Deception | NaNoWriMo2023

Chapter One: In the Memory Garden

The scent of unearthed plants coats my lungs like the rich black soil clinging to my fingers and burrowing under my nails. A multitude of green surrounds me with hints of the faded blue of identification signs and the pale, sandy tan of the retaining walls peeking through. If I look up, the white-blue shimmer of the bio dome arcs far above, marking the furthest reaches of this little nature sanctuary.

Something flutters and twists in my chest and I sigh, leaning forward and gently pulling out a fern from a pot to set in a hole I just finished digging. The task is simple, almost mindless, and I can almost ignore it. It's better than the bustle of constant security and the inmates of the common rooms, or the squeaks, hums, and echoes of the exercise rooms, or the soft, endless background music to my room.

In the Arbor, hidden by twisting walls of plants, I can pretend that I am alone. I can pretend that my guard isn't only around the corner and I am not in the highest security facility for villain rehabilitation. I can pretend why bone-deep fatigue clings to me like plastic wrap is because I didn't sleep well last night—and many nights before—and not because of the power suppressant patch on the back of my neck.

Here, in the greenery, I can pretend that everything's okay.

And then I finish planting the fern and the bubble of ignorance pops. Seven ferns down, four more to go. The smothering weight of weariness hits me again and I sigh under the force of it. With aching slowness, I pick up a trowel, shuffle to the right, and start digging. Once, I enjoyed gardening. That's what David told me; I loved gardening to the point where he and I would talk about plants for hours. Megabytes, I even had an entire mini empire of windowsill plants in my old apartment.

I can imagine my old self, coming home from a day of villanry and just...watering plants. Turning over leaves for bugs. Sprinkling a little fertilizer over them. Standing in front of the window and gazing at the sun pouring down on the only living things I cared about in the entire world and thinking, ah yes, this is the life.

Maybe once it brought me joy, peace, rejuvenation, but now I look at the plants and feel...nothing. No inward smile, no balm of a familiar and loved task, nothing. I don't enjoy gardening. I am not the person I used to be. I am not even the person I thought I was five—nearing six—months since the blanking.

Sometimes it hurts like a hole bored into my chest, like my ribs are hollow and echo with the absence of memories, and sometimes on days like this when I am as alone as I can get in this high security facility, the ache is almost gone and I catch my lips twitch upwards by themselves.

It's actually not too bad here at the High Security Villain Rehabilitation Center (HSVRC or VRC for short). Sure, there's guards all over the place with tasers strong enough to knock you out, ID scanners everywhere, mandatory power-suppressant patches, and a fixed schedule, but it doesn't feel like it. Everyone here treats me like a person—albeit a dangerous person—and tries to help me as best they can within the restrictions, which is far more than I expected.

Everything is more than I expected, actually. My room is an actual room, not a cell, the food tastes good (shocker), I am allowed to raid the snack bar at any time of the day (nighttime snacks have to be delivered), the variety of entertainment is not terribly limited, and the best part, they have rooms full of emotional support animals that you can hang out with any time of the day. Not bad for a place full of the strongest villains in the city.

A rustle and the soft scuff of footsteps reach my ears and I jerk, my surroundings slamming back into focus. Dirt rains down onto my lap from the un-potted fern I've been holding for who knows how long. Oops.

Citizen—Edison, his real name—rounds the corner, hands in his coat pockets and a faint smile on his face. "Hey." His hair is slightly more wild today, bearing the signs of constant ruffling, and there is a fresh nightshade sticking out of his breast pocket. He must have recently pilfered it from the flower section of the garden; it wasn't there when we came here.