The brightly lit room smelled of antiseptic and ice. It was cold. A little girl sat crosslegged in the middle of the only piece of furniture, a small bed without a headboard that looked springless and hard. Covered in white sheets, it seemed as though it was just an extension of the smooth white surfaces that made up the floors, walls, and ceiling. If there were any doors or windows, they were closed and seamlessly blended in.
The bright white light still hurt her eyes after the past few years. She kept her head- as well as the rest of herself- cocooned in one of the white sheets stripped from the bed. While her eyes were protected in the darkness where she couldn’t see the red through her eyelids, and the sheet offered a bit more warmth, her sense of smell was assaulted by a chemical odor that made her head ache all the the same.
This was how she spent day after day here. It would be nice to have a bedroom of my mine, she reflected, thinking of the colorful wallpaper and cozy images of other children in their homes. She’d seen those in the book of bedtime stories she’d taken last year. She had no idea where it was now. She felt bad, because she never returned it.
Maybe the caretakers had found them and returned them, it would be nice if they’d read those to the new ones once in a while.
Then again, they usually aren’t around for bedtime.
The little girl started to nod off in the emptiness.
The next moment. “Good morning, little bird.”
She opened her eyes to the smiling face of a woman with thick painted lips and icy eyes. Except for the lipstick, she looked as bleached out and exceptionally pristine as the rest of the environment they were in: a silvery white uniform, pale skin, platinum hair, and icy blue eyes. The pupils stood out unsettlingly like pinpricks in the irises.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the little girls’ voice was as hoarsely soft as it had ever been, as it was rarely used. There was little occasion for conversation, and talking to yourself was, in general, frowned upon here. Mental stability was a big risk factor that they monitored closely.
The smile remained perfectly balanced on the woman’s face, wide and inviting, even while she spoke. I wonder if she practices it in front of a mirror every morning. It seems very difficult…. “Well, Miss Number Three, I happened to hear a bit about your most recent escapade a little while ago…”
The little girl recoiled in instant response. She ducked down into her little nest and began to tremble out of- fear?
“Hmm, you have been learning…” the woman’s eyes took on a glassy look, “I think that stress response would make an excellent new project, I’ll have to bring it up to the team today…” It seems that, despite their dislike for test subjects to begin conversing with themselves in the absence of other human beings, they themselves find themselves to be understanding partners in discussion.
Peeking out from the sheets, up at the ceiling with only a glimpse of the woman’s hair, the girl wondered if she had forgotten about her. What a relief.
“Ah! Right! Six is still waiting!” The woman suddenly snapped her fingers and the girl dove back down in terror at the sudden movement, but there was nothing to fear. Nothing happened for a good long minute, not even indistinct self murmurings or clicking of impatient heels. She peeked out again, somewhat more boldly, and surveyed the room.
No one.
She stretched out to lie down on her back, and finding it uncomfortable, switched to curling up on her side, only to find an envelope lying next to her on the sheets. In a creamy off-white that was comforting, set against the harsh backdrop of white, upon white, it was hard to miss.
With tentative fingers, the little girl reached out and picked it up, turning it over, then over, and then over yet again. There was no visible writing on the outside.
Maybe the woman had dropped it? In fact, that was probable. The girl had never received a letter like this in her short existence thus far. And the woman hadn’t mentioned it the whole time. You’d think that a person delivering a letter wouldn’t just drop it on your bed without so much as a word dedicated to it.
I wonder what’s in it, she bit her lip, what if I open it and it really was hers? She’d be very angry, obviously. But, she was already angry, wasn’t she? Earlier? She mentioned hearing about me running away.
But that means she can’t get angrier, right?
Was that a little twinge of rebellion that she felt again?
