Shattered (Completed)

Chapter 3 - A Visitor

A knock shatters my dream. I take a deep breath without moving or even opening my eyes. "Come in," I say, hopefully loud enough. Whoever's knocking better have answers.  And lots of them.

I open my eyes with the door. This building must be old, as the door creaks. My first impression of the room - or just the ceiling - is vintage. I see a tint of orange, like old pages, all throughout the room. It's like the main color. Maybe something to do with the curtains and the light. The first word I think of is 'home.' It's so warm, I guess, that I instantly feel welcome here. Whether that's the theme or not I don't know.

However, I immediately shut my eyes. It's too much. I don't want to see that yet. I feel comfortable engulfed in the blackness of my eyes.  Safe. The darkness even feels familiar, as if it's been my life, what I've grown accustom to. 

"Hey, kid," says an older voice. It sounds strong and old. I don't exactly know what to make of it. "You seem a little better."

"I don't know what I used to be," I respond quietly, not risking a glance towards him. Why is he here? Does he know me, or who he thinks he knows? I could be the exact opposite of the person he thinks I am. I could be everything he knows I am. But I don't know, because I don't know who I am. Yet. As of now.

"Don't worry, it's what they did to you. They're just foolish idiots that think you shouldn't be around in the world. . ." Here, he pauses. Then his voice quiets just a bit as he says, "What's the last thing you remember, kid?" There's pressure on the bed. He's sitting beside me now. I don't open my eyes still, staring at the comforting black.

"The last thing I remember is dreaming." My voice is flat. Almost sarcastic. The dream comes back to me in a puff of smoke. It's even more distant than the dream itself. But as I tell it, it becomes clearer than the dream. Like it's happening without the blur, unlike the dream. "I was dreaming about watching a girl in a container. She was floating. The container was. . . Full of water, too. And then two people walked in. They were talking about her getting out. The female - the guy in the dream said her name was Lindsay - asked if he was scared that she would get out. He replied with no. She called him Daniel. He told her that all the stats of the girl were perfect for sustaining life within water, that she would die of age. And then the girl kinda twitched, like raising her eyebrows, and her lip twitched. They recorded it and left. Then I tried to walk out, but the doors wouldn't open, not even for me, the dreamer. And then there was noise, like something saying, 'Intruder. Lock the doors,' or something. And then I woke up." 

I take a deep breath and wait for his response.

There's a pause. He doesn't respond right away. I get rather curious of what he's thinking or what his expression is. Is he surprised? Is he thinking? Is he confused?

Curiosity overwhelms me. I open one eye and peer at him. His expression reads silent anger. He's staring at me with this hushed rage in his eyes. He doesn't seem mad at me, but some other thing. The man wears a dirty white T-shirt, with jeans that seem unclean as well. His hair is long and tied in a thin pony-tail going down his back to his mid-back. It's gray and striped with white here and there. His face is old and young, just as his voice. Serious, though, very solemn and serious, with shocking blue eyes that seem to make his face younger and more approachable.

I quickly close my eye again. Too much to take in. Again. 

He says, "That was your reality, kid. I mean, thankfully the message got to you, but. . ." He trails off. The message? What message? He must sense my confusion, because he explains. "We had some of our chemical workers - we call them the Nerds - insert some Awakening into the air in the room you were stored in. Which is basically the opposite of the Downing - if you're under the Downing, it makes you dream of reality. If you're not under the Downing, it makes you see. . . Well, it makes you see a lot of other stuff. It basically paralyzes you if you inhale it while you're awake. But we sent it through the pipe connected to your breathing mask. So you saw what was going on. It worked, I mean, you saw what was happening."

So the figure in the glass was. . . Me. I was in the glass. I was wearing the mask. I was the one the scientists were inspecting. I was the one Lindsay was scared of. I was the one with the fan of hair around my face. I was the one with the black ace tattooed over my eye. I was the one with the color-changing hair. I was the one in the glass for six years. . . Six years. That was me.

The realization hits me hard. I loose my breath and squeeze my eyes shut hard. Of course it was me. That's why the figure behind the glass twitched, that's why the glass shattered, that's why I was wet, that's why I had the mask over my mouth, that's why I don't remember anything. They gave me something to. . . Forget. 

But six years? No. The last I remember wasn't the dream. It was me being injected with the Downing. But just the needle going into my skin, not what I looked like or why or who did it. Just the needle. And that was like. . . Yesterday. Or maybe even three hours ago. Not six years. No, not six years. I wasn't unconscious in the glass for six years.

I need to explain this to myself. "They injected me with the Downing." I say slowly, then continue slowly, "They put me in a glass container. Left me in there for six years, keeping me unconscious with doses of  the Downing. Then some of your people got Awakening into my dose. I saw what was happening. And then you and others rescued me." Opening one eye slowly, I look at him again. "Is that what happened?"

The man nods once, slowly. "The call it the Cylinder. The container you were in, they called it the Cylinder. It's the specific containment they use for people like you. It's good because it has the special breathing-intake thing, where the only air it allows through is filled with the Downing. It's the only air it allows through - well, I mean, air that has chemicals in it. This is so that, if they need to kill a subject, they can give other stuff to make it happen. I don't understand why the idiots don't make it bullet proof." He sighs. Then he changes the subject. "How's your back, kiddo?" 

"Um. . ." It takes me a moment to remember that I had glass in my back. Then it takes me another moment to realize I still have questions - like why was I in the Cylinder? Did my parents really allow me to be in there? Did I even have parents? What's my name? What is this place? The questions flood me, once again, but I push them back deep into my mind again. They'll have to wait, just as most of my questions do. "No, it's fine. I don't really feel it right now. What did you do to it?"

"The doctors took out the glass, then sewed you up. The cuts were deep and large enough for that. Once the surgery was done, they made you take some pain killers, even while you were asleep. They wrapped your entire waist in bandages. So you're a little stitched up, but you can move. Just limit it." He flashes me a quick smile.

"Can I ask a question?" I ask quietly. It feels wrong - asking a question, I mean. But the situation feels wrong, too. Dang it, everything feels wrong. I just want to go back to the day where my parents said, 'Sure, put her in the Cylinder,' and then smack them both in the face. I want to keep those memories. I want to get my old life back. Everything I had before. But the past is the past, right? 

"Go ahead, kiddo, just make it quick." He checks his watch. "I've got three minutes before they need me back in the office."

I nod. Then, inhaling deeply, I sit up. My back is pressed against the pillows behind me. Now I see more vintage. More light orange. I glance around the room and take it all in quickly: one dresser, one bed, one mirror, one table, two chairs, one rug, one window, one door. The walls are actually white. As I had guessed, it was the white curtains blocking the setting sun that gave it the vintage look. 

I have to think of one question. He has to go, so I need to make it quick. I choose, "What's my name? That's all I want to know right now. My name. What is it?"

"Alexandria Paige Griffon,"

Then the man leaves. And I feel like crying.