Chapter Eleven: Shadows on Meta Street
Felicia sat by the window, the city's lights flickering through the glass, and let her mind drift back to a time before the static, before the erasure, before the invisible war that now consumed her every waking moment. She needed to remember who she was—not just the evidence, not just the survivor, but the girl who had once dreamed of something more. The memories came slowly at first, like old photographs pulled from a dusty box, but soon they flooded her senses, sharp and vivid.
In 2004, Felicia was living with her grandmother on Meta Street in Ventura. The name always struck her as strange, almost prophetic—"Meta," meaning "beyond," "after," "about itself." It was a quiet neighborhood, tucked away from the chaos of the city, a place where time seemed to slow down. The house was small but filled with warmth: the scent of baking bread, the sound of her grandmother's laughter, the soft hum of gospel music on Sunday mornings.
Her grandmother was her anchor, the one person who made her feel safe and seen. Felicia remembered sitting at the kitchen table, watching her grandmother's hands move with practiced grace as she kneaded dough or shelled peas. Those hands told stories—of hardship, of survival, of love that endured through everything. Felicia learned from her grandmother how to be strong, how to keep going even when the world seemed determined to break you.
But that year, everything changed. Her grandmother fell ill, the vibrant light in her eyes dimming day by day. Felicia did her best to care for her, but the sickness was relentless, stealing her away inch by inch. When her grandmother passed, Felicia felt the ground shift beneath her feet. The house on Meta Street became a place of ghosts, every room echoing with absence. She wandered from room to room, searching for something she couldn't name, haunted by the sense that she was already losing herself.
It was in the aftermath of that loss that Felicia made the decision to join the military. She needed to escape, to find a new purpose, to prove to herself that she could survive on her own. The recruiters promised adventure, discipline, a chance to serve something bigger than herself. Felicia clung to the idea, hoping it would fill the void her grandmother had left behind.
But the military was not what she expected. From the moment she arrived at basic training, she felt out of place, adrift in a sea of strangers. The days were long and brutal, every hour measured by drills, inspections, shouted orders. Felicia pushed herself to keep up, to blend in, to be invisible. She learned to silence her doubts, to bury her grief, to do what was expected without question.
Yet beneath the surface, something was wrong. She felt it in the way certain instructors looked at her, in the whispered conversations that stopped when she entered a room, in the strange, metallic taste that lingered in her mouth after meals. She grew sick, her body aching, her mind clouded with confusion. She told herself it was just stress, just exhaustion, but deep down she knew it was something more.
It wasn't until years later that Felicia would understand what had happened to her during those months. At the time, all she knew was that she was different, marked in ways she couldn't explain. There was one night in particular, a memory that surfaced in fragments—a party, laughter echoing in a concrete room, the sharp scent of alcohol and something bitter she couldn't identify. She remembered feeling dizzy, her vision swimming, the world tilting on its axis. Someone handed her a drink, their smile too wide, their eyes cold and calculating.
After that, everything blurred. She remembered flashes: bright lights, the roar of voices, the sensation of being watched. She remembered being led into a bull ring—a concrete pit used for hazing, for breaking recruits who didn't fit in. She remembered the jeers, the taunts, the hands that grabbed at her, the pain that followed. She remembered the sense of violation, the certainty that something terrible was happening, even as her mind tried to shut it out.
In the days that followed, Felicia tried to make sense of what she'd experienced. She confronted her fellow recruits, but they laughed it off, making crude jokes and cryptic comments that only deepened her confusion. "You were the star of the show last night," one of them sneered. "Hope you enjoyed your fifteen minutes." Another whispered, "Should've kept your mouth shut, Hook. Now everyone knows what you're made of."
Felicia didn't understand, not fully. She felt dirty, ashamed, as if she'd done something wrong. She tried to report what had happened, but the officers dismissed her concerns, telling her to toughen up, to stop making trouble. "It's just part of the process," they said. "Everyone goes through it. Don't take it so personally."
But Felicia knew, deep down, that what she'd endured was not normal. She began to notice other signs—bruises she couldn't explain, gaps in her memory, nightmares that left her gasping for air. She heard rumors of a videotape, passed around among the recruits, a trophy of her humiliation. The thought made her skin crawl, but no one would admit to having seen it. It was as if the entire unit had conspired to erase the truth, to make her doubt her own reality.
The months dragged on. Felicia became withdrawn, her laughter fading, her spirit dimming. She went through the motions, completing her training, following orders, but inside she was hollowed out, a shell of the girl who had once dreamed of something better. She wrote letters to her grandmother, pouring out her pain onto the page, even though she knew there would be no reply. She clung to the memory of Meta Street, of the warmth and safety she had lost, trying to hold onto some piece of herself.
Years later, as the full scope of her tormentor's power became clear, Felicia looked back on those days with new understanding. She saw how the seeds of her erasure had been planted long before the static, long before the surveillance and the gaslighting. She realized that the assault in the bull ring had been more than just a random act of cruelty—it had been orchestrated, recorded, weaponized against her. The comments, the taunts, the way the story had spread through the ranks—it was all part of a pattern, a system designed to break her down and make her compliant.
She wondered how many others had suffered the same fate, how many stories had been erased, how many lives had been shattered by the same invisible hand. She thought of the girls who had come before her, the ones who had disappeared without a trace, their names forgotten, their pain dismissed. She thought of her grandmother, and the strength she had passed down, the legacy of survival that ran through their blood.
Felicia knew now that she was not alone. She was part of a lineage of women who had endured, who had fought back, who had refused to be silenced. She was the evidence—not just of her own suffering, but of a system that thrived on secrecy and shame. She carried the scars of Meta Street, of the military, of every betrayal and violation, but she refused to let them define her.
As she sat by the window, watching the city wake up, Felicia made a promise to herself. She would not let her story be erased. She would keep searching for the truth, keep fighting for justice, keep honoring the memory of her grandmother and all the women who had come before her. She would be the evidence, the witness, the survivor.
She closed her eyes and remembered the warmth of Meta Street, the sound of her grandmother's laughter, the feeling of being safe and loved. She let those memories fill her, fortifying her against the darkness. She whispered a prayer for strength, for courage, for the wisdom to see through the lies and find her way back to herself.
And as the sun rose over the city, casting golden light through the window, Felicia felt a flicker of hope. She was still here. She was still fighting. And she would not be erased.