Subdue-X

Last Of Who I Was

I stiffly sat up in the dark room, the cold air biting at my skin. My arms felt like lead, heavy and raw, as if they were no longer a part of me but some foreign weight dragging me down. My head, on the other hand, was thick with cotton, my thoughts sluggish and muddled. I reached up, my fingers numb as I touched my cheek, nausea churning in my stomach.

I tried to stand, groggily pushing against the glass door, but it remained firmly shut. My phone sat abandoned on the chalky bench, a reminder of a world that felt light years away. A sudden wave of hostility washed over me, and I wanted to scream, to hurl the bed across the room, but it was pointless. It wouldn't move, and I had no energy to waste on futile gestures. Instead, I sank to the cold floor, pressing my back against the glass and staring at the concrete walls, their blinking numbers mocking me.

A terrible grief settled over me like a shroud, and I felt as though I was about to burst at the seams. Anger made sense, but this was different. This was mourning, though I couldn’t quite understand what I had lost. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was grieving for the person I used to be, the person who no longer existed.

Every tear I shed felt more and more meaningless, my thoughts becoming less human with each passing minute. I was slipping away, and there was no one to pull me back. The questions in my mind twisted and knotted, but I couldn’t even form them into words. And even if I could, I knew there would be no simple answers.

I needed something to hold onto, something that would ground me, but all I had were impenetrable walls and a frozen floor. I rubbed my hand against the glass, but even that didn’t feel real anymore. I could still feel the dull ache from when I had first arrived, when I had pounded my fist against the transparent barrier in desperation. Now, all that was left was the hollow echo of a broken person.

This place was supposed to be my grave, but instead, it had become my prison, and all I could do was wish for the grave instead.

The door clicked open and shut in seconds, and Pin walked over, standing slightly to my left. His presence loomed, shadowy and oppressive, as he took in the sight of me slumped against the wall. He wore a robin-egg-blue button-up shirt tucked into black jeans, his white lab coat absent. For a moment, he almost looked normal—just a man. But I knew better.

He stood there, puzzled, and I could feel his eyes on the top of my head. His jawline was probably set, and those icy blue eyes of his were likely as cold as ever. He had been my shadow all night, and now here he was again.

“You should be lying down,” he said, his voice low and flat, devoid of any warmth. He sighed through his nose, kneeling in front of me. His gaze scanned my face, searching for something—maybe signs of life, or maybe just confirmation that I was still his subject, not a person.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died on my tongue, and I clicked my jaw shut. Instead, I glared at the wall across from me, refusing to acknowledge him.

Pin tapped lightly on the inside of my elbow, and a shooting pain ripped through my arm, up into my chest and fingers. I jolted from the shock of it, a reluctant noise escaping my lips. He was testing me, making sure I was still mentally functioning.

He continued to watch my face like a hawk. “Bed.”

“I can’t,” I muttered, my throat raw and aching.

Without a word, he took my hand and slipped his arm under my armpit, hoisting me up as if I weighed nothing. My legs swung onto the bed, and I realized now it was just an ordinary hospital bed, as cold and sterile as everything else in this place.

Pin retrieved a tiny black pill bottle from a drawer beneath the bed, stepping over to the door. He leaned his head out, speaking to one of his co-workers. “Ten, a warm blanket.”