Stolen Memories (Book 3 of the Magical Machine series)

The room is silent. All conversation has stopped. All eyes are on me. Patrick looks horrified, Raymond looks amused.

A man at a nearby table laughs, “A woman who actually speaks her mind, I like it!” The man raises his glass to me and drinks it down.

His neighbor swats at the black shoulder pads of his dinner jacket, and he ducks while finishing the last drops from his glass.

Another man shakes his shiny bald head, “Woman, let the politicians think about things like that. Its best for the people to support themselves. Any help from the government only makes them more dependent on the government.”

“Is it wrong to give people some support? Is it wrong to feed and house children? Is it wrong to make sure everyone gets an education? Supposedly people are not supposed to be jailed without a trial, and yet children were snatched off the streets for trying to survive, thrown into jail, and experimented on! Is that what you consider right?” My voice rises, and I can here I am shouting at the end, but I can’t stop myself. Am I sounding hysterical instead of sane and thoughtful?

The laughing man smiles and stands up, “My dear, we should hold this conversation till after dinner, when we can gather in the parlor and discuss this at length in a sensible manner.” The man bows to me, with only a half-smile, a mocking twist of the lips, or actual amusement at my dinner time entertainment I cannot tell. “Now my dear friends seated around, let us eat, drink, and be merry without worry of politics.

He sits back down, and I sit, feeling like a rebuked child though I cannot think of when I was actually rebuked. The women at my table whisper to each other, snatching glances at me, but not looking toward me. Even my seat mates lean away like a have the plague.

I finish my meal in isolation. A pariah to be avoided. The woman who will become an unmarried spinster to these society women.

Rossette walks by and pats my shoulder, “An invitation to join the parlor debate. Not many people get one of those from master Macorvis over there. He must of taking a liking to you. Of course, he likes anyone who is willing to speak out against the crowd. Beware though, my young friend. An invitation brings jealousy from others, and you have taken the first step on the lonely path I warned of. The first steps on path of disenchantment and betrayal.” She smiles with a strange, faraway look as if she is looking into a past of future that only she can see. “Yes, a very lonely path.”

She wanders off as if she has not a care in the world, which I guess at this point in time is true. She doesn’t seem like she is fighting for much anymore.

Others are filtering out of the dining hall, and I have nothing to hold me here anymore. I quickly stand up and leave. Was I supposed to excuse myself from the table? Oh well, I am already the social outcast by my own actions and words. No sense in regretting forgetting manners that I was just taught at this point in time.

Patrick grabs my shoulder as I pass, “What do you think you were doing, standing out like that?” He hisses at me.

I shrug, pulling away from him, “I was doing exactly what I am in your house to do, advise people about the actual conditions of the city.”

“You made a fool of our family.” He says, his voice slightly slurred with alcohol.

“Patrick, I was invited to the parlor which is something I was told is an honor. I merely stated my opinion, which you have agreed to support.”

“Hope, that parlor is where people go to debate political opinions. They will tear you to shreds like rabid dogs. You aren’t ready.”

“I’ve been in jail for almost 8 years. I’ve got the memories of ton of people to draw on. I think I can stand my ground quite well.” I will change this world from the inside, and this is the first step.

He shakes his head and backs away. “It is your call. If you wish… I won’t stop you. Go, fall on your own sword.”

What type of statement is that? Why would I fall on my own sword? A memory tells me it is an old saying. A saying that means pick your battles wisely and don’t fight if it will end up being your own death. I will prove him that my point is correct. I will prove it to them all.

I hold my head high and serenely walk away. I am the calm of a tree on a still day. The leaves gently whispering to each other. The silence buzzing with life. I will not let anyone dissuade me from my quest.

I stride into the room full of wolves. I can see the hunger for a good meal reflecting from the eyes that stare at me as I enter. No one here is my friend. I am alone in here.

Macorvis slid into the room, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Hello simple girl,” he whispers in my ear, and I slide out from his arm, heading toward a chair, a two person couch the only seat available. For a second I think of just standing so I don’t have to sit near him, but, I look back at him, and he has a smirk as if he knew that I wouldn’t approve of his familiarity. I wouldn’t let him get to me. I sit down on the two person couch and grit my teeth as he slides in to the seat next to me.

“So, my dear, you seemed quite adamant about your ideas. Will you repeat your thoughts here for us to kindly debate with you? It will be such lively entertainment.” His arm lies across the top of the couch, behind me. I sit on the edge of my seat.

These men are all staring at me, waiting for me to speak. Even you are looking at me expectantly. You are waiting for me to present my opinions as more than the ideas of a wild crazy woman with power. I can do this. I can change society without falling onto my powers and relying on them.

Hands clenched tightly in front of me, teeth gritted, I focus in on my words. ”So, um” I sound shaky, uncertain. My voice is high pitched like a… A memory from a woman name Cat provides me with the image of a squeaky voiced squirrel ready to flee the scene. That’s what these men must see me as.

Deep breath. I can see you glaring at me, telling me to get my act together. I pull on the memories of Cat again, realizing she had formal training in public speaking. She was a cop, but she wanted to use that as a platform to become a politician eventually. “It is wrong for us to lounge around in money, surrounded by opulence when the people down in the streets suffer in the cold without shelter.” There. My voice sounds slower and deeper. I sound steady and sane now.

Cat’s public speaking professor tells her that an improve speech is like an essay. Draw in the listener, present them with the arguments, define he arguments, and then conclude the speech by summing everything up.

“We have food here that will be thrown in the garbage when people outside would happily eat the scraps from our plates. There are buildings out there that are empty and sitting cold that could be opened up for people to sleep in. Giving people a place to sleep will clean up the streets and make it so it is nice to go walk down pn the streets again without fear of stepping into human refuge.” There. I made one of my arguments something that directly affected my listeners.

A mousy looking blonde haired, skinny short guy in the back starts laughing, and soon they are all laughing.

Marcovis pats my shoulder as if he is a brother consoling me. “My dear, its best if you stay out of politics and leave it to the men. Your ideas are silly. They are costly for us and would only cause those losers begging on the street to become lazier. They would rely on us even more than they already do. You should go back to gossiping with the women and leave the thinking to the men.”

Did he just blow me off? Did they all just cut me short before I could even prove how beneficial my ideas are? Their face show mirth, and a few have even began to talk amongst themselves.

Standing up, “I refuse to accept that! The people on the street aren’t there just because they are lazy! Some are there because mental hospitals were closed. Now they trouble potential tourists to the city! They are there because the social workers are underpaid and there are so few social workers and so many orphans that most of the orphans have ended up on the streets working to get food in an environment that bars them from working to make a money for food and being unable to go to school because they are too busy being hungry! You blame the people on the street on laziness, but do you look at the dead eyes? The people that have left there home because rent was too high? The people who have huge college debt and can’t get a job because society doesn’t value them and they are too educated to work as a burger flipper? Look around at the people you so casually blow off. Ask them their stories. Look into their eyes filled with desperation and then turn away with your pride held high and your sociopath tendencies assuaged by knowing you are better than those low life’s.”

I take a breath, and notice I have everyone’s attention now. Many of the men look either uncomfortable or angry. Marcovis is laughing.

“Or, do something about the situation. Hire those people on the streets to run old buildings as shelters where people can sleep, cook meals, and do laundry. Open up community gardens for people to grow food in and work in so that soup can be made from the vegetables to feed the people in the shelters. Ask for everyone to donate their leftovers to a shelter each day. Make it so that those abandoned children on the streets can go to school and maybe do better than growing up to beg and whore on the streets. You could be a part of making this world a better place. You could show your voters what you’ve done for them, and get more voters.”

My audience has gone back to looking bored. Its as if as soon as I am not criticizing them anymore I don’t matter.

And old man with a long gray beard and a comb over with his few hairs on his head shakes his head, “Girl, people trying to institute socialism and caring about the lazy bastards on the street is what got our country into this economic mess we are in. That is why social programs were cut, because we couldn’t afford them. Charities exist to take care of the poor, not the government. Go present your sweet ideals at a ladies charity meeting, not in a parlor of government men.”

Marcovis pushed my shoulder toward the door, “My dear, I think you have over stayed your welcome and should now leave the men to our talk.”

The door closes behind me, and I stand there, not quite sure how I went from the chair to standing here outside the door.

Patrick grabs my hand, and pulls me with him. “I tired to warn you. The men that gather at the Marcovis parlor are viscous. They attack anyone with new ideas and make them feel like shit. Or they laugh at them and belittle them. Do not worry though, the people gathering here are not actually all politicians. Many of them are cranky old business owners with lots of money who pay of the politicians. They gather with the politicians to make sure that their views are being followed to the letter.”

Patrick is leaning on, me, his voice heavy and the sharp smell of alcohol wafting over toward me.

“You’re drunk.” I’m not sure why I say this. Everything is boiling in my stomach. I want to run to a window and just scream in frustration. I want to sit down and cry. I want to calmly stand here and feel nothing. I push the emotions away, push them toward that extended part of my mind where all the other people memories are contained. Are emotions memories? Are they part of feelings? Do they provide the power that I can feel looming behind my eyes?

Patrick is laughing, “Yeah, I’m drunk. I can’ handle this place without a good dose of alcohol. I hate it. I hate the false faces, the pretty clothes, the fancy meals, and the old men wondering around making sure that all those with votes in the house of delegates votes the way they want them to. I want you to change it.

I am sure his wife loves this place.

For a moment I think of going back in, stealing the memories of the politicians and killing the business men, but then I won’t truly be trying the method of politics. I will be changing the world through force and violence. I want to try and change it with my words. I want to do like Partick suggests and change it from within the system.

Azalea walks up and pulls Patrick away. He looks back at me, begging me to save him, but I won’t save him from his own wife. She leads him away into a dance, and I stand there, a strange ugly creature standing on the side lines watching these people whirl about in there casual cruel state of oblivion.