Free Transcend by Christine Fonseca Page A

through his veins and his mind closed in on itself again.
    A moment passed. Or maybe a day.
    He woke, still seated in the chair. And this time he was next to a cot in a cupboard-sized room. The air smelled of antiseptic and incense. There were no adornments on the walls, none of the luxurious trappings of the life he knew. Basic necessities, nothing more.   
    Mother and another woman spoke in hushed tones, unaware that he had woken. Ien stared at the woman. She was as tall as Mother, dressed in a black habit, wearing a large crucifix on her chest.
    A nun.
    “We are not a prison, Mrs. Montgomery. Nor are we equipped to do what you expect.” The woman’s voice was nearly as hard and as unyielding as Mother’s. In a different time, Ien would have found their exchange entertaining.
    “Understood, Sister Agnes. But I believe this is the best place for him. Mr. Montgomery has already spoken with—”
    “I am aware of the order. Your son will have his own room and his progress monitored. But I wouldn’t expect much. From what you’ve told me, his future is grim.”
     “Please, just heal my son.” Mother paused, her face hard. Ien looked for some sign of regret or pain, anything to indicate that she cared for him, that she had ever cared.
    Nothing, just the same distant look and hard features he had grown accustomed to over the past few months.
    “We will do our best, ma’am.” Sister Agnes looked in Ien’s direction.
    He quickly shut his eyes and held his breath.
    “The Montgomery estate has left a generous donation to assist your efforts.”
    The word generous lingered in the air, churning Ien’s stomach.   
    “Thank you.”
    “I do have one request, Sister Agnes.” Ien’s attention perked as Mother continued speaking. “If you cannot heal him, he must die. I won’t let my son suffer. Purge him from the curse inflicting him, and help him pass. Understood?”
    “Understood.”
    Ien’s stomach tightened further. This was not a place to heal. This was where Ien would face his death at last.
    ~
    Days and weeks tumbled into each other as Ien did little more than simply exist. He opened his eyes, woken by the sound of muffled voices and footsteps echoing in the hall. He focused on the sounds, trying to discern if they were real or just another fantasy he could no longer control or avoid. He burrowed himself into bed, grateful that his caretakers—nuns or nurses he couldn’t be certain—had released the bindings on his wrists. Pulling his blankets over his head, he created a private cocoon of safety against the world.
    Who was he kidding? His safety ended the day Mother prayed for his death.
    The distant voices became louder and louder, drawing closer and closer. Ien had no choice but to accept them as real. He didn’t want visitors. Didn’t want to see any more terror-filled expressions as his bandages were changed. Or hear the choked revulsion. He just wanted to be left alone.
    Ien sat up and swung his legs to the floor. He stretched his neck and back, again thankful for the freedom to move around his tiny room. Brushing his fingers along his face, he felt the rough bandages that hugged the contours of his skull. More than once he’d thought about removing the scraps of fabric himself to see what scared everyone. Fear paralyzed every attempt.  
    The footsteps and voices settled just outside of his room. His mother’s familiar tones mixed with those of Sister Agnes.
    “Are you sure you want to see him, ma’am?” Her voice was harsh, just as it had been every day for the weeks since Ien was forced to call this cell home.
    “He is my son.”
    Son. The word seemed foreign on Mother’s tongue. Rage swelled up through Ien. She had no right to claim him now.
    “His face, ma’am, it has not healed. His wounds are still open. Maybe infected.”
    Again Ien touched his face, sending a wave of pain, more emotional than physical, through him. He waited for the response he knew would come.
    “Our