Promise Me | Book Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mikasa's POV

My hyperventilation will not cease: in and out my breaths will go- so fast that it's almost a painful process.
I try and grip onto something, but I can't really see. My vision is insanely blurred, and I blink hurriedly in order to clear my vision.

The ominous bright lights irritate my eyes, and I raise my arm over my head as some sort of protection.
My back aches as I lean up from the bed, then I realise my hair that travels all the way to my waist, completely uncut, untouched.

I don't know anything. I have no idea where I am, why I am here or what's going on...

I feel my eyes strain as they adjust to the beaming lights above me.
That is when I notice a thin woman sitting in front of me, a paper and board in hand, also a pencil.
She won't stop staring at me, and so I look down to my body. I am clothed in a white paper-like dress that barely reaches my knees and I can't help but have the need to pull it down, although I cannot lengthen it at all.

"Name?" She speaks, her voice being monotone. Name?
"What?" I question.
"Name."

That is when it settles in that: I don't know my name. I don't know anything.

"I don't know."
The woman returns her gaze to the clipboard and writes something, the way she moves her pen being fast with short strokes.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you remember anything?"
"No..."

She writes again.
I try to step out of the bed and place my feet on the floor; it is cold, and sends shivers up my spine. I push myself to stand and my legs feel weak and tender.
I move my right arm, then my left, then all of my fingers.
"All right, follow me, please."

I am reluctant, of course, but what exactly do I have to lose?
If I do, I have no idea what. Not a clue.

I begin to move my legs and pace behind her.
That is when I notice that my walking pace is odd- compared to hers, that is.
She walks with a certain feminity about her. I, on the other hand, take short steps with an irregular pacing.
I am not used to using my legs.

We walk into a room, where I am told to stand straight and extend my arms.
I do as she says and she throws a black sweater over and its jeans counterpart.
It's a comfortable and flexible material, and I prod it with my fingers; my nails are too long.

Speak of the devil because as soon as I point that out to myself, my nails are cut by this woman with a small and metal contraption.
I expect the process to pain me, but I am proved wrong.

I see my nails drop to the floor and as I look down she has already returned to me with scissors.
"How short would you like it?" She asks, and I appreciate that she has given me the choice.

"Medium length is fine," I say. "Thank you."
She makes her way behind me and rapidly trims away the excess hair. Along with the nails, the hair drops on the floor, but with a certain grace.

When she finishes yet again another cutting session, she stands directly in front of me and holds gently my face with her hands.
Her eyes graze all over my features, making me uncomfortable.

"You don't need make-up. You've a pretty face," states she. "You're good to go."

Good to go?

* * *

So many people, a massive crowd, sit before me, and a little lower.
I receive a large applause as soon as they see me. Some are even screaming and holding banners reading 'We Love You, Mikasa!'.