Landis, Corrine
JOURNAL ENTRY 05

I'm part of the group they are now calling "the first non-celebrity candidates." The way Jonathan's eyes looked... I will never forget that for as long as I live no matter how hard I try. Like windows to a house that has long been condemned. No one home but a very dull glow of what I assume must be hatred. Hatred toward me and perhaps the entire world for what has happened. And of course I deserve it.

I'd be lying if I said that some part of me was not spinning out of control, considering the unlikely possibility he might run to me and take me in his arms and tell me that all was forgiven. He'd kiss me like the first time at Disneyland under the fireworks, and we could somehow cast off these terrible chains I've been wearing since the morning I ruined our lives.

The more I attempted to remind myself that this would not be what happened, the more I let myself believe (and hope) that it might. And when he stood up behind that desk and stared at me as I was poised frozen in the doorway, I knew I had been a fool to hope. His eyes were like smoke rising from an extinguished fire, neutralizing the stink of any lingering emotion. I wanted very much to wrangle my own emotions into submission, but somehow the reins slipped from my grasp and I broke down. Weeping again. Jonathan simply left the room, passing me like a stranger without a glance or a word. A chill seizing me as he left.

The other man in the room stood staring at me as I worked to subdue my sobbing.

"Are you here to sign up?" he finally asked, and I just handed him my purple ticket.

We were brought to the third-floor medical ward and given a series of injections and painful cervical exams by Ziz gynecologists. Outside of the uncomfortable procedures, the medical stay is relatively luxurious. We are given round-the-clock attention and special dinners that all have a similar strange taste.

The woman in the bed next to mine is a very pretty brunette. She's in bed one evening, rubbing her flat stomach thoughtfully, and catches me staring at her.

"Where are you from?" she asks. At first the question puzzles me, but then I remember there must be people from all over the country here.

"I'm from here. California," I say. "Not far from LA."

"Same here." She smiles, taking her eyes off me. "We're it, you know? The very first women accepted into this program that aren't movie stars."

"That's what they tell me."

"Nothing ever stays the same," she says, almost like an afterthought. "My name is Chloe."

"I'm Corrine."

"You ever done this before?" She stops, realizes how strange the question is, then rephrases. "Do you have any kids?"

"No," I sigh, smiling for a moment. "My husband always wanted to wait, but..." My sentence trails off, dies.

"I was close once," Chloe says blankly. "But I lost it, I mean, I decided not to keep it."

"Oh."

"My friend Nichole and I moved into the T.O.G. center as soon as we made it through the waiting list. How long have you been here?"

"Not long."

"It's amazing, isn't it? Everything happening? Someone is finally fixing everything that's been wrong for so long. We just never imagined it would be someone like Belial."

"We sure didn't," I agree, shaking my head.

"Anyway, did you come here alone? Sorry to ask so many questions. The medicine makes me a little chatty."

"Yes. I came alone. I'm... looking for someone."

"I'm sure one of the Ziz can help you. It might be hard on your own. There are thousands of people here now."

"I know." I sigh.

"Hey, don't worry. You'll find them. Or they'll find you once you're famous."

"Famous?" I ask, looking at her again.

"Of course. It's why we're here, remember? The celebrities just wanted more of what they already have, but now that we've been given a chance, we can sit at Belial's right hand. We'll have opportunities that no one else will. And when the Nephilim get here, we'll know it was because of what we did."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"We should try to get some sleep," she says, leaning back in her bed. "They're going to move our group into the ceremony room today."

The ceremony room, as it turns out, is a cave-like corridor dimly lit with a hazy orange fog. Inhibited greatly by the sedatives, a group of Ziz doctors lead us each to cages draped in thick, black velvet.

"You need to drink the entire formula before tomorrow's procedure," a voice says as I'm tucked on all fours into the cage and my hips are fastened into some kind of suspension belt. "Do you understand?"

"I... I think so," I mumble groggily.

A clawed hand reaches through the bars and adjusts a bottle fastened to the cage like a hamster feeder. A clear solution drips from the nozzle and smells like vinegar. At first the idea of sleeping in this thing, pitch black and with a lingering musky smell in the air, seems impossible. With my hips floating in the harness, I find myself drifting off. I sleep. For how long, I have no idea.