The two officers dragged me to an isolated room, further down on the same floor. Running a quick hand over my face, I take the time to rebuild my character and study the two men standing in front of me. The smaller one extends a hand to me, and I curl up immediately, losing all composure again.

"I'm Inspector Nguyen, and this is my partner, Inspector Gomez."

I hesitate to grab the hand, which he is still waving in front of me, as Inspector Gomez's hand slides over my shoulders and over my head to mend me. My unease grows as the feel of his rough fingers threatened to trigger that nauseating wave, still flipping my stomach.

"The dead body of Mrs. Salvi, your Mistress during the past three weeks, interestingly, curiously, has been found. Do you have something to tell me about this?"

If it was not for the love that I have for all my family members, the singular impulse that begins to bind me to Sky, and certain weakness, cowardice on my part to be completely honest, I would have vomited on Inspector Nguyen's shoes, my whole confession. In an ego fight, I would have set myself up as a martyr.

"She was a very good Mistress to me," I say in a tone that I want controlled, even.

Inspector Nguyen raises a skeptical eyebrow at my sudden firmness. I remember that while I need to be convincing, I must not forget that a slave is nothing to most law enforcement officials. There are very few things that are more unbearable to them than being undeceived in this evidence of thinking by a slave claiming to be more than this nothing.

"So you knew about her death? You don't seem very surprised."

"A rumor in Freetown."

"What do you think could have happened?"

"I do not know; really, I have no idea."

Inspector Gomez's fist slams near my temple, but I barely jump. My gaze is trapped in Inspector Nguyen's. As a slave, lying is the most powerful weapon which I have. I use it on me to transcend my absurd reality; the Masters remain a target by default. However, given recent events, I have found myself hiding the truth from them with an ease that I do not usually have. Inspector Nguyen stays beyond the reach of this newly enhanced faculty. His eyes remind me of my father's, conscientious, demanding in their function, impenetrable when necessary, still very soft. An amused gleam also dances in his eyes; I am his prey, and like a good hunter, sooner or later, he will make me bow, not for the pleasure of triumphing, but because he loves the sensations that the tracking and the despair in his victim give him.

A shrill ringing echoed in the small space cluttered with boxes and the bent figures of the policemen. Inspector Nguyen's hand, holding my collar, slips to his coat pocket. He pulls aside slightly, leaving me facing Inspector Gomez, the sight of whom I cannot stand. He likes neither the effort of the hunt nor that of the triumph; he feeds on violence. His wild, clear eyes hide nothing but pure, sustained brutality. Inspector Nguyen turns to his teammate, whispering a few words in his ear. Their physiognomy changes, and they quickly take me out of the small closet.

"You'd better find yourself an alibi, Object," Inspector Gomez says.

His partner has nothing to add. His gaze turns chilling; despite our proximity to the room, his face moving away at a brisk pace seems more impressive and threatening. They abandon me in the hallway, suddenly agitated by the passage of a resuscitation cart. I shiver, tremble, worrying about my Mistress. I open the bedroom door, half aware of the surrounding situation. Realizing my phase shift, I am brought back to our present by Sky's pleading gaze. She is finishing dressing, and I turn around immediately, even more embarrassed.

"I am sorry, I..."

"What's happening, Kanoa? What is this story about your old Mistress?"

I do not see her, but she does not try to mask her annoyance in her voice. However, she does not seem... disgusted.

"My mother doesn't want us to have anything to do with you anymore. Our situation is really delicate..."

"I understand."

"But I... I need you."

I gasp at the light embrace of her arms around my waist. Hesitantly, I end up sliding my fingers over her closed fist. I pull myself together, thinking that she must mention the documentary. Skillfully, I move away.

"It is unfortunate that you want to keep such an incompetent and troubled employee with you. I went to meet Tobias. He could not make it; I had no other solutions," I say, confused with my cheeks burning.

Jade also takes a step back, leaning on her crutch, which is accidentally resting on the silk blouse she has just removed. She ends up on the floor; I run to her side. She laughs softly at first before a big rattle turns the scales toward bitterness. Exploding with sadness, she hides her face behind her hands, her body shaken by several waves of sobs. I am not sure what to say; I take her in my arms, awkwardly, brushing her bandages.

"I'm so sorry, I, I... it really hurts, this deformity, I..."

"There is nothing to excuse; it is me who embarrass you, all the time."

She looks up, her face covered with tears.

"I can't stand you talking to me superficially. Don't say small talk. Be honest with me. Did you do something to this woman?"

I take a deep breath.

"I will never be able to say that I liked Mistress Salvi, but I am not happy with what happened to her. She has not done anything to me that other Masters already did. But your mother is right to be suspicious of me, I can be a clever liar, a very secretive person, and I actively contributed... I tried to harm her. Anyway, I had a silent wish, the moment she needed my help the most, that might have been paid with her life."

Her expression changes several times, from bewilderment to disgust, again. I want to help her up, but she gestures, with a wave of her hand, to leave her alone. Recovering her crutches, she goes to the door.

"Let's go for a walk," she says.

She moves with difficulty in front of me. I remain ready to help her at any moment when, tilting dangerously, the crutch threatens to slip away. Once in front of the hospital entrance courtyard, I think that she will settle down on one of the benches, but she continues on her way towards the crosswalk.

"Hold on! Where are you going?"

"I'm going home. My mother thinks that giving me a prosthesis will keep me there, but I would rather go to Montreal with my father."

"Montreal?"

"All procedures concerning our requests have been suspended; my father lost his job. My mom... managed to save her job in exchange for... I can't say it out loud. She agreed to sign so-called medical documents, unjustly condemning a dozen slaves to become cheaters. They're going to get their limbs cut off... but unlike me, they won't have any... anything, like always."

"I understand, but I do not think that it is a good idea to leave the hospital like this. In my company."

She stops, turns around to face me.

"That's all you really care about."

"Yes, because as it just has been demonstrated to you, I do not have the same status as you in my daily life, what is even more true facing the police, and I would like to avoid that your mother adds to my situation an accusation of kidnapping."

"I didn't want..."

"I am as selfish as you are. You are also using me as a distraction right now. Do you think you are the only one going through tough things?"

"I..."

"Could you, for a few seconds, stop behaving in such a... dramatic, a childish way?"

I lower my voice on the last words. Dumbfounded passers-by watch us again, staring insistently at the tattoo on my arm. We walk towards the entrance.

"You can't minimize my pain, just because on the level of suffering in this world, it's not..." she continues.

"You are right. The weekend is still so far away, and the catharsis of FreeRush's Collection is already becoming necessary. It was out of place, coming from me."

"Stop justifying yourself! Why can't you just insult me ​​once and for all?"

"Because I will not be your flogging any longer."

"You lack commitment in your beliefs!"

"You do not live in any reality!"

Here we are, when again, we meet the doctor taking care of Sky's condition. I step aside to let them chat and check my phone. Before I can do anything, Sky's crutch hits me in the knee.

"How do you think I am idealistic? Why wouldn't my vision become real?"

"You are temperamental, actually."

A second blow hits my shin.

"I studied the pioneers of the FreeRush movement. They were all idealistic, worse, totally unrealistic."

"It is not unrealistic to hope for every human, the freedom which the Masters enjoy. It is about a game of privileges, simple math. Like for any type of discrimination, it is difficult for the oppressor to admit that he actually is oppressing and giving more anything to the oppressed ones, means having less control on them."

"I know, that's not what I meant."

We take the elevator, walk to the bedroom, exchange a few words that nourish this scandalous exchange, when we move away from caregivers or patients.

"I do not judge, I note, that is all," I argue again.

"You can't stray from these very human attributes; I would even say that in addition to judging, you compare, you envy, you jealous. As the foundation necessary to rise above the masses, you always compare yourself to that slave whose situation is worse than yours. You get some satisfaction from it; you can't deny it."

"What will happen for this weekend?" I say, ignoring her last remark, which created a deep sense of discomfort in me.

"I'm not sure; right now, I'm stuck here... By the time my dad comes back anyway. As for you, you don't have to worry. I'll make sure you stay by my side. Tell me more about your family," she adds abruptly, as we enter her room.

I do not understand why she and I keep feeding this bubble, far removed from our situations' reality, avoiding all the essential topics. The fact that I am a murderer, that she is under threat of becoming a slave, that the police are looking for me, and that her mother does not support her ideas at all.

"What do you want to know?" I resume.

"You said you refused to tell me who Karen was. So...?"

"She is... my ex-wife," I finally blurt out.

I cannot look at her for seconds that seem endless. When I lift my head, I understand that she is containing, with difficulty, a chuckle.

"I need some details if you don't mind. I mean, I learned about early marriages only a while ago, and I have to admit that I don't really understand."

"It is because of the sharing of the Enslaved Green Card Lottery, the scholarships, and the enfranchisement. Conceptually."

"And love in all this? Romanticism? Did you love her, that Karen?"

"My father and her parents had an agreement. At least I had to try to love her," I lie. "Anyways, you Masters love to romanticize everything, even pain."

She seems to notice my discomfort and does not continue her questioning. She rolls over in bed, undoing the sheets again.

"The love between my parents died a long time, even though they act and pretend the opposite, to keep up appearances. I've always done everything from home, because of their sickly fear of rejection from society, of everything I stand for..." she says between yawns. "I don't really have anybody; even the people I call my friends don't understand my obsession with slaves..."

"Love is overrated anyway," I joke.

She does not react. I move closer and gently lean over her head. The door opens at the same time, and I fall back next to the chair.

"What are you doing?" the nurse asks.

"I, I ... she's sleeping."

"Step back. You shouldn't be here at this hour. The slave dormitory is in Building D," he says, pointing to the door.

Quietly, I leave the room, with one last look at Sky. I wander for a while, trying to arbitrate my emotions. I am about to take the elevator, but the nurse's voice catches me.

"Excuse me. She wants you to stay."

Entering the bedroom again, I curiously watch the nurse doing all kinds of swabs on Sky. A little nonchalant, she is smiling, carefully avoiding my gaze. He thanks her and gets out with a strange gaze for me. When silence falls in the room, I break it by setting up a small makeshift shelter using the two chairs.

"It's very selfish of me to want to keep you close to me under these conditions. Maybe I'm not that different from those other Masters."

I don't answer.

"Good night."

I finally opt for the floor. I put one of the pillows under my head, using my jacket as a blanket. I try to sort out all the aberrations that have occurred within a few hours. I am emotionally drained. Thinking about my father, Salvi, and the Grinbergs, I do not have the strength for it. With the coming journey, days and days at sea, I will have plenty of time to.

I grab my phone hastily from my jacket pocket. The battery is low; I do not think that I will have a chance to charge it again. I quickly open my notes, my purgatory. I regularly let go of my FreeRush impulses after covidic crises, for example, when neither Ho-Jin, Imane, nor any other slave can help me. It has been a while since I have put something in them, my last notes dating back to several weeks ago.

I dive into the words, trying to regain the calm of those days that I described so surly, so disdainfully. Monotonous, I called them, without realizing that the storm and the deluge were taunting me.

There are many paragraphs, entire passages concerning Mistress Salvi, and where I do not mince my words. Rereading these sentences brings me back to those bitter feelings that I had cultivated against Mistress Salvi. Seized with sudden anguish, I frantically erase them, searching the corners of the room for her Form. She has not come back yet; she may be waiting for my fall to revel in; it must be boring for her to see me struggle with my hope of escape. Or perhaps, she is paying a visit to her husband, if it is possible for a man like him to express remorse. I am now sure that she is haunting the Grinbergs, Ho-Jin, Karen, and me, but I would never talk about her with them. The solitude is part of the process of punishment.

To restore my courage, I go back to my photos and see my brother's face. On my father's birthday video, I hear Imane's voice. Finally, I find a note, dating from two years ago, concerning Karen. I go through the long declaration of love which I had prepared for her, retracing the way that I came to adore her. I had just finished reading a medical encyclopedia because I knew how passionate she was in this field. All the sentences are, therefore, connoted. No references to the deal between our families. It would have been too indelicate. I wanted her to know that it was not the reason for me to love her. Actually, there was none, no reason for me to like her, but I did, as a fact. I did love her with all my being. I even went as far as writing with her beloved abbreviations, banned from my formal form of address, which she hates so much.

July 8, 2018, at 12:43 PM

It's a disturbance in my mood, a gangrene in my soul.

Like a tumor cell proliferating out of control, I fear the appearance of this feeling is a synonym of a condemnation.

A stir, a mess in my emotions so well arranged.

Those masks I lined up facing the Masters, an uproar that echoed like... I'm sorry.

I'm far too dramatic for what it is, but beginnings have a knack for making me nervous.

Realize that I feel so weak at the thought of losing the one object over which, as a slave, I can afford to exercise control: my mind, filled with you.

July 15, 2018, at 12:57 AM

A muffled agitation, tinged with euphoria and bitterness, seizes me as I think back to the way you said the word "Object." I remain surprised when I still unfold, almost word for word, the thread of our conversation, the way in which you were able to capture, steal my attention.

I even manage with certainty to conceive the precise moment when I fell into the trap, into the abyss, and the pathogen... spread through my rotten blood.

In the acute phases, I turn my mind to seize any opportunities I have had to see you in Freetown.

The most dangerous symptom is when I try to substitute myself to your gaze and try, in an unhealthy game, to imagine what you think of the slave that I am.

July 29, 2018, at 6:49 PM

The adaptive response to the threat was to build barriers to ward off my ramblings, temper my imagination and shake my ego by constantly telling myself that it was inconceivable that I could think so much of a person who did not consider my existence at all.

Foolery! Stupidities!

Still, I feel the storm coming, the apocalypse looming threatening to destroy the weak defenses of every fiber in my body.

It's obvious to me that I will experience more than relief if I let these thoughts go completely.

Slave of constitution, the last thing I would wish would be to become a prisoner of my illusions, that my emotions become a reflection of yours, that I become dependent on my moods, on the ardor of my feelings, on my interpretation of your own impressions, your gestures, your smiles... your looks.

August 26, 2018, at 9:16 PM

Is this really what I'm doomed to? To be a prisoner of my thoughts? My mind has become like an executioner who cuts, sharpens his weapons and his arguments before presenting them to me. Each of his arguments breaking on the conclusion that anyway, I was not courageous, that my illusions will never come true.

So, at these times, I get carried away, silently, against your carelessness, your indifference, your passivity, and above all, against my cowardice. This anger, erasing for a moment, my illusions, gives me an ultimatum: there is nothing to be gained by inaction. I must actively resolve to forget about you, forever, you, and all that we could have been. Or else, I have to take the plunge.

But I believe that no pain, not even that caused by my languor, not even that of my expectation, can exceed that of regret.

During this conversation that we never had, that we will never have, I must accept it, the one in which, reciting to perfection the script I prepared for you, you exclaim: "Yes, no, whatever, my love..."

Today my languor has taken on a particularly bitter taste because I saw you. I saw you, and I couldn't tell you anything.

It has become imperative to occupy my mind; I actively try to "let go." I believe this is the right decision. You don't notice me, so I give my time to my other passions. Maybe I'm too impatient? I only want to be free now to be liberated and free from you.

September 30, 2018, at 12:43 PM

I would like you to become one name among many again, one face among many, one voice among many, one individual, one person among many. An anonymous even, if necessary. But wherever I go, your thought chases me, and I, being the delusional slave I am, I seek you.

You have been able to focus, capture my attention, and now I would like to take it back. I would like to take back the attention I gave you... Nonsense that you stole from me!

I'm not jealous of you yet.

I loathe you; I detest you, I execrate you, I abominate you, I abhor you.

Enough, it's okay; I'm done with this "you," with this "we" that only exist in my disillusionments.

You crashed into my life and took away all my qualities. I know it's quite irresponsible to accuse others like this, but I have indeed become more irresponsible around you. And you turned into a monster of generosity, redistributing the Honesty that you stole from me, that you traded from me for Lies. Not a single real thing leaves my mouth. It is only when I write here that I can be trusted.

I possess little, but I have a lot to lose.

Out of habit, I think of you. Even if nothing more binds us, will never, not even a feeling of hate, I think of you.

It was all just a fantasy.

I was to present it to her on her birthday, October 7th. Her assault took place on Friday of the same week.

I open a new page to take notes of the objects surrounding me, hoping that if my phone could miraculously survive until I see her again, she will like to know about the practice of medicine at a hospital.