Requiem

Chapter One:

Chapter One: 

“Hm,” The doctor muses softly under his breath, “You’re looking pretty healthy. And you said you are eating right…” 

He’s a nerdy thing with large black glasses, a strangely shaped bowl cut, and skin paler than mine. His fingers are curled tightly around the sides of his clipboard, knuckles a ghastly bone white. He takes a small step back, gesturing for me to stand. 

I nod and slide off of the examination bench. 

The sound of my bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor fills the room and the doctor shuffles towards the starch white door. 

“Now it’s time for your annual check.” He smiles, almost nervously, and steps into the bleached hallway. I follow close behind. 

Once a year, all the residents of Crescent City are required to lie in this large tube-like pod. There, we are to be exposed to a large amount of radioactivity and nuclear activity. Due to the effects of World War III on our atmosphere, we are unable to go beyond the clear dome that shields Crescent City. It’s constructed out of special material made in space, called Solaris. The pods are designed to help our bodies grow accustomed to large amounts of radiation, so we will eventually be able to go outside of Crescent City. 

I wind my arms around my small, almost naked body and shiver. The thin, flimsy little blue hospital gown does little to fight against the chilly air around me. 

“Here we go.” The doctor opens a door and steps inside. He steps aside and holds the door open as I step inside. 

The room is large, starch white like everything else in this part of the city, and filled with at least a thousand Activity Pods. He points to one and allows me to move forward in front of him. 

The clear Solaris-front lifts. 

I stare inside it. 

The white cushions that surround the pod are decorated differently. Usually they're arranged like old tanning bed lights, inserted with little pockets of the air outside the dome. But these cushions remind me more of a coffin, presented like a piece of paper and are pinched together in certain spots behind little buttons. 

“Go ahead.” He ushers me inside it. 

I lift my leg and climb into it. Struggling to keep my face indifferent, I lay back and fold my arms across my chest. 

“Don’t breathe.” He warns, even though I’ve heard the instruction a thousand times before. 

We are not supposed to breathe for the first minute of the operation. They do not tell us why and I’m not entirely sure what happens if we do, but I do know they teach us from infancy how to hold our breath for more than two minutes, just for this. 

I inhale slowly. 

The top closes. The doctor’s face becomes a blur of color and my senses intensify. I am suddenly aware of the crisp, artificial air that fills the pod, streaming through the small fake-buttons. The sound of the air swishing through the tiny vents seems to amplify in my ears, blocking all coherent thought. 

I close my eyes. 

My heart still beats. The gentle thudding grows louder with each passing second, pulsing viciously behind my ears, and yet my chest is still. 

And I begin to fade. 

*~*~*~*~*

When I come to, the back of my eyelids are a bright yellow -meaning I am looking directly at a light of some sort. Carefully, my hand lifts and feels around, but I don’t feel the top of the Activity Pod. “Is it morning already?” I yawn sarcastically. My eyelids are still glued shut as I start to sit up. But no one laughs at my remark. Instead, everything remains eerily silent.