When I woke up in the white room it was odd. Everything was simple and futuristic in a way, it was a decent complex. We had a living room which upon opening the sealed door was first in sight. The kitchen to the right, clean and packed with all sorts of quality food. The bathroom to the left of the living room, it was big given a shower and bathtub. Two bedrooms, I hardly spend time in mine I sleep in the living room. The boy however uses his often, I've never been in that room. We don't have any windows we do have a Ordac, it plays lovely music.
Our ceiling was a enormous window, a magic barrier kept us sealed inside and everything outside. Our source of light during the day and candles during the night.
On the wall in center of the living room we had a blank canvas, but due to some circumstances I had to paint a red tree.
The couches were a dark brown, the shade of an old tree stump. The floor was cold white stone, so were the walls and most furniture. When I woke up, the boy was no where to be seen. It wasn't until after I finished exploring that I peeked under a closed door, I saw a pale foot hanging off a bed.
The room that was meant for me had a bed, a small desk with paint stored inside, along with pairing utensils. I had a closet with the same dress on twenty different shelves. Immediately I remember not liking the room so I moved all the utensils and my desk to the corner of the living room. I'd only come into my room for a new change of clothes. What was odd was there was no undergarments.
The first night there I fell asleep on the couch, early in the following mornings I'd hear the sealed door open his footsteps then the doors would close. He'd avoid me in the first few weeks, then I woke in the middle of the night.
He was grasping my ankle in a tight grip violently shaking me awake. Waking up in a gasp I couldn't see much in the dark, I would rely on the moonlight at night yet even on this dark night I could see all the blood dripping on the floor and all over the boy.
He was trembling, his skin was cold he tried so hard to hold in his painful grunts with his free hand he held onto his abdomen. Squinting my eyes I could see a deep wide gash as the main source of the blood. He wanted me to help him, so I did. I tried to get up to grab towels from the bathroom but he yanked me down. Instead he pulled me into a tight hug, cold metal touched my skin immediately lifting the hairs on my arm.
I wanted to scream and yell at him, that a hug doesn't stitch a wound that a hug would not save his life. He was wearing what a soldier would wear, combat gear. I'd never ask where he went, what he know about this place, why he doesn't talk, why he avoids me, what does he do? Does he work for these people? Who are these people?
I held onto him tightly, much like the first time. The hours past and dawn came. His pants quieted down, the grip on me loosened, the painful yelps stopped, and so did the blood. Meanwhile I rubbed his back and massaged his head softly, when it was time to let go I leaned back.
The wound was completely gone, only the dry blood remained as proof there was even one to begin with.
That's what I thought would be it.
I thought I was just there to heal him. To help him get back into the battle field and make his people satisfied. I gave up the hope anybody was coming for me, that I was going to get out. What good would it be if I cried every night and day, screamed to let me out? I'll admit still I was afraid then, when was it going to be my last night? Are they going to come in here?
We learned our bodies healed when we were together, in close touch skin to skin. Only leaving the mess to clean, I remember going to the kitchen and slicing my skin in eight different ways. Pulling him into a hug, no less than three minutes later they were completely gone.
You'd think we'd be chatty and friendly with one another after months of holding onto each other with our bare bodies. We never spoke to each other, we eat together, sometimes sleep, none of us tried to get to know each other.
I thought that's all it was to this. I thought my only role was to heal him and his to do what he does. But then I woke up one day in a cold dark room, my legs and arms latched into a lock on a cold metal table.
The lights blinded me for a second when they flashed on, then people in uniforms poured into the room. Quickly I learned they were students, and a professor amongst them. Dr. Harvey was showing them the ways of poison and medicine.
How the body reacts to poison how to heal the body how long each medicine and poison takes. My role was to be a lab rat. Slowly as the months went on weekly I was brought into the lab seeing less or new students. Each time the professor was more aggravated whenever his students failed, his son Patrick especially. He didn't belong in the lab, his skills were as poor as it could be and the poor soul tried so hard yet hardly succeeded.
Everything I picked up on everything, listening to everything they said and answering their questions when necessary with short responses. How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Do you feel better? How long did it take? I learned the ways of poison and herbs the way of medicine. When I'd wake in my room the first thing I'd do is write down anything I learned in a journal.
Sometimes I'd stay days in the lab waiting for the poison to fully settle in or most of the time failed treatment to go into full effect. Those days I'd lay alone, nor thinking or sleeping just laying there. At times when I'd come into the white room the boy would be bleeding out onto the couch or passed out on the floor. Then I'd lay with him and wait for both of us to heal and fully restore our energy.
The boy would be gone for short amounts of time daily. That was a hear ago, recently he'd be gone for longer. For weeks at a time. I'd spend my time painting or revising my journal, I'd make a meal for us eating my share alone in case if he were to come. Sometimes we'd eat together when it would get really tough for the both of us. A silent way to comfort ourselves, though that has been happening a lot recently.
