateries. 

“Alex?” Mrs. Potterly comes to me. “Who is that man? I saw you talking to him.”

“I couldn't tell you Mrs. P.” Mrs. Potterly turns to me. I see her staring at me, but I don't care. My gaze will remain fixed on this man. Unbroken until I figure out exactly who this man is. Once I get home, I don’t hesitate to ask questions. 

“Mom, did you see the odd man at the cafe today?” 

“I did not. I was in the backroom most of today. Shelves won’t stock themselves.” She replies with a chuckle.

“Well, there was a man today. A pudgy man with a grey Volkswagen. He didn’t say much and avoided any conversations he could.”

“It was probably Mr. Grubert. You know how he can be.” My mother looks back down and continues to slice the vegetables laid out on the marble counter top. I look up at her. The yellow walls accentuate the sun hitting her hair and she begins to emulate a goddess. 

“Mom, he looked oddly familiar.” My mom stops cutting. She sets down the knife on a clean sheet of paper towel, brushes off her apron, and makes her way towards me. 

“What did he look like?”

“Brown hair, blue eyes, square glasses, and a tiny nose.” She freezes. Her eyes widen and she pulls out her phone. 

“Alex, how old are you?” 

“I’m 18. Why?”

“Alex, we need to leave.” The sun has left her face and I now see the shadow of terror cast into her eyes. There is an unshakable feeling of discomfort that is not difficult to sense. One where I know not to ask questions. I immediately run up to my room and begin to pack. 

It’s been about 3 hours and my mother is still yet to answer my question. 

“Mom. What are we doing?” Her focus shifts and her grip loosens on the steering wheel. 

“Alex, we don’t get many visitors in town so if this man is moving by us, and he's as cold as you say, it's probably best if the other neighbors deal with him first. So we will take a weekend retreat.”

“Okay. I guess that makes sense.” I reply. I study her for about 10 seconds more before finally turning my attention to the bright autumn leaves. The leaves begin as their natural bright green and you slowly witness the change to red. It’s beautiful. 

I jot down a quick sketch of the row of small trees we see lining the road. We had exited the freeway quite a while ago and I expect us to be getting close. Close to where though? I still have no clue where we are going. The last hotel we saw was over 10 miles ago. That’s when I saw it. 

I don't know what it is or what it means but my heart dropped the second my eyes laid sight on it. Right in the row of the gorgeous small trees was a sign. On the sign was not one, not two, but 38 triangles, all in blood red. We pull into the parking lot and my heart begins to grow loud. Thump. Thump. Thump. I can't contain it. I feel a trickle of sweat roll down my neck and I try hard not to look at my mother. But I can’t help it any longer. 

“Mom. What is this place?” I turn and ask. She remains silent. “Mom?!” I pressure. That’s when I hear the faint words escape her lips. 

“This is where I met you.” She sobs. For the first time the whole ride, she makes eye contact with me. Not only that but she holds it. I can see the faint movement of her lips and I know she wants to say something. She can’t quite find the words, instead, she shakes her head and unclips her seat belt. I keep my eyes locked on her and do the same. We walk towards the glass doors in unison and I feel her hand grab mine. She gives me a tight squeeze and we enter the doors. 

“Name?” The lady asks in a monotone voice. She fails to look up from her laptop. 

“I’m doctor Anderson.” The words replay in my mind. For one, my mother's last name is Drekerson. For two, she’s a waitress. But now, the lady is no longer looking at her laptop. The minute my mother stated her name, the receptionist's eyes darted straight from the screen, almost as if they had never been there in the first place. 

“Elizabeth, you have the nerve to show up here!?” The secretary began shaking her head. “I should have you arrested!” I look to my mother in a sense of confusion. She stays staring straight ahead as she begins to plead her case.

“You know it wasn’t right! You know none of this is right! Besides, I had no choice. Alan found us.” My mind begins to race. I have no idea what is going on but can think of more than a million possible answers. 

“Mom! What is going on?!” I blurt out. The lady, as if never even noticing me, widens her eyes as she follows the source of the loud shout. 

“This is number 2,356?” The woman asks, astonished. My mother straightens out her back and firmly replies. 

“Her name is Alex.”

“No, it’s not.” The woman snaps back, quickly facing my mother once more. “You out of anyone knows that her name is Carry Legoman, experiment number 2,356.” The woman does not stutter. She places strong accents on the numbers and accentuates her words to make her point. All of which would have been immensely impressive if I was not still at a loss for words. At that moment a man appeared from the shadows. He was wearing a yellow hazmat suit and began to whisper something in the woman's ear. I look down the hallway in which he came and see the dark shadows of multiple people working in the lining rooms. I jump as a loud and bone-chilling scream comes from within the room. Within an instant, the sound ceases as the door is slammed shut. I look to my mother. She fails to meet my eyes but tightly shuts hers as a tear rolls down her cheek. 

“Mom?” I look up to my mother. She stares straight ahead but the man in the hazmat suit reaches a hand out in my direction. I cautiously take it, studying my mother's solemn face as she still refuses to look at me. 

The man leads me down the hall in which he had come and in a quick glimpse backward I see my mother in a pile on the ground. She is senselessly crawling in our direction, almost too weak to even stand. This is when I understand. I freeze. The man, still holding my hand, continues walking. He felt the tug when he realized I had stopped. He does not look back at me, instead, he continues walking with my hand. He throws me off balance and begins to drag me across the floor. The flickering lights above mesmerize me as I slide across the linoleum flooring. 

“Get up.” The man coldly states. No one, not even I could barely hear him over the sounds of my screams. I don’t acknowledge this demand. Instead, I continue flailing my legs and one arm to my heart's content. In an instant, we end up in another room. This one, fully staffed with four men all dressed in blue hospital gowns. We freeze. I stop screaming and warm tears roll down my face. 

“Project 2,356.” One man began. “It’s been quite a while since we have seen you. Nevertheless, we have been awaiting your arrival ever since we sent out Alan. Are you ready to resume your treatment?” His assistant hands him a glass beaker with a green and orange mixture inside. 

“Proceed?” I ask.

“Oh of course. You were one of our very first children for this particular mixture. That is until one of our doctors took it upon herself to collect you from your room one evening and take you from our facility.” The doctor with the beaker interjected. 

“My mother?”

“Precisely.” One other doctor said. This doctor stood at the back of the lab. He wore a surgical mask and green glasses. But the most frightening doctor was the one next to the table. 

“That is until you turned eighteen. You were then legally brought into the program and we could track you from there. Except in this situation, all Alan did was act as a median. Once your mother heard he was there she knew that she could either turn you in, or Alan would take you. In that situation, everyone would know about you, your mother, and her crimes.” The doctor next to the table said. The man in the hazmat suit picked me up from the ground. He held my arm with a firm grip and walked me over to the table. 

“Now 2,356. I ask again, are you ready to resume your treatment?”