Resurrection

Untitled Part 4

My fingers twitch. I can actually feel my fingers twitching. I hold in a breath. Don't move. Don't let them know you are awake. Footsteps shuffle across the floor; the feeling of breath on my skin. I fight every instinct to run; they will only catch me. "Oh my god, wha..... what was that?" Emma wailed from across the room. "Dr Wren, why did she speak to us?" 

Dr Wren says nothing in reply; instead, he continues to send his cold breath crawling across my arms, studying me in silence. "None of them talk" Emma chunters, "None of them. Silent for the incubation period. Not a word. No blipping thoughts, no restarts. This one's psychopath. We should shut her down." For a moment she hesitates, waiting for Dr Wren to react; when she isn't shot down, she repeats herself, more boldly. "We should shut her down."

Her rubber shoes squeak against the floor tiles as she scrabbles to her feet, crossing the lino floor much faster than she ever had before. "Emma" Dr Wren snaps sharply, pulling her up short. "If you touch that screen, I will have you permanently removed."

Dr Wren pivots to face the other nurse -"Frank, if you would escort Emma downstairs, I'm sure she would much appreciate a coffee." Frank nods, taking his colleague gently by the arm, the two shutting the door behind them quietly as they leave. 

Dr Wren waits until his two assistants are well and truly gone before he moves- pacing up and down. I image him rubbing his chin. By the sound of his steps he has long strides, is probably reaching the six foot mark, perhaps six two. He mumbles as he paces,  the same things over and over again, inaudible; fragments of thoughts, not formed coherently yet in his mind.

Time passes, Frank and Emma do not come back, Dr Wren has not stopped pacing. The clock outside chimes and two more nurses come in. They are another regular pair; from what I have heard of their conversation, which has always been incredibly tedious and shallow — their lives sound like a washed out back story of an extra in a bad sit-com.  

They stay in the room for about five minutes before their idle chit-chatter drives Dr Wren mad. His outburst was very out of character, as he always seemed to be a very calm man. His pacing stopped, the younger nurse had asked, "Dr. Wren, are you okay? You're shaking" — as before, there had been no response to this question. When the poor nurse moved to calm his shaking he screamed at her; repeatedly screaming at the two of them to get out; over and over again; the words echoed around the hollow room. 

The nurses scream and run from the room, claiming he'd officially gone mad. In two strides Dr Wren was beside me, grabbing my tiny wrists. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" he screamed. I have to force myself to keep completely still; my heart is hammering in my throat; the blood jumping in my veins where his tightening grip was cutting off my circulation.

"WHY? GOD DAMN IT WHY?" he screams again, this time letting go of me, slamming his fist into some undoubtedly expensive piece of equipment. The tiny shards it created skidded across the floor. You could almost hear the blood boiling in his veins. Without a word he left the room. 

I count to twenty before I cautiously open my eyes, only to snap them shut instantly, blinded by the light.  Instinctively I cover my eyes. I prise the fingers away, painfully slowly my eyes adjust, I squint: no cameras, just an empty room. Good, but a pesky patch of blue in my vision - I try to blink it away, but it won't go

I move to sit up, but find I can't; for I am bound to the bed by a mass of wires and needles. My stomach turns. I'm not a fan of needles. 

What am I going to do? I can see my room properly now —completely white. A white door facing the right hand corner, to the left a large white screen — the type that you can't see out of, but you can see in through. The ones police use to interrogate their suspects.

I am a prisoner here.

A test subject. 

But where am I? 

Needles. Test subject. What were they doing to me? Gritting my teeth, I wrap my right pinkie around one of the needles running into the artery that joins my left hand. I wince as I yank the needle out. There are three more connecting to my left hand. Once my left hand is free, it was easier to free my right.  

I have a nasal cannula hooked round my ears, attached to a ventilator. I unhook it for a moment. My lungs scream in protest for a moment; heart stops; lungs aren't working. I panic, opening and closing my mouth desperately; nothing; then all at once, as if snapping out of a daze, a rush of air hits my lungs. 

I sigh with relief, focusing for a moment on just breathing in and out.  When I am certain my lungs will not give up on me, I continue to extract the remaining needles from my body. 

My legs ache as my lungs had done as I willed them to move forward across the floor towards the desk. 

Dr Wren's desk is beautiful. In a completely white box, with only artificial light; it shines, for it too has been made of a sort of white metal. It is refreshingly cold, and smooth to the touch. I love the feel of it; of everything: the tiles under my feet, the air on my exposed arms; my hair spilling onto my face. 

The desk is more of a complex: desk, chair and storage unit all in one.  It stands on two strong legs, tree trunks; the seat swirling around — looking similar to the gnarled branches of a tree. Around the seat the flat surface of the desk lies in a crescent moon shape, the corners swirling into little rose heads.

It was so beautiful and out of place. 

I leant back as I sat down at the beautiful desk. My lungs hurt from breathing; my legs ached from the three steps they had taken from the bed to the desk; my mind ached from it all. 

Where was I? How did I get here? Why did I wake up?

Who am I?

Nothing. 

I try again to think, waiting for fragments of memories to come back to me, but nothing comes. I sigh, slumping forward across the desk. And where is Dr Wren? 

An awful crawling sensation begins to creep up my back. I snap my head round, instantly blushing; feeling incredibly stupid. Of course there was no one there. 

Or was there? 

The white screen. 

In a moment I am over, desperately trying to see through the dense opaque screen. Nothing. Searching for something that isn't there. 

The click of the door shutting snatches my attention. Like a deer in the headlights I freeze, slowly turning around. 

Dr Wren, the man who has watched over me for goodness knows how long, gawps. I stare back, taking in everything about him. The way he stood rigidly, shoulders forced back, long white coat flaring dramatically behind him. Dark hair and pale skin, kissed with freckles. A boyish face, studying it more closely, I notice that he must not be much older than me. 

To be doing this, so young — tragic.  

A blinding pain seeps through my head; I scream out in pain; doubling over. Dr Wren runs over to catch my crumpling body; he fears I may disintegrate beneath his fingertips. I clutch my head, whimpering. 

Then it is over. 

The world goes black.