A Beautiful Reflection From Firework Eyes

At The Edge Of The Blackness

(Five months ago)

I'm not certain how much time passes. All I remember are flashes of bright lights, interrupting the sweet cold darkness. There are voices around me, but I can't quite make out what they're saying. I hear the beeping of machines around me. Cold air presses against my skin, something uncomfortable in the crook of my right arm. There's something on the lower half of my face, rough plastic pressing against my skin. I try to open my eyes, but I can't—it's like they've been sealed shut. Panic thrums through me as I struggle to sit up, but something holds me down. Jaime. What happened? Something bad—that's all I know. My memories are fuzzy—it's like my brain is filled with cotton. I can't quite remember. There was a hallway. Gunshots. A lot of blood.

"He's waking up—" A voice goes in and out.

"Put him back under." a different voice says. I try to protest, but cold rushes through my veins, and there's nothing.

---

I wake up in my room. For a moment, I just lie there, groggily staring at the familiar ceiling over my bunk. How I got here, I'm not quite sure. All I remember is the hallway, and.... Fear flashes through me as I struggle to sit up, gasping as pain twinges in my front. It's not as bad as I thought it would be, though I'm probably pumped with so many painkillers I'm not quite seeing straight.

Jaime. The name cuts through the fog in my mind. My heart races as I scan the room, stopping in surprise as my eyes land on a figure across from me.

There's another person in my room. Mr. Styles is sitting on the other bed—on Jaime's bed, watching me. I stare at him in shock for a few moments, forgetting what I was going to stay. He is keeping watch over me as if he cares whether I live or die. I almost laugh at the thought. Am I still asleep? I wouldn't be surprised if I was.

"Where is he?" I ask, my voice hoarse. "What did you do with him?"

Mr. Styles ignores my question. "You cared about him, don't you?" he says softly.

"Where is he?" I ask again, my voice rising. "Where the fuck is he?"

Mr. Styles winces. "Calm down," he says. "Vic, you're probably still in shock. Not to mention pumped with painkillers. You need to calm down." My heart is racing so fast, pounding in my ears that I don't even register the fact that he said my name. Not my number. My name.

"You killed him, didn't you," I say, my voice strangled. My fingers grip the blankets beneath me. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Mr. Styles looks like he wants to say something else, a strange emotion flashing across his face. But he swallows, looking down. "Yes."

Hearing him admit sucks the air from my lungs. I can't see anything as the world goes gray around me, fading away. I can't breathe—my heart is the only thing I can hear—a pounding in my ears. I want to throw up or scream or cry, but I can't seem to do anything. He's gone. Jaime's gone. I feel myself falling, pain slicing through my abdomen.

I'm lying back on my bed before I realize it, Mr. Styles standing above me. He must have caught me when I fell. For some reason, the thought of that makes my skin crawl, disgust flaring in my mind.

"Why am I still alive?" I ask. "I tried to escape. You should have killed me too."

Mr. Styles frowns. "I don't think you quite remember," he says. "You were half-conscious. M-26 held you hostage to try to escape. When he was caught by the guards, he threatened to shoot you." So Jaime's plan had worked after all. The knowledge weighs heavily in my stomach.

"Why would you even care if I lived or died?" I ask. "You were the one who stabbed me."

"Contrary to what you think, we're not monsters," he says. "We do care about you."

"Do you?" I ask bitterly.

He frowns down at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to slap me, but he simply sighs. "It's complicated," he says. "You are important to us."

"As test subjects," I say.

"In the beginning, yes. But I care about you, M-37. I care about all of you, now that I've gotten to know you." I don't respond, just rest my head in my arms, closing my eyes. If he really cared about us, he'd let us go.

The door slams, leaving me alone in my cell. It's the first time I've been alone since I've arrived here. That's what hits me the hardest. Even when I missed my family, missed my old life, when the loneliness crept through the walls, threatening to drag me under, he was there. But now he's gone, and I'm alone again.