Episode One: I Was Just Visiting
On the anniversary of my abduction, the nightmares still haunt me. The pain of the intrusions into my body, the lingering effects of the poison they pumped into me, are becoming vague memories. Even the debilitating damage done by the electric shocks is healing. But the visions of that night are always with me—accosted on the sidewalk in Times Square, black, spiked abductors, racing through the dark, lightning streaks flashing. Snatches of images of masked experimenters, tubes, and strange machines plague my thoughts—awake or asleep. And when I can sleep, it comes slowly and leaves promptly, as the darkness of my room evokes that night in the cold, black storage cell and I am awake again—chilled from the sweat on my body, the bedding damp and twisted.
Even now, awake, in the blazing heat of this July morning, memories of that night come unbidden—my stomach cramps—I verge on fainting.
Today, when the town celebrates the anniversary of the crashed ship, and I mark one year since my ordeal, the Alien Abduction Club meets to share stories and comfort fellow abductees. I take the coincidence as a sign as I walk the streets of Roswell towards where I hope I will find acceptance and solace. The bar where they are meeting is just ahead. I will share my story, and then I will know.
Observing the protocol as others stood to talk, I stand and speak. “I am Jax, and I was abducted. It has been one year since I was taken.”
“Hi, Jax and welcome,” comes the chorus of voices.
“I was abducted one year ago when I was visiting Times Square. An excursion I had been planning for years and to which I had traveled some distance.”
“How did they get you?” asks a young woman in jeans and a tight shirt. “Did they just grab you in broad daylight? I’m surprised nobody filmed it.” I am alarmed at the hint of skepticism in her tone. The flyer had mentioned all are welcome and all are to be believed. I press on.
“It was not that quick. When I arrived, Times Square was not what I had expected. It was noisy, hot, and crowded. I grew faint and tried to sit down. They must have given me something to make me compliant. I saw creatures dressed in black, covered with spikes, take me with black-nailed grasping hands. Others strapped me down, and we sped away to their laboratory.”
“Do you remember anything about the lab?” someone asks. I do not see who.
“Just tubes and machines and masked fiends. They sent a probe down my throat and pumped gas into my stomach. They pierced my skin with needles and injected poison. In the end, they sent paralyzing bolts of electricity through my body.” I am surprised that recounting my story calms me. I am less anxious than when I arrived. Perhaps this is the right place to be today.
“Those bastards,” says Hiram, a thin, bearded man, old-looking, wearing stained and wrinkled clothes. “How’d you get away, Jax-y? Did they plop you back in the Big Apple?”
There is no humor in his asking, his interest is genuine, so I determine to share my escape. “After the electric shocks, I could not move or speak, nor could I open my eyes. But I could hear them talking. They concluded I had died. They put me in a bag and stored me in a drawer for later dissection.”
“Holy crap,” says Maggie, a female version of Hiram, but with neat, ironed clothes. “What happened then?”
“Eventually, the effects wore off, and I removed the bag I was in. But I was still trapped in the storage drawer. When the dissection technician came to prepare my body and slid the drawer out, I sat up and struck him with all my strength—then I ran. I found my tour companions, and they sent me here to Roswell.”
“Did you happen to see what they looked like, young man?” asks a well-dressed, older gentleman who introduces himself as Jefferson.
“I did, vaguely. They were masked and gowned but appeared to be the same size and form as us. They did not resemble any of the creatures I have seen portrayed since I have been in Roswell. But I could not tell one from the other due to their masks and head coverings.”
A man of medium height but muscular had been sitting in the back row. He stood up to address the group. “Don’t pay much attention to the pictures in the gift shops. If you talk to most of us here, you’ll find our experiences are like yours, except for the masks. The aliens look like us but don’t have hair.”
“That’s right, Carlos,” says Jefferson. “They have odd thin tendrils on their heads. And they don’t seem to breathe. But like young Jax here, I couldn’t tell them apart either. I could only remember the measuring, the internal probes, the pieces of skin and organs they removed. They even extracted a piece of my iris that has grown back white. The frightened looks from passersby at my strange eye hurt almost as much as the cutting.”
“Well, I would recognize the bastard that cut me up,” says Carlos. “Yellow eyes and a scar running down the right side of his face. He seemed to smile as he worked, methodically typing into his goddamn machine and taking his little snips, sending instruments into every orifice. The scars are gone, but every night I wake up feeling those cuts and probes. If I ever get my hands on that—”
“You never will, sonny,” says Hiram. “You come here every year wanting to get the bastard. Give it up already.”
“Leave him alone, Hiram,” says Maggie. “Carlos has a right to be angry after what they did to us. We’d all like to get one of them and give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Alright, Maggie. But we just keep hearing the same crap every year. Everybody wants a little payback. But we’ll never find one of the bastards. But Carlos is right—if I ever got my hands on one of those creeps, I’d beat the livin’ tar out of them.”
“Well, Jax,” says Jefferson. “We’ll probably be wrapping up as we usually do each year once we start down the revenge path. It’s now that the drinking will start. Alcohol seems to be the only thing that lets us forget for a while. Then it’s back to our tortured lives and trying to cope as best we can—knowing we can’t ever get satisfaction. We’ll spend another year trying to sleep, trying not to be afraid and being ridiculed if we share our story, a story we relive over and over. Care to join us?”
I cannot consider their offer, knowing alcohol would likely kill me. I could reveal my true nature and enjoy the conversation, but the consequences could be equally fatal. I am sure Carlos would take pleasure in exacting revenge.
I offer my thanks for the invitation, say my goodbyes, and leave the bar. My heart chamber squeezes a little more gently, and my fluid circulates a little more smoothly as my anxiety eases, away from the hostility of the group.
I have a little over two more years before the ship comes to take me home. I will rue these anniversaries and the memories they rekindle but will return to the bar to hear their stories. And when I return home, I will use those stories to convince the tour directorate to stop the abductions. With his scar and yellow eyes, Carver Bix will need to find another method for camouflaging us for these visits. We thought that with our choices and returning them to their homes there would be no harm. With my abduction, I now know how it ruins lives.
Until then, I’ll keep to myself and always wear a hat as my artificial hair is beginning to fray and my breathing tendrils are starting to show. I am sure the Alien Abduction Club would not welcome this particular alien abductee if they knew the whole truth.
END