MOTHERS

◙eleven◙

"You'll soon know what you're capable of."

It repeated, over and over, like a scream echoing inside her head. At times feminine, other times morphing with fifteen other voices, some of which were masculine, some unidentifiable. They swirled and swirled, entwining with her neurons, confusing her brain waves. But it wasn't confined to her mind; it was like a siren blaring out from invisible speakers, filling her room with agony.

And still, Lola stared. Her gaze fixed, unblinking, on the tiny area where she was certain the voice was coming from. Because it wasn't just in her head anymore. When it had restarted, about an hour prior, she'd felt it come from behind her, when she'd been kneeling by her bed, fixing the sheets that had gone askew. She'd whipped her neck in that direction, asked the voice to repeat itself—and the sound came from in front of her, above her. Up and up she looked, until she found herself standing below the camera and its blinking red light, glaring up at it, then next to it.

"You'll soon know what you're capable of."

Lola might have thought it was a loop on an incessant replay cycle, coming from a recorder hidden in the ceiling. But the voice was never one hundred percent the same. The cadence of the words, the pronunciation of them were never the same. As if an audience of people were chanting at her, but growing tired, not enunciating their sentences the same way every time they spoke.

She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her arms were taut at her sides, and they'd snap if she moved, she knew it. Her shoulders ached, tense and squared as they were, but she wouldn't dare budge them, not by a centimeter. The only thing she allowed to shift was her mouth, as she whispered at the spot that was whispering to her, trying to respond to it.

But regular words weren't coming out of her mouth. Clicks—quick, sharp sounds escaped from behind her lips, and the more she tried to stop them, the more they poured out, faster and erratic. The more she worried about them, the more she grew used to them and realized she wasn't saying them, not of her own volition. Yet she couldn't stop. Anyone watching her—and she knew someone always was—would sound the alarm and start panicking over this behavior. They'd panicked when she'd grown violent, but this... this was worse. This was abnormal, whereas the super-strength had been expected. This was her, something that wasn't human, speaking in a different language, and speaking it to the ceiling. And that couldn't have been part of her captor's plans.

Or maybe it was—maybe it was them who were mumbling to her. Tricking her, toying with her, some means to destabilize her and test her. Maybe there was a hidden speaker in the ceiling, a minuscule device projecting a multitude of voices to her, seeking to confuse her. Maybe this whole time they'd been the ones encouraging her, literally whispering in her ear, telling her to be prepared, and that she'd soon be strong, she'd soon develop powers. That was why they'd locked her up, right? They wanted her to grow, to receive abilities. "You're to become something else," one of the lab-people had said, after checking her vitals, making her open and close her mouth and utter strange sounds as he stuck a flat piece of wood onto her tongue. "You're progressing well," another had said, one who'd exerted a certain amount of pride and poise. The one in charge.

Dr. Price. He said things to her from time to time, but his voice never came from that area, near the camera. He'd stand on the other side of the door, using a different device to communicate with her. Or the intercom—which was what the other one who spoke to her at a distance used. Some lady she recalled was named Elle. She was one of those who watched her day and night, and she'd used the intercom a few times. A nice enough lady, though her timbre trembled when she talked, and Lola avoided communicating with her too much because she sounded unstable, nervous.