Page 5 of Castle of the Cursed
“It’s thanks to Estela’s testimony we were able to put it together.” The director squeezes my shoulder. “She saw a man cough blood into a handkerchief just moments before everyone became afflicted. Estela suffered some minor hallucinogenic effects, but she did not breathe in enough of the gas for it to be fatal. For now, she is still recovering and under medical supervision, so she will not be taking questions.”
He looks down at me again and says, “The whole country—the whole world—grieves with you, Estela. We thank you for your help in finding the cause of this tragedy.”
I feel my jaw drop open.
I want to shout: HE’S LYING!
The government just made up their own version of what happened, based on facts they can fathom. A story they can control. If this version of events is accepted, we’re never going to get real answers.
I need to say something.
Agent Navarro’s hand grips my shoulder. I want to cry out, shake my head, speak. But I’m distracted by the tiny voice in my mind asking: Are you sure?
And then there’s the question others will invariably ask: Do you have a better theory?
Before I can decide what to do, Agent Navarro guides me away. I keep trying to speak, but words won’t come.
When the SUV drops me off at the center, the old me stays behind.
I abandon everything in that back seat—my notepad, my hope for answers, and my voice.
THE VOID
ESTELA STOPS SPEAKING.
And she knits herself a shroud from the silence.
She is told she suffers from PTSD, survivor’s guilt, generalized anxiety disorder, clinical depression, and more. They give her drugs that help soften the edges of the world around her, but they don’t dampen its colors. Or the past. Or the pain.
The world can’t get quiet enough.
Her own face mocks her everywhere. On the nurses’ phone screens when they think she isn’t looking. On the rec room’s television, until the staff spy her and change the channel. On the pages of newspapers and magazines reserved for more privileged patients.
She used to be one of those special people, until she stopped speaking. They say she has “shut down.” She is absent, untreatable, a worst-case scenario. She has become an empty shell.
Estela has lost interest in everything. She has shed her form and exists outside of time and space. She can’t fathom why her body is still here when she is not.
She wishes to disappear completely into the void of her mind… But a venomous voice keeps pulling her out.
“There was another story on your parents today.”
The voice belongs to her roommate. Bebe is a teen actress of some note, and she was the center’s biggest celebrity until Estela’s arrival.
“Did you know they were here illegally?” Bebe prods. “Does that mean you’re here illegally?”
Every night, as Estela lies in bed, longing to drift to sleep, Bebe’s voice whispers fresh nightmares into the dark.
“Some people say your parents were behind the attack, and they sacrificed themselves on purpose. They think you’re radicalized, too, and that’s why the government is hiding you. Imagine if they knew you were here.”
Once, Bebe brings Estela an artifact from the outside world. It’s only a scrap of paper, but it feels like lead in her hand.
The torn piece of newsprint reads:
Sources say Estela Amador is being treated for severe mental health issues resulting from the gas she inhaled. A government agent who spoke on the condition of anonymity says when she turns eighteen, she will graduate to an adult facility. He doubts she will ever be released.
Estela wants to forget the scrap of paper, but she can’t.
Words haunt, but objects exert gravity. They ensnare. Now she can never get lost in her mind’s depths. The world will never get quiet enough.
