The Procedurals

Chapter Six

\\ Flora Tinley

Magic. There must be some kind of magic all around, some kind of spell on me. I'm trapped in a dream a nightmare a fairytale; I'm trapped in fiction.

Because my eyes are shut tight - I haven't yet opened them. But Abela is standing in front of me. I see her clear as day, as if she is really there. She can't be. She's dead.

Her arms are stretched out wide, welcoming my embrace. Welcoming my embrace but I surely cannot bring myself to welcome hers. I'm no longer screaming and gasping for breath, but my body is quivering head to toe. My skin is a collection of nothing but freckles and goosebumps.

My sister's blood is still seeping hair is still ashen paper gown is still tattered.

I'm no longer underground, collapsed on the floor of the yellow-tiled room. Millions of voices are no longer chanting into my eardrums you don't belong there.

I had closed my eyes and they are still clamped shut and yet Abela is right here in front of me. Where I should only see the black and navy stillness of my eyelids, I see my dead sister.

Black magic.

The dead weight of the silence is broken when her whimsical voice rings out, "it'll be okay, Flo. Trust me." Her words are slippery and I'm going to trip all over them. "We're getting you out of there. You're going to be safe." Somehow the atmosphere is heavier than before she spoke, suffocating me. My limbs are frozen in place.

Abela's dirty feet draw her closer to me; her fingertips are two inches from my shoulders. One inch. Zero.

"Florence," she grasps me with her cracked fingernails and, "wake up," I'm screaming again.

•••

My head is pounding and I feel ready to vomit. Again. Day two of Procedure Prep must be done by now. I'm not sure how much more I can handle. Whatever was in that purple pill, I will never let anybody shove it down my throat again.

The memories of today are hazy, but I vaguely remember something about the color red and I can recall seeing my sister, telling me you're going to be safe. Safe. I can only imagine, but even I know that was my brain's natural way of coping with the situation. Day two was definitely focused on your mental strength. I wonder what they found out about my mentality.

I'm laying down somewhere, but it doesn't feel like the metal slab that was in my room at ProcedureAid. Maybe I went completely batty while in my simulation - or whatever it was - and they had to send me away, lock me up somewhere. My eyes begin to burn with the beginnings of tears when I think about what my father would do, hearing the news. Losing his second daughter to the Procedure, losing the third and last member of his family.

No no no, I order myself to get up and finish this process. The sooner I accept it, the sooner I will recover once it's done. I'm sure of it.

My body wants to fight me, wants me to stay put right where I am and allow just a few more moments of rest. But I win and force my stiff limbs to stretch, to move, to work. I sit up, clunking my head against something hard. I still struggle to open my eyes, the lids are just too heavy and the room is just too bright.

I rub at the goose egg forming on my skull and rub my eyes until they are loose enough to pry open.

Squinting into the whiteness of the room, I find that I'm sitting on top of a bunk bed; it was the plaster ceiling that bumped my head. There are fluffy dark green sheets and blankets encasing me. The walls are relatively bare and I feel as if I am in some sort of hospital somewhere. The room is bland.