Prologue
She doesn’t have much time. Any minute now, the staff members will come back.
Sifting frantically through multiple sheets of paper in a filing cabinet, a cream manilla folder stands out to her. The word “Classified” is scrawled across the front in a bright, blood red. Squinting a few inches down, she sees “Jessica Tenno” written in a small, black, typewriter font.
Perfect, she thinks.
Jessica slowly nudges the steel drawer until it shuts, shoves the folder into her tote bag, and tiptoes to the door, gently easing it open. A quick peek left and right didn’t reveal anyone in the narrow hallway. She locks the door to the staff room and scampers to her own room, which was conveniently on the opposite end. Jessica had often found the automatic lock mechanism on her door an annoyance, since she frequently had to ask staff to open it for her, a source of irritation for both parties. Now, she exhales with relief as the door clicks behind her.
Jessica carefully makes her way onto her bed, taking care not to squash the precious folder. She pulls it out gingerly, hands shaking. She already feels the weight of the potential information secured in it. Before Jessica opens it, she thumbs a text to a particular person and fills them in on the successful retrieval. Not even a minute passes, and the person’s response is a curt “Good.”
Thanks for the appreciation, dirtbag.
Turning her attention to the folder now sitting on her lap, Jessica swings her legs over so she is now sitting on the edge of her bed, her feet planted firmly on the wood flooring. The sounds of two pairs of feet, and a creaking of a door tells Jessica that the staff have now gone into bed. She smiles to herself, but that relief is short-lived, as she suddenly remembers the typical bedtime schedule on a weekday. She awakens her phone screen and checks the time. Two minutes until half ten. Staff has to collect her devices and chargers at half past.
No! Damn it, today of all days!?
Jessica would have to revisit this tomorrow morning. But she is determined to get as much information as she can now. Keeping an eye on the time, she shakes out the papers in the manilla folder, gasping at the sheer amount of them. She skims through it, committing key words to memory, snapping a few pictures of pages she deems important, working at crackhead speed. The 2 minutes fly by, and when she turns to the next page to take a picture of it, there is a gentle knock on her door, followed by a reminder to give up her devices. Jessica grunts to show she knows, and takes her time gathering up her phone, her Chromebook, and their assigned chargers. She piles the papers back into the folder and carries it, alongside her electronics, to the door. Before she opens it, Jessica stashes the folder underneath her towel that, thankfully, is similar in colour to the manilla folder. Nudging the door open, she hands over her equipment to the blonde-haired staff member in front of her. The staff member smiles and gets on her tip-toes to give a sweeping gaze of Jessica’s room, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Apart from a few dishevelled clothes, strewn books, and the crumpled bed sheets, the staff member is satisfied.
“Would you fancy a bit of baking tomorrow?,” the staff member asks pleasantly.
“Not really, no.”
“No worries, just let me know in the morning if you change your mind. Have a good night.” The staff member collects the equipment from Jessica, while Jessica mutters a curt "Bye" and hastily shuts her door. She flicks on the fairy lights hanging on the pictures above the wall and sits on her bed, sleeping an impossible feat right now. Jessica reaches over to her desk, grabs her notebook, and scribbles the brief sentences she could recall.
“Subpoena for ongoing case.”
“Mental disorder(s).”
“Period of homelessness.”
“Barring order implemented”
“Proclivity towards dissociation/depersonalization.”
“Described as intelligent and passionate by friends and family.”
Jessica chews on the head of her pencil, a vague feeling clouding her mind. She tries to shake it off by staring harder at the sentences, waiting for her brain to latch on to any preliminary interconnections. Twenty seconds pass, and she comes up with a promising, linear connection.
Holding tenaciously onto it, she consults a self-help book that is hidden under her pillow. The designated page is found in no time, and a diplomacy term she needs, she soon finds.
“Persona non grata.”
A memory flashes of that exact phrase being said, which spurned her to find that particular phrase. She sorts through her memory bank, but that memory is gone, forced down into unreachable depths of her brain.
Damn it.
A ghostly feeling is telling her not to give up on that lead; that this particular phrase is important, but in the end, she dismisses it as paranoia on her end. Jessica, defeated, wraps herself up in her covers, barely registering the books sliding noisily onto the floor. She closes her eyes, and instead of trying to get to sleep, allows white-coloured words and broken sentences to swirl around a black and empty stretch of her mind.
