Half Life

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

            I have my launcher charged, and am about to fire when one of the shouting voices stands out above the others.

            “Rennah, what are you doing?”

            I close my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Now he chooses to come back and find me? I swivel around to face him. He’s changed out of his lab coat into more casual slacks and a dress shirt. He looks as if he has been in a meeting of some sort. His gray hair has been combed over and his glasses freshly cleaned. He gives me the same bland smile that I’m sure will eventually stay stuck to his face.

            “Lower the weapon, please. There is no need to be so hostile. We’re all friends here, we only want to help you.”

            I stand paralyzed on the spot. I debate. He did save my life……half of it. But he left me alone, locked in a closet of a room, with a million questions burning in my head. I never stay in one place for very long. That was a big no-no.

            I don’t lower my arm, but I do step away from the wall.

            Apparently this satisfies him because he instantly walks over to me. He walks with a slight lurch, like his spine isn’t correctly aligned. Every step he takes looks slightly pained, like he has a wound that never fully healed. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier.

            “Rennah, I’m afraid we all got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry I left you back in the testing room alone. We will try and be as hospitable as possible, you are our guest. Here, would you like to look around?”

            There’s nothing I would detest more than to see the wacked up instruments and people used to make me the freak that I am, thanks.

            “Sure,” my voice betrays me.

            The Cheshire cat-ness comes back for a moment.

            “I’m pleased to find you still have curiosity and good judgment.”

            Not so sure about the good judgment thing, but I follow him anyway as he heads down the hallway to our left. I look back and can see the other scientists all staring at me, examining. Most of them are looking at my arm cannon, which is smoking slightly at the tip. Others are averting my eyes, but observing me none the less. But the ones that get to me are the people who are looking straight into my eyes, stirring through my soul as if to say, You’re a freak, and we don’t trust you. The ironic thing is, they made me this way. They would know whether or not I was to be trusted, and I should be the one second-guessing them.

            I think about this. If they’re afraid of me, that means there must be a reason to. I quickly jerk my head back forward. I hate those looks on their faces. I hate that they are afraid of me and don’t trust me.

            I hate that they might be right.

            I am barely listening as we tour through room after whitewashed room, each looking more sinister than the last. There are rows and rows of medical instruments with sharp edges and unknown purposes. Purposes I hope I never have to find out. They send the same icy chill down each of my vertebrae that the doctor’s face does.

            When we enter each room, all looking the exact same just under different names, the doctor takes notes. I can hear the pen scratching the surface of the paper right behind me. What he could possibly be writing down escapes me. Every time I glance back at him, though, he stops writing. This is sort of concerning.