The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 1. Dry Lab

It feels like my body is burning at the stake, my spine nailed to its post, my misery its fire. The darkness is overwhelming. I can smell my hair singed from heat, hear my skin crack as it starts to blacken and curl and split. The sweet vapor of my juices wafts up my nose, or is it the stink of linoleum? What's happening? Is this some sort of siren hell and I'm stuck in its hottest room as punishment? It's certainly not siren heaven. Perhaps I'm balanced in that divine fold between life and death, the one that rips open as soon as you enter. The afterlife. One of the three destinations where Canosa is supposed to bring those who pass.

The only thing I know for sure is I'm hot. Before my vocal cords dissolve in this brilliant blaze, I want to utter one final cry. It starts at the edge of my lungs, speeds through my trachea and larynx, and promptly dies on the back of my tongue, stifled by a wall. I'm gagged.

My whole body shakes in a burst of dry coughing. I'm certain that if I was dead for real, coughing would be the last thing on my body's agenda. My throat constricts in another spasm and I make funny whooping sounds through a bundle of cloth stuffed into the cavity of my mouth. I press on it with my tongue and try to register the sensation fully, to make sure it's real. It tastes of saliva and bitter cotton, soft and rough at the same time, with a million fiber endings grinding into my tongue which, in turn, feels as if it's made of sand paper. My lips sting, stretched out to the biggest O shape they can make; the gag pulls the skin tight all around my jaw, unhinged to near breaking. There is tape over my mouth, and the odor of its glue tickles my nostrils. 

I groan, breathing through my nose. It feels like I'm passing fire as each inhale and exhale burns with blistering air. My chest is aflame and my gills feel cracked and dry. They ache the way an open wound would, each nerve ending assaulted to the point of screaming. If I were a lobster, this is what it would feel like to be thrown into boiling water and cooked alive. Except, there is no water around me, not a single drop, not even the tiniest bit of moisture that I can pick up with my skin. None. This must be my own private hell. 

The darkness begins to recede. I think my vision must be returning to normal. There is a grayness that comes to view, with a blue undertone. Sky? No, this must be my eyelids penetrated by light, because it doesn't feel like I'm actually seeing anything. My eyes feel closed. At least, I hope they are. My eyes are swollen shut, heavy and hot, and it takes a few tries to make a slit wide enough to see through. Blinking several times, I produce a smidge of a tear to moisten them.

I'm laying on my back, on the floor of a room the color of chalk, like it's been bleached and is now a bit dirty. My eyes hurt from being dry, so I close them, take another hot breath, and look again, determined to find out exactly where I am. 

On my second try, I understand a simple truth that chills me to the bones and breaks my skin into goose bumps. It's not just any room I'm in, it's padded. There are a series of square pillows covering walls the color of washed out sand, reeking of synthetic leather. I'm afraid to flex my arms or legs, not willing to discover whether or not this is truly my fate; a madhouse where crazies are locked up, bundled into straightjackets that won't let them move. I concentrate on one thing at a time. I have to focus on the facts.

The room. It's the size of a typical bathroom, or a prison cell, depending on how you look at it. It's six by six by eight feet, almost a cube, and I'm smack in the middle of it. At least it's not dark. On the ceiling, about six feet above me, a single round fluorescent light shines through a net of protective wires. The light it emits is soft, as if filtered through a cloud. Everything about this room is soft—the foam on the walls, the floor under my back, even the sound. Rather, the lack of it. Each of my coughs comes out hushed and disappears into the dead silence.