Alone • Liam Dunbar

Twenty-One

The memory surfaced in a rush. One second I was in the hallway at school, and the next, I was strapped to a rusting surgical table. Each appendage of my body was bound by thick leather straps that prevented me from freeing myself. Though, some part of me was morbidly relieved to have one across my bare chest as it was the only thing keeping me decent.

I struggled against the binds while taking in my surroundings, searching for a way out.

I was in a windowless operating theater, one that felt more medieval than modern with how much grime and gunk covered everything in sight. The tiled walls were littered with cracks and water stains, mold growing from every crevice. There was a faint hissing noise that echoed through the room, steam being expelled from broken pipes. I tried to get a good grip on where exactly I was, but there was something blurring my sense, keeping me docile and hazy.

I'm not able to see much because of my binds so I have to crane my neck to the side to take in a partial view of my environment.

There were wide metal shelves lined along the wall to my right. Each row had various medical instruments laid out on top of it, beakers and vials filled with random oozes and liquids, and even glass jars. They all had things inside of them, fermenting. Only one of them earns a reaction from me. In a short jar on the top row, there was a curled-up figure so small it would've been able to fit inside the palm of my hand, its shape distinctly human.

A horrified sob passes through my lips and I have to turn away.

What I find next isn't any better.

There's a large circular glass tank in the adjacent room that catches my eyes first because of the bright green liquid it houses. The tank is only filled partially though, as what had once been inside of it, is now laid out on a metal slab beside me.

It was a man, or at least he had been once. Now, he could have easily passed as a decaying corpse.

His body was swollen and pale, a product of sitting in that tank for who knows how long. He had an oxygen mask that dug into his face, disguising most of it from me. It didn't block out his eyes. Both of them were covered with a thin layer of film and build-up. His scarred and burned skin almost appeared to be melting because of how much moisture he'd soaked up.

Heavy footsteps approach, each one ringing in my ears. The Pathologist comes into view, standing between the man and I.

He's silent as he takes a hold of the man's limp arm and guides it across the space that divides us. He maneuvers his hand to wrap around my wrist, curling his slimy digits to stay put. When he lets go, he reaches out with his metallic glove and settles it on the center of the man's chest.

Cracks of electricity emit from his fingertips as he shocks him. His chest heaves upwards of the burst of power and the rest of his body reacts accordingly. I wince as I feel the sudden sting of something cutting into my wrist.

I strain to peer down at the side of my body against the resistance of my binds. I can't see much, but I'm able to make out the sight of a werewolf's claws now embedded into my skin from where the man holds me.

The Pathologist is promptly joined by his colleagues, all of them looming over me.

The Surgeon cocks his head to the side. He surveys me in a clinical fashion. I'm nothing more to him than another experiment.

He doesn't wear his leather trench coat, only a dress shirt and velvet vest with prominent silver buttons lined down the front. He works to roll up his sleeves, revealing his thin and deflated arms that are covered with lines of scars that wrap around the limb entirely. I wonder if he's done them on purpose, slowly stitching himself back together over the extended years of his life as his originally mortal body betrays him.