Subject One

I. Dark

I am alive, conscious, but I can't see. There is air in my lungs but I can't feel. There is blood in my veins but it does not rush, it settles deep into the marrow and stays there, stagnant as the muscles in my flesh. I breathe out and try to take another breath, but the air never returns to sender. Bubbles. Desperate urge of panic. I will die again. Will that blackness be worse than this one? I never should have killed myself.

My nails scratch overhead, hitting hard plastic. A plastic coffin. I still cannot see, but I have my sense of touch now, and what I feel, burns. My lungs. Come on, breathe. Breathe. Thrashing, if only to capture the ear of someone kind enough to lend a hand. Please, I'd do anything for my eyes, anything to make this burning sensation go away, anything for even a bated breath.

Just when my limbs grow limp, a muted light casts on the plastic coffin before a blinding beam pierces my retinas. Sense of freedom. I shoot upwards into a sitting position. Sight, but it's blinding. Too bright. I feel something reach into my mouth and yank out a globby piece of gel. My airway clears, and my lungs take in that breath I prayed for. Sight still hasn't blessed me but my ears pick up a gruff male voice.

"What the hell, how could this happen?"

"I don't know... maybe some wiring in her chamber fried during the last shift." This voice is feminine and airy. Warm hands touch my cold, goopey skin. I can feel.

"Whatever. Check the vitals, then put it back down."

"I can't do that. It might go into shock and we can't afford to lose more."

A sigh. "Alright. Just check the vitals and try to keep it calm. I've already dealt with enough bullshit today. I can't have this one shedding tears on me."

"Yes, doctor."

I try to speak up, but I don't have control of my vocal cords. Slowly, my surroundings become known. The blinding white light recedes into colors and vague shapes. Gray, soft blue, and black. A long hallway. There are small dots of floating shapes along the walls. Dark gray silhouettes shrouded by a misted glaze.

"Hello?" The airy voice asks while I feel pressure on my wrist and then the side of my neck. "Are you conscious?"

I blink, and a face slowly morphs into view. A round face with full lips and a mouth that is missing a tooth on the right side. Long, red hair, pulled back from her face and tied up. Brown eyes.

Vocal cords quiver, but I can't speak yet.

"Here," The young woman hovers a glass rimmed with silver, swirling liquid in front of my face. I stare at it as the woman tilts my head back and fills my mouth with the concoction, which I swallow instinctually. It's clear, crisp, and delicious, but when the cup is empty I notice a very peculiar aftertaste, like I just swallowed a pill dry. Am I in a hospital? I thought hospitals were eradicated years ago. I cough. The liquid seems to have helped immensely and I can feel the muscles in my throat come back to life. My brain, however, feels like it's full of television static. Cold, buzzing, confusion. Have I always been this way? I can only think of simple things to say.

"Am I in a hospital?" I ask, my voice jagged and rusty in a way that's unfamiliar.

"Yes," The woman sets the empty cup down on a metal cart by her side.

"I killed myself." The last thing I remember is pain in my bones and then darkness.

"Yes, you did." The nurse says with a bubbliness but slight annoyance in her voice. She's wearing straight-legged gray pants and a black scrub shirt. The shirt is frayed, as if it has been scrubbed many times over.