Impractical

The Warehouse

2:4

She led me into a big room in the attic, full with machines that Dymond claimed to have made herself.

Dymond saw me looking around nervously, and opened her mouth to say something, but u cut her off.

"What are those? What do they do?" I asked, pointing like a little kid.

"None of them hurt." Like that was what I was worried about. She walked over to a flat block sort of thing in the corner of the room.

"Just stand on this." Seeing my face she added, "This is a scale. It measures your weight to make sure you're not obese or too skinny, even though I can already tell you're not, it never hurts to be safe, in case you're sucking in a hundred pounds of fat." I stepped onto the scale and numbers showed up on the little screen on it until it stopped at 89.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"You are eighty-nine pounds." No dip.

"Is that bad?"

"No, since you're tall you should actually be a little heavier than that. Which brings us to this." She gestured to a pole with a little black thing on top.

"Stand with your heels against the pole and stand up as straight as you can." She pushed the little black thing against my head and it showed I was five feet and seven inches. The rest of the machines were so high-tech, I started to doubt Dymond's claim on making them herself. One of them puffed air into my eyes and scared me so bad I jumped out of my chair, while Dymond was laughing her head off. Another scanned my leg to make sure nothing was broken and not healed correctly, Dymond thought my gait looked uneven. The rest were so numerous and strange that I barely remember them.

Dymond told me after all of that, I was perfectly healthy, but slightly nearsighted. I needed to get something called 'glasses' (something that did not exist in the city). She led me to a big room through a side door branching off the machine-filled room. It was stuffed to the brim with medical supplies and safety equipment, riddled with spare parts of metal, clothes, and shoes. All of it seemed worthless all piled together, but looking closely, nothing was old, torn or ripped. Dymond led me to one one the few shelves in the minefield of supplies. It contained an assortment of frames and other stuff for eyes, mostly eye drops for pink eye or an infection. She selected a black frame that she thought might suit my face, and popped in two lenses. "It's not very specific to your eye type, but it should help with the blurriness." She explained, placing them on my face.

Suddenly everything snapped to crystal clear. The blurry letters in the distance I could read and I could see the very little details on Dymond's face, though she was a couple feet away.

"Maybe, when we have to do certain things, I could get you contacts." She suggested.

"Wait, you mean the things I was wearing when I came here? No thanks."

"No, these contacts might look the same, but they have your prescription on it, like your glasses do. They do the same thing your glasses do, but aren't in the way so much. " Dymond explained patiently.

"Besides, if you're in a fight and someone hits your glasses, it can be really painful."

"Why?" The next thing I knew, Dymond hit my glasses so hard that I was sure that they were permanently imbedded in my nose. Despite my efforts, my eyes watered, even though I wasn't exactly crying. I asked Dymond,

"What'd you do that for?"

"So you could see what it feels like, you asked didn't you?" Dymond replied, as innocently as she could. It didn't work. Glaring at her, I pried my glasses off my face and felt the bridge of my nose before looking in the mirror.