It's someone's birthday. I don't know who, but there's a cake in the kitchen and a man and woman are talking over it. I can't hear what they're saying very clearly, but it all seems familiar. The light outside is washing the room a warm orange that colors everything. I watch the two adults in the kitchen talk from my room. At least... I think it's my room. There's something about it that seems familiar and personal. The adults too... I recognize the woman; she's the person from my flashbacks at the hospital who I called Ada.
The man looks at me and I recognize him from some of my other flashbacks too. I remember that I'm often fighting him and he always manages to beat me but tells me how to improve my fighting after each time. He gestures to me, indicating that I should come into the kitchen. I get up from my spot in my room and go to the two, a feeling of anticipation arising in my stomach as the woman, Ada, holds out her hand. I reach out to take it but then I see... it's my real hand made out of flesh and blood. I draw it back.
This is a dream and a flashback.
As soon as I realize that, my arm flickers from its original state to the carbon fibre one and a fresh numb pain explodes in my broken leg. The warm orange light coming from outside suddenly goes out and everything goes dark. The only source of brightness comes from the candles on the cake.
It's no longer a flashback. It's just a dream and I don't like where it's going.
"What's wrong, Damon?" Ada asks and she reaches out to me.
I slap her hand away with as much force as I can with my prosthetic. With any other person, they'd have been crying out in pain, but Ada's expression remains stoic.
Damon... that name is a recurring feature of my flashbacks. Afterwards, when I try to think about it, my head erupts in pain. Who is he? Who is Damon?
"Don't touch me," I say and I hobble back to the wall of the kitchen with my hand outstretched in front of me, warning them to not come near.
The man looks at me. Earlier, he seemed relaxed and maybe a bit happy, but now his expression is menacing and dangerous. It makes me want to run, but I can barely move an inch.
"Who are you?" I ask.
Neither of them answer and I make a move to punch the man. He catches my arm before it gets within a foot of his face. He manages to twist it behind my back even though I'm resisting as much as I can. He's strong enough to overpower my carbon fiber arm. He has one hand on my arm and the other pressing my head against the wall.
"Who are you?" I ask again through gritted teeth.
"Do you really not remember anything?" I hear him say and I freeze up.
"You. You're the Voice," I think out loud.
I hear him laugh. I want to turn my head back to get a good look at him, but his grip is too strong.
"Don't tell anyone," he says and I try as hard as I can to twist out of his grip.
How strong is this guy? No matter what I try, he's not letting go.
This is all a dream, I tell myself. It isn't real. This is all in my head. It's not happening.
"What do you want?" I growl.
"I think you know. But it's not about what I want, it's about what you want."
"And what do I want?"
He lets go of me and I turn around. The house we were in has disappeared along with Ada and instead of facing the man, I see myself.
It's unmistakably me. The heavily tanned skin, the rusty disheveled hair, the blue eyes, the height, the smaller frame, the gray-blue prosthetic arm: it's all me.
YOU ARE READING
The Wrong Side
Science Fiction"I'll tell you when you're an adult." These are the few words that have been repeated to Damon Ophia for his whole life. Damon's life is made up of secrets. In some cases, secrets are being kept from him, in others he needs to keep secrets, and in...
