The Gypsy At Sunrise

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 5 (v.1) - First Session

Submitted: August 07, 2011

Reads: 124

Comments: 3

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Submitted: August 07, 2011

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Chapter 4:

First Session

Manhattan Rehabilitation Services, New York

Week 1, June 2011

“Ms. James, how do you like New York City so far?” asked Ms. Melody Foster, my physicist. I came to her this morning, feeling like a sack of potatoes. I couldn’t sleep at all. Two guards walked me into her room. One of them closed the door, as the other ushered me to my seat. Then both stood beside the door, one on either side. When I first looked at her, she looked like a nice woman, but then she opened her mouth and I found her utterly annoying.

“Good,” I said quietly, folding my arms.

“Good! If you have any questions at all, please ask me. I am happy to answer!” she chirped. She sounded like a shrieking cat.

“Yeah, I have a question. When can I go home?” I asked sarcastically. She raised an eyebrow, smiling. God, she looked like an evil dictator with that high bun, pencil skirt, tight shirt, and pointy glasses.

“I am sorry Ella, but you cannot go until the problems with the Crusaders Unit are resolved.” Dr. Richards told me that our unit has some trouble and he will deal with it. I just hope that everyone is okay…especially Azra. I wonder if they are going to destroy it. It just seems unfair how the ones that speak the truth are always the ones to get blamed while the liars are claimed to be the victims. He didn’t tell me anymore shit.

Dr. Richards is somewhere in the centre, checking up on other patients, while I sit here with Satan’s wife, talking about my life.

Uncomfortable silence filled the room until Foster broke it with her annoying voice.

“Tell me about your life Ella,” she said, taking out a notepad and pen. I felt like hitting with something…why can’t she just leave me alone and go back to her perfect little life in America.

“What about it?” I snapped, getting up. The two body guards took a step forward, but Foster held up a hand to them, signaling to wait.

“Please sit down dear. Tell me about your childhood…before you joined the Crusaders,” she said, gesturing towards my seat. I sit slowly, and decide whether or not to tell her. I never think about my childhood—it brings a tingling sensation to my nose and my eyes begin to be filled with water. Remember, Gabriella Massri James never cries.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said quickly. Foster sighs a little but smiles like sunshine.

“That’s okay; we’ll talk about something else.” I really don’t want to talk about anything with her. I got up quickly and ran for the window, but when I looked out I realized I was on the tenth floor of this stupid building. God damn it! The two body guards held onto me and dragged me back to my seat. Urgh! I am so going to kill these two jarheads. They placed me roughly on the chair and one of them held my hands behind my back as the other forced my head to look at Foster. I shook my head violently and tried to spit on her face, but my spit ended up on the moron holding my head. He sneered and forced me to look straight at her. I think he was about to swear when Foster held up a hand.

“Look Ella, we could do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s your choice dear. But, if you ever want to see your friend again you would have to cooperate with us,” said Foster, walking to a wall filled with paper and scrap.

“What do you want from me? The truth? You’re looking for disappointment because I don’t even know what the truth is anymore,” I sneered. She looked back at me, and studied my face for a long time. Then she looked up to the two men, and then back at me.

“We have to talk civilly; if not, we are not going anywhere. Promise me that you will listen,” she said, her eyes glinting. I huffed and looked down to the side, nodding.

“Boys,” she ordered. They let me go and stepped backward. I pulled away from their tough roughly and rubbed my right shoulder.

Foster sat back at her chair, leaned in, and placed her elbows on the desk, her hands intertwined. I couldn’t help but look at her well polished nails and clean hands. So American.

“Tell me Ella, what happened after?” she asked, her face focused.

I sighed and looked out the window; I could see the sun behind some clouds.

It reminded me of the time where Azra and I took care of some unfinished business at the enemy frontlines.

I was around ten at the time. We, and some other men, were sent to look for any Crusader survivor after the battle riot. I looked up at the sun and saw that it was clouded by some smoke. It was coming from the northeast, so Azra Michael and I, went to search that area, while the others stayed at the main front.

One at a time we went from building to building to the main source of the smoke, each of us having each other’s back. Azra was in the front, me behind him, and Michael behind me. I was so focused on our rhythm and the sun’s heat on my sweating skin; I was surprised to hear the CLICK sound. It was from Michael. He stepped on a grenade. If he moved an inch, he would be dead.

I was ten; I didn’t know what to do, so I started to panic.

“Stay calm Ella!” whispered Az.

“Okay,” I stuttered. He came closer to Michael, whose eyes begged for help. He bit his lip and started to shake. Azra moved back, trying to keep Michael calm.

“It’s okay Mica! We are going to get you out of this! You hear me! Stay calm!” Michael shook his head violently and tried to speak, but only saliva and blood came out.

“What’s wrong with him?!” I yelled, trying not to cry. Azra came running to me, hiding me behind a car.

“He has seizures when he’s stressed,” explained Azra, peaking towards Michael.

“Mica, don’t move! Try to keep calm!” yelled Azra. I peeked out and saw Michael shaking uncontrollably, and the grenade moving with his leg. Michael was trying really hard not to move, but it was obvious that it was no use.

Michael spoke this time, a bit clearly.

“I c-can’t…it’-s overrr,” he stuttered, putting his arms out into the air as the grenade exploded, sending pieces of tissue and limbs with the falling grenade shells.

My face was smeared with his blood that day. My hands began to shake, my nose tingled, a tear fell out, knees buckled, and composure lost.

That wasthe first time Isawa friend getiing killed. Many followed him. Only one thing kept coming into mind.

Michael was only nine years old.

After I told Foster this story, she was very quiet.

“Tell me Ms. Foster, what were you doing at nine years old?”


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