Genre: Thriller
Word Count: 1352
“Motion detected. #18B.6 has finally awoken. Time: 18:26.”
Even behind your eyelids, bright white lights pierce through your vision. It’s uncomfortable, almost painful.
To open your eyes feels like a herculean feat, and that makes you realize how heavy the rest of you feels. It’s as if all of your bones are made of lead. Still, you manage to turn your head away from the light and the oddly reflective ceiling to focus on . . . nothing but a white wall.
Strange. Hospitals were usually more inviting. But when you see the metal door in the corner, a chill runs down your spine.
Hospitals . . . were usually more inviting.
You start to realize yourself more. Sort of. Your heavy body is nothing compared to the feeling of a devastating hangover. What happened to you last night?
. . . This morning?
What day was it?
Where were you?
How long have you been out?
You begin to feel your fingers as a more horrifying thought crosses your cloudy mind.
Who am I?
The question ignites your system. You remember how to think. How to feel. How to move. You jolt up too fast and your head swims, but you catch yourself before the dizziness can knock you back down. It takes all of your effort to force yourself off the bed and into a stand. You're wobbly, but you're standing and the dizziness is settling pretty quickly.
“Subject’s vitals are stabilizing. Its motor abilities are coming back.”
That disembodied voice makes your head turn this way and that in an attempt to find the source. An anger flares inside of you as the words they say echo.
It? . . . They were talking about you . . . ?
It?! How dare they call you an it, you were—
Your breathing gets shorter as you try to define yourself. You were you. Couldn't they see that? And what did they mean ‘subject’?
That's not what doctors called people they had under their care—
You grow cold.
That's what scientists called the specimen they were experimenting on.
You can’t stop the sudden tears going down your cheeks. Even though they burn, you don’t bother to wipe them away. You wanted to believe it was a hospital room, but it was far too sterile. The floors and walls are impossibly white, making it feel like an endless void of nothing. It’s far too empty and far too quiet. Hospitals have beds and chairs, colorful curtains, and maybe even a TV if you were admitted for an extended stay. This room is devoid of color. It doesn’t look like anyone will be coming to greet you.
More importantly, everything is bolted down.
A bed. A table. A toilet. The only thing that hasn’t been impossible to move were three books on the table. The covers are painted white, one more crude than the rest as spots of black leather peek through. You pick up the first book and open it to a random page. Everything looks . . . strange. No matter how much you stare, you can’t make out the words. Maybe it’s in a different language, you think. But surely you'd be able to differentiate the shapes? Languages were letters and characters. You knew that. But . . . What did that actually mean?
It makes you uneasy.
The second book is thinner, but sturdy. It’s made out of a different material that you don’t know. When you open it, there’s a rush of adrenaline and emotion that washes through you. It’s the first sign of color you’ve seen. But more than that, there were pictures inside that made you feel . . . mournful. You had seen them before; trees, the blue sky, birds, apples, cats, and dogs. You knew what these were and that brings tears to your eyes again.
The final book, with the poorly painted white leather, is a journal. Save for torn pages and red splotches it’s empty. Something about it makes you angry and that anger makes you toss the journal across the small room. It explodes into a scatter of pages from the force of your throw, spooking you at how easily it falls apart. You didn’t even throw it that hard. So, with much more care, you set the second book in the center of the table, lying flat with the picture of the cat open.
“Subject still appears to be volatile.”
You’ve heard that phrase before. ‘Volatile’ tastes metallic in your mouth. It feels sharp and painful. It’s loud and unpleasant in a way that makes you bristle and bolt to the only door. ‘Volatile’ has consequences, but the door locks on the outside and you have nowhere to run.
“What— What did you do to me!?” It’s the first time you hear your own voice. It’s brittle and hoarse and you can’t recognize it as your own. You realize you can’t even recognize the voice in your own head after all the racing thoughts you’ve had. “I . . . I want to go home.” You don’t know what home is, but your voice changes. It’s softer and desperate as you weep and struggle with the door. “Please, let me go.” You don’t realize how much your voice fluctuates and changes until that disembodied voice speaks again.
“Subject’s abilities seem to be readapting.”
Abilities? The voice didn’t make any sense. You were stolen from your home. You don’t remember your home, but you are sure you have one. You’ve seen freedom. Why did they take you away from it? How could they kidnap you? You were-
You were . . .
“You.”
There’s a ‘skrtch skrtch skrtch’ noise that makes you let go of the door. There’s claw marks where your nails drag. You hear it on the ceiling first. When you look up, your eyes - all of them - widen to see the reflection looking back at you. There’s claws and teeth, bone and sinew. There’s pieces and parts that are indescribable and yet strangely familiar.
And then you blink and what you see is gone.
Whatever that was . . . it was probably just your imagination. But the scratching noise is not. It’s faster and incessant and it lasts long enough for you to find its source. You blink and find yourself staring at strange creatures in similar white uniforms. Every now and then they look up at you, but they continue to look at flashing gadgets and papers. Funny. These walls weren’t see-through the first time you looked at them.
You step closer with an unblinking gaze and catch the eye of one of them. They freeze up.
Oh.
These walls aren’t transparent. But this one knows you’re looking directly at them. There’s an uneasiness in their eyes that gives you goosebumps. All of that fear and panic is replaced with a thrilling sensation. These were your kidnappers. These were . . . scientists? No, that wasn’t the right word.
These were humans.
The word echoed through your head in disgust, in reverie, in desperation, in desire.
Yes. That’s right. That’s what they were. That’s what you were. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they see that you too could be human. Your bones snapped and cracked into all the right places. You were sure they were the right places. How? Because you could be human too.
Just.
Like.
Them.
What happened to you?
Nothing. You’re fine now.
Were you kidnapped?
It feels as though all you’ve known were those four walls . . . but you’ve felt freedom before.
You want it back. You want to remember what it feels like. To be amongst humans— No . . . That’s not right. You craved and desired, yes. Not for wanderlust, no. You haven’t just felt freedom, you’ve tasted it.
You’ve hunted it.
Who are you?
You know exactly who you are as you watch the human’s unease turn into terror as they see themselves through the wall.
Can’t they see that you’re trying to be just like them? Is that not what they want?
But if they don’t think you’re human . . . Who are you?
You smile and drag your hand down the wall, still unblinking and even more excited as all of these humans are focused on you.
“Please let me out. I’m . . . hungry.”
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