Why Not? : Stories born from boredom

The Q.A.O.T.D

The hospital room smelled of peroxide and cheap hand sanitizer. I lay on a sheet of toothpaste-blue plastic, awaiting my surgery. Every year since the major chemical leak, we've all had to have the surgery on our birthday. The surgery isn't simple, but I hear that it takes only minutes. The official name for the surgery is QAOTD, which stands for Quarantined Aging Operation Till Death. It sounds quite scary, but it seems that the QAOTD is the only way to get humans to age.It was the year 2078 when the spill happened. A nuclear power plant was breached by a band of rebel soldiers. The chemicals released toxins that allowed for lack of visible aging. Of course president Greenland thought about the issue, but he never realized that the toxins took effect right away when inhaled. So here we are, every birthday, getting a surgery to age. The plastic was cold, and my hands felt like ice cubes. ADD "THE PLASTIC WAS COLD" AFTER "TOOTHPASTE BLUE" Typically I wouldn't be awake for the surgery, but since I am now 18, I am ready to leave home and live on my own. Therefore I must handle things like an adult. If I scream during the QAOTD, or do so much as flinch, I have a 60 percent chance of death. The nurse entered the room wearing pale green scrubs and holding a hologram pad. He looked a bit nervous, as if I was going to brutally maim him at any given moment. I closed my eyes quietly. The next thing I saw was the light. A brilliant, bright, happy, little violently blinding flashlight. I squinted. My eyes peeled open once more as I saw the doctor leaning over me. She held a scalpel and a needle full of dark grey solution. "You may be 18, but I'm not going to make you stay awake. We'll sedate your nerves, so you won't feel anything, but you'll have to keep your eyes open", she said. I nodded as she pricked my wrist with the needle. My body went numb quite quickly, almost as if I was paralyzed. The doctor lifted the scalpel to my torso, but I couldn't watch further. I looked around the room, viewing posters, photographs, sculptures, anything to take my eyes from the surgery itself. After a good 7 minutes, the doctor helped me sit up. "Didn't take long huh?" she laughed. I tried to smile a bit as the nurse lifted me into a wheelchair. I began to gain feeling in my arms and face. "Saruki-Chan! I missed you!" My little sister shouted. She bounded over to the chair, and I managed a numbly sloppy smile. I tried talking, but it came out in slurs. "Iiiiaah misssedyou toooo Ansunaaa", I tried to say to my sister, Ansuna. She giggled. "Your voice sounds funny Saruki!" she exclaimed. I laughed, which sounded more like a dying goose than a laugh, but I think Ansuna understood what I was getting at. Ansuna wheeled my chair over to the elevator, and punched in the activation code to get home. The elevator shot us backwards, and dropped us down into our home elevator. Quite miraculous, I know. Not everyone could afford a transporting elevator back then. My eyes kept closing without me telling them to, but I was beginning to gain full feeling in my body. I pushed off from the wheelchair, a simply ancient device, and began to stand. I was a bit dizzy, but no matter. My hair reached my waist now, and was a horrible shade of red. What happened to my natural black hair? I strode over to the nearest mirror, grabbing at the wall with my sweaty palms. My sister rubbed her hands together worriedly. I glanced up at the shiny surface as the mirror began its routine. "Temperature 93 degrees, height 5 foot 7, age 18 years, 15 hours, and 37 minutes and counting", it spoke. I then glanced up at the figure staring back at me. What used to be an awkward teenager had turned into a gorgeous red haired woman. It didn't even look like me! I all of a sudden shifted my line of vision to my feet. "Ansuna? This is wrong. . . . . Very wrong", I muttered. I had to go back, it just wasn't ME. It wasn't that nerdy girl with the textbooks, or the quiet coffee-shop geek that I grew up as. They messed up. . . Whoever's appearance they filed . . . wasn't mine.