Programmed Not To Live

One: Waken Up

It was the pain that woke me up. It advanced through my upper shoulder, stealing my breath. It was a rolling kind of pain that fights for strength. I sat up to fight it. My eyes blinked haltingly, as my fingers fingered the linen underneath me. The door to my right that I hadn't noticed flew open, and someone in a white robe and smoke mask leaned over me. 

"Can you hear me?" it said, muffled and unintelligible. 

"Yes," I said, hardened by the pressure on my shoulder blade. His gloved hand felt for my pulse, and I let him, though I didn't like to be touched. Finally, he let go and stepped back. His eyes were brown and held an element of professional seriousness.

"Can you tell me your name?" the man in white asked.

My brain fought to tell me. There was only one answer: I can't remember it. 

"Sorry, no I can't," I said.

He looked disappointed, then went back to the door and went out. I stared at where he had gone, then moved back onto the bed and steeled myself against the pain. If I kept my knees up, they calmed me down and slowed my blood pressure. I glanced up at the whitened roof and realized it was a white tomb I was sitting in. This was certainly pleasant, I told myself sarcastically. I hated prisons.

I remembered why, too. They were a symbol of what I had been for years under my father's roof. He was an abusive man, killing my mother at a young age by treating her so roughly. He broke my ribs once, trying to teach me a lesson of listening to authority. I learned to hate it.

After a minute, I stood up and walked to the door. There was a long hallway outside, filled with people. There was a tight group of family, I guessed, standing hopelessly in each others arms. Someone they loved had died.

I walked down the hallway towards them, ignoring the scanty feel of the hospital robe around my thighs. My shoulder screamed as I walked. I needed to rest it, but I wanted to see humans again. I met the eyes of one of the people standing against the wall. He just didn't seem like he belonged there, leaning back with his arms crossed, and wearing a jacket that told what street gang he was from. 

Our eyes held for far too long. I looked away when I grew uncomfortable, and walked past him. There were more people in different rooms, sitting in beds, some of them talking with loved ones. None of them saw me, walking by, looking just like one of them with my shoulders plastered up in a white hump.

Then someone bumped into me. My hands shot up and caught the person. For a second I wanted to push them back and free myself from the contact. Then I saw it was a middle-aged man, and there was fear in his eyes. I immediately looked down and saw the crutches propped under his arms. I quickly steadied him, lifting him up with all my strength. He regained his balance with my help, but my shoulder felt someone had lit it on fire.

I turned back to head to my room, not even speaking to the man I had helped. He stared at me from a pale face as I walked back. I only got four feet away. The young man in the leather jacket stopped me.

At first I grew annoyed that he had stepped in my way, but then I noticed the alert look in his eyes, the way his lips disappeared from aggression. I saw a threat in his stance and backed up, feeling alarm squish my gut. 

That was when I saw him looking past me. He reached out and grabbed my hand, whipping me around to stand behind his right shoulder. My body wanted to fall from the momentum, but the young man held onto me with a stiff arm. He wore palm gloves they itched my skin, but I knew I couldn't let go. 

I was taller than the young man, and easily looked over his shoulder. There were four men standing in the open doors at the end of the long hallway we were facing down. The young man stood up to them like they meant to kill us. Then I saw the dread in the eyes of the other people waiting. The men wore black, their faces were emotionless, and there were guns strapped to their belts.