The Black Rose
Entry 16

Three Years Later...

Sitting in a cheap folding metal chair, I listened to Dr. Boris Malenski droll on about the marvelous cutting-edge technology of gene manipulation. The Washington, D.C. convention center room was filled with wire-rimmed male and female clones taking detailed notes as if the doctor was revealing the numbers to winning lottery tickets. I sat poised in my seat, my computer, and notepad sprawled on the worn table, mere props for this mission.

My notes were more of the mental and visual variety, my curious eyes focusing on the doctor’s every move, the way the corner of his lips curled when he laughed, the way his eyes widened on certain details, the way his heart beat a little quicker, his sweat glands flicking to overdrive.

I swallowed feebly, my lips curling into a slender smile as I pictured this slightly balding man cuffed to a chair, sweating profusely, pleading for mercy as I dug deeper for his secrets. Was he a screamer? A beggar? Or would he stand by his choices? Maybe, just maybe I would get my chance to find out.

As Dr. Malenski babbled on, let me catch you up on the last three years. Spoiler alert, a lot happened. I had stepped into the world of Alexandra Pierce, a then twenty-three-year-old analyst. I was born in Brooklyn, New York to parents Jaclyn and Robert Pierce. Tragically, my parents died in a car accident when I was nine, and my grandmother had raised me, Charlotte. Charlotte finally kicked the bucket when I graduated from college, which was from NYU as a promising analyst. I spent my days glued to a computer, “analyzing,” participating begrudgingly in hot yoga, shopping, manicures, and nights out on the town. My cover life often left me bored stiff, and bearing extreme separation from society.

No matter which life costume I wore, I had to remain detached and distant, best described as an out-of-body experience. I felt as if the world was a giant aquarium, all the bustling fish trapped inside, bobbing and swimming about, living their simple lives, yet I was on the outside looking in. I could tap on the glass, stick my hand in, maybe steal a moment or two, but I could never, ever remain inside. Forever alone, in a world of my own, a world full of costumes, fake accents, fake clothes, painted with a facade of secrecy and isolation.

Most days I preferred it this way, but sometimes I found the correlation between boredom and loneliness insufferable. Sometimes I needed something tangible. Something to tie me to the real world, to provide me with that dose of normalcy much like a drug addict’s addiction and yearn for escape.

“Normalcy,” for me, consisted of a massive dose of one-night stands and desperate attempts to piece together my former life. While there were many things Dr. Marlo excelled at, eradicating my former self seemed too much.

Roughly a year after my reintroduction into society, I started having flashbacks, glimpses of a distorted reality into another person’s life. The memories and visions seemed so real, often jolting me awake, wet with sweat and confusion. Some nights I felt as if I might go insane. Dr. Marlo desperately attempted to “reboot,” my brain but they returned every time like an infestation. His last resort was little orange pills.

I learned from Nadine those pills were merely a calculated dose of orange roses, engineered to suppress psychosis and anxiety. I took the pills as instructed and for a while, they worked, until they didn’t. I found myself having to take more and more just to cling to whatever wisps of reality and sanity I had, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the visions at bay.

I remembered the night Mo and Cassy came back to me. I was sitting at my computer per usual, when an advertisement for the video game “Call of Duty,” caught my attention. Bits and pieces of memory flashed before my eyes like scenes from the game, me, Mo, and Cassy sprawled on a couch, beers on the table, screaming nonsense at the tv, but I needed more.

Having hacked into their personal computers, I found their encrypted files on the disappearance of a girl named Danielle Watson as well as clues as to how she died and who might be responsible. It was then I realized that this slightly overweight, pale, disheveled girl had been me. I died on May 23, 2015. Mo and Cassy were my best friends, I graduated from Georgia Tech, and had two divorced parents, and seemingly boring life. The vast flood of knowledge often left me sleepless and neurotic, feeding into the vicious orange pill-popping cycle. Sanity was all I had left to cling to.

I often toiled with the notion of reaching out to them, of telling them I was alive, to ask a billion questions about my former life, but that inner monologue often ended the same. It was too risky and I wasn’t the same person.

Even if they saw me, they wouldn’t recognize me. My hair was long, sandy brown, smooth, highlighted, and manicured. My eyes a startling green, my pale skin free of blemishes or freckles. I had lost a good twenty pounds and gained almost all in muscle. I wore makeup, carried designer purses, and actually cared about what I wore. The outward changes were just as stark as the internal. I had baggage, damage, and a demonic infestation that only constant rations of little orange pills could quell. Reintroducing myself would be suicide. If Shadow found out how much I remembered, or that I would want to have any contact with people from my former life, that would be the end of them and me. Besides, they had moved on with their lives.

Mo eventually found himself in a serious relationship with his new flamboyant boyfriend, Chuck, who took my place as the Third Musketeer. They lived in Silicon Valley working for some massive tech startup, uber-successful of course.

Cassy, a radical feminist, lived in Seattle, Washington. Her cropped hair, now an array of multi-colors, and arm full of clever tattoos, she was the chief technical engineer for Facebook, a job I more than likely could’ve found myself in had I not been secretly murdered and manufactured into a super-being. Mo and Cassy still kept in touch daily, playing video games, and working independently on potentially successful app ideas.

I often wondered what they would think if they knew the truth? If they were reading this, could they believe it? Would they have said yes? What would they think of me? What did I think of me?

I had killed so many people, thirty-two to be exact, and it all started three years ago with my first mission, orchestrated by none other than the Tasmanian Devil herself. I killed a deeply arrogant, narcotics low-end drug lord from Kenya. I lured the gullible target with my charm, speckled glasses that slid cutely down my nose as I sat bashfully listening to him boast about his success and money. Adamu chivalrously invited me back to his suite where I returned the favor by slitting his throat, leaving nothing but a black rose petal behind. It had become my signature.

“The Black Rose”, the newspapers, and journalists called me. Many thought I could be a cartel or mafia hit man, a devilishly good-looking Robin Hood assassin, or maybe, a woman? My job was to make sure they never found out, which was surprisingly easy considering I hadn’t had much success in the endeavor myself.

I had spent the past three years covertly trying to connect the dots between the assassinations and who Shadow was. While I had been given a sleek Mac desktop with my luxurious new apartment, I slowly bought extraneous equipment to keep my own records and do my own research. I kept the files, the Intel, and connects for every kill I conducted. Thirty-two men, women, scientists, drug lords, low-ranking government officials, accountants, and thirty-two black roses.

“... And this is why we believe we have made a major breakthrough in the cure for cancer.” Dr. Malenski erupted with a cherub grin and the sea of nerd-like faces burst into applause. I rolled my eyes. If only they knew. These doctors were just kids pushing sand in a sandbox. The actual mad scientists, the ones who created me, weren’t bragging of their achievements in a convention center in front of other underachievers. They were in the dark recesses of grandiose, high-tech, and above all, top-secret laboratories that no one knew existed, performing procedures and inventing technologies only seen in the movies.

“I would like to take a brief fifteen-minute intermission. Please feel free to refill your coffee, go to the bathroom, or grab a snack. When we return, I will dive deeper into the biochemical tools we are hoping to develop to move our research further, and then I will open for questions and discussion,” he smiled once more.

I glanced around with a slight air of disdain. Every body rose and either made a swift exit for the door or turned to their neighbor to hold shrill, animated, scientific dialogue. I remained seated, hopefully giving off the “Don’t talk to me, I’m a killer,” vibrations.

“You’re a bright new face,” Dr. Malenski chirped in my direction.

I swallowed, my teeth clenching.

“Yes, I’m a journalist,” I motioned holding up my name tag to him, trying my best to be doe-eyed and cheerful.

“Your research is very fascinating,” I cooed like a giggly school girl.

“Why thank you,” he grinned sheepishly as his cheeks flushed. “Hopefully you write a glowing article, Ms. Rivers,” he added, reading my name tag.

“Well, I must confess, if it was going to be a bad article, I would’ve already left by now,” my lips curled wide into a flirting smile. My quick research of this doctor disclosed he wasn’t married, and often enjoyed the company of younger women, most specifically his young research assistants.

“If you would ever like a one-on-one interview, I would be happy to oblige.” I could smell the pheromones escaping from his pores. I wanted to vomit.

“I would love that. Maybe we could grab a coffee before the convention ends?” My eyes twinkled in his direction.

“It’s a date... I mean I would like that,” he faltered. His uncertainty and nerves riling.

“I’m free tomorrow morning, would that work for you?” I breathed airily, not giving him a moment to stumble over more words.

“Yes, I believe it would. We could meet at eight at the coffee shop just outside the convention center?”

“Sounds like a dream,” I swooned. “I will meet you there.”

“Now, go easy on me,” he smiled, shaking his finger at me. “I’m just a scientist.”

“I’ll do my best,” I grinned, winking, my facade dripping with placation.

The doctor turned and marched with an air of achievement back towards the podium. My eyes followed him like a lion stalking a gazelle in subdued silence. How long was I to keep up this charade? How long could I refrain from killing him?

I turned my head towards the door and watched as the collared shirt and pressed khaki robots filed back into the room, but I stood. I couldn’t sit through another hour of this. Besides, I had gotten what I came for.

Walking out of the convention center, I instantly sensed I was being followed. I picked up the pace slightly, marching swiftly towards my hotel. The Hilton was positioned strategically close to the convention center, and as I crossed the last corner, I could just make out a shape fifty feet back through the sea of strolling robots. I grinned. It had been five months.

“Hello, Ms. Rivers,” Michael, the bellman greeted me with a wide grin as he opened the door.

“Hello, Michael,” I bowed respectfully in his direction as any proper lady would.

I made my way to the elevator and hit the penthouse. I reached in my bag for the familiar cool metal case and extracted it. Flipping it open, I gazed down at the small circular pills. My best friends. I swallowed three without a second thought, bracing for the calm.

As the elevator rose floor by floor, I gazed at myself in the mirrored elevator reflection. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, admiring the shade of red lipstick I had chosen. Even in this mottled reflection, my green eyes sparkled. I was ready for company, but I couldn’t help but wonder, what she was doing here?

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