Inmates: X-227

Stop! Wait. Hold your breath. Your eyes. Keep them closed. Lay still. Be quiet. Your thoughts are too loud. Your heart is too scared. Shut it up, please. They'll be here any minute. Can you hear them? Go on, listen. But hurry, you have to make it quick. Can you feel them watching? ___________________________________ They're watching me. I can feel it even before I'm awake. Eyes that drag me back up, holding me by my arms as I kick and scream. I don't want to go up there, I try to yell at them. Please don't make me go. I want to stay here, where I'm safe in the darkness, and the cobwebs, and the nightmares. They throw me back regardless, of course, and it takes only seconds before I'm cognitive again. I blink once, twice, and withhold the wild urge to scramble across the bed. The realization feels like a cold blanket draped over my shoulders. I'm awake. My breaths freeze in my chest, clinging tightly to my ribs like, cold and nipped like frost, as I wait. The insistent, crazy desire to jump out of the bed and make a useless run for it makes my arms and legs tighten, coiling like springs ready to pop. They're barely held back by past-experience. Moving would only attract attention, and attention is bad. The silence, while thick and heavy on my back, is better. Safer. Solitude could be both friend and foe, but today it was a cautious companion. When a rough minute passes, I slowly exhale and the ice in my chests cracks timidly. Now don't get me wrong, I still want to jump up and scream bloody murder. But I'd rather focus on an activity that wouldn't result in my immediate extraction. So, I repeat my three self-taught instructions for situations like this. The ones I created once I realized that panicking would only entertain them. Well, I suppose they're less like instructions and more like a way of life. I definitely wouldn't have lasted so long in this crazy game of needles and isolation without them. I whisper the codes of life in my head, paranoid that even my thoughts would be picked up. Calm your body. My breathing levels to mimic the weight of sleep. With each heavy inhale I take, it builds my feigned borders of unconsciousness and reinforces the rusty joints of my rib cage. For a minute, my attempts at soothing the hysteric flight of my heart don't work. Its beating wings hit the boned bars madly, squawking and crying, demanding retribution from its cage. But, gradually, the weight of its chains manage to tug it back down and it falls obediently. Quiet and tame, as it should be. Calm your mind. I sweep up my grains of thought, piling them into my palm before I crush them together. A sandpaper lump is left behind. I rub away the bristles and ridges till it's a smoothed, well-worn rock, and I drop it back into its place. It plops back into my mind and sinks, far, far, far down where it won't whisper poisonous thoughts. Don't arouse suspicion. The coiled springs of the mattress shift and bend, becoming flimsy, bendable wire that sinks as I cautiously readjust my position, trying my best to look slack without resembling a corpse. They'd have to move me if they thought I was dead, after all. Seconds stack up, those building into minutes. The door doesn't open, the lights stay dark, and no condescending shadow stretches across the floor with instructions already falling off her tongue. Gradually, the seconds pet down my nerves and I inhale another soft, shaky breath. Maybe they didn't notice, I think, which makes time an extremely valuable thing. I slam my eyes shut and gently turn on my side, grasping blindly for unconsciousness so my feigned sleep wouldn't have to be pretend. My nightmare still lingers, floating like strands of tattered cobwebs that stick messily to the corners of my mind. They're unpleasant and gross, whispering grotesquely of the creature that once lived within their silky strings. But however bad sleep is, awake is worse. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go- The door opens at my back, quiet and gentle with a delicate swoosh. Her voice washes over my skin, making me shiver, "Nice try, 227." I grimace. How did they always know? Sitting up, disappointed in my own charade, I turn and acknowledge my Handler with a curt nod. Each of us had a different one. The door closes behind mine, sealing her in with a small click. My Handlers doesn't move. Instead, she stares, clasping her hands behind her back with a black screen tucked between the crook of her arm and torso. I try to look anywhere but at her, but when she clears her throat, it draws me up to her face where her frown leers. Her lips are a tightrope across her cheeks, obviously unimpressed with my attempted sleep as well. I don't stare for long. Maybe I can stall for a while by pretending not to see her. That might - probably not - work. But it's worth a shot. Maybe today is my lucky day. I shift on the bed, clumping my hands in my lap as I observe anything but the frown pinning me to the wall. The lights are on now, but there's only one. It's brightly enough to get most of the room but leaves dark shadows hiding in the corners. The bed was still pressed against the well, so I guess no one messed with it while I was asleep. My, my, the toilet was looking more forlorn than usual. Still positioned on the far side of the room, but the two bags of dry and wet wipes keeping it company look kind of low. That's unfortunate. Looks like nothing changed within the few measly hours I've been asleep. I still don't look at her. Maybe if I pretend she's gone, she'll take the hint and go away. After a minute into our unaddressed battle of wills, my Handler decides that mindless games are below her. "Well?" she says with a clipped voice that totters over the rope pinned to her cheeks, and I move. Sliding out of bed, I make quick work of straightening the blanket and tucking it under the mattress. This was one of the worst parts of waking up. The blanket itself is rough and grainy, woven with a texture that rubs uncomfortably against the scars on my hands. A few loose strings catch onto the scabs on my palm which stings a little. Wincing, I carefully pick them off. It might be the worst part of waking up, but I still take the time to carefully smooth the sides of the blanket, so it's even and wrinkle-free. I glance at my Handler through the corner of my eye. She watches without sympathy, but under her fabricated illusion of patience, I can easily detect growing exasperation. Her eyebrows slowly furrow into her head as her thick fingers perform a choreographed tap-dance on her knuckles. I pose a cough to hide my smile. If there was one thing this Handler lacked it was patience. But, hey, if I was going to hate the circumstances, she'll have to as well. Despite my better judgment, I drag the procedure out as long as possible. I retuck the blanket, smoothe it out again so there aren't any creases, and pee for as long as possible without it feeling too awkward with her watching. Then, and only then, do I take my place in front of her. My Handler is tall enough that I'm forced to tilt my head at an angle to meet her eyes. She's a stern looking woman, from the long brown strands of hair, pulled in a choke-hold ponytail, to the starch pressed material of her white coat. Her eyes themselves are cold and grey, giving off the warm likeness of a slab of wet concrete. Staring at her, I try not to substitute the paleness of her skin for a warmer brown color, or picture her with broader shoulders, or a small body. And I definitely try not to imagine her hair as soft black fuzz, cause that'd be bad. Don't think like this, the Workers would tell me. You have to forget before you can get past it. They say it's unhealthy to dwell on the past and that I have to move on. They're words drill into my brain, deep into my mind where they're screwed in tight. But it doesn't help. Despite their numerous scoldings, a pang of want hits me square in the chest and I feel a familiar yearning for my old Handler. Travis was always so much more fun. So much more caring. "Let's go," the stone slab says, words barely teetering past her thin lips, "they're expecting you in the Testing Room," I try not to bristle. So soon? She reaches into her pocket and reemerges with two thick, heavy white bands that are clamped tightly to my wrists. As soon as they're secured by a sharp click, a hum of warm energy vibrates throughout the metal, and not long after, a hard translucent blue shell grows outward, covering my hands. I feel a tingle of energy riding along my fingertips, dipping into the grooves of my scars, creating a sensation that is as bubbly as it is uncomfortable. With a satisfied sniff, toward the cuffs or my discomfort, I'm not entirely sure, my Handler whirls around as the cell door reopens on cue. She leaves without bothering to make sure I'll follow. I hurry after her, trying not to step on her heels. Two Fighters are waiting outside. They fall line at my side, close enough that I can easily pick up the hum of their weapons. Travis told me the guns were just a precaution, and that the Fighters were only here to make sure everything goes right. To keep me safe. "They're escorting you," he had explained when I enquired why they followed me around. "They gotta make sure you get where you need to go. Don't worry, they won't hurt you," he added with an easy, care-free smile, gently pinching my nose. "I'll make sure of it, 2TS." It was easy to believe him then. But now, without him there to take the lead, their tight-knit presence feels more claustrophobic than comforting. Kind of menacing, if I was being honest. Their arms look too tense and their guns already cocked. Backs are straight, helmets facing forward, each step is measured and synchronized. It didn't look right. I catch my warped reflection in the helmet when I glance at the one on my left. I watch as the corridor lights stretch like hot rubber across the glossy surface, reflecting the walls in a darker hue. The helmet turns to me, just slightly, and I quickly look away. I learned a long time ago to stop looking for faces behind those helmets, but sometimes it was hard not to wonder about the person beneath. If there was a person beneath. When I did spare a thought for them, I wondered what they thought of me. I wondered about the things they've seen and heard. Can't be anything good, knowing this place. Depending on who you are, I guess. To each side of me, cell doors line the wall in long, neat rows. The sleek metal frames of the doors catch the light in bright, narrow splotches, the only color in an otherwise tedious grey hallway. The lights themselves are bright, casting pale lines on the hard linoleum floors that I chase as we walk. Between the lines and my Handler, I try not to pay attention to the windows bolted beside each door. When the lines get too fast, I turn to drill my eyes between my Handler's shoulder blades, hoping to lose myself in the tame rhythm of her shifting coat. But the temptation rises despite my best efforts, and only a minute passes before I'm peeking past the coat. A frown tugs at my lips and I instantly regret looking at all when a claw of bitterness digs into my chest. I don't get a window. I shove my cuffed hands against my stomach, burrowing them into the cloth as far as they'll go without it catching my Handler's attention. I glare at the windows, then at the inmates inside, conflicted about the feelings of contempt and yearning that swish messily in my stomach. I mean, it isn't exactly their fault my window was taken, but they still get to have one. Most of the kids are asleep right about now. Most of them. My eyes forget their hidey-hole between my Handler's shoulders as we draw up to a familiar cell. A dark-skinned girl is its occupant. She's up pacing the perimeter of her room, and my contempt is instantly smothered with curiosity. Her wide, hysteric eyes trek quickly over the walls and ceiling, making her look almost deranged with the metal mask clasped over her mouth. Her gait is an awkward shuffle that has her pitching forward and jerking back to keep her balance, the type of movement no one wanted to see run at them in a dark hallway. But I suppose when your ankles are cuffed and you wear a straitjacket that tended to happen. The straitjacket itself is a blue shell similar to the one encasing my hands, only on a much larger scale. It's this girl, and one other inmate, who always managed to snag my attention. We quickly pass her cell, too quick for a good look. But the second she's almost lost from my view, her gaze flickers over to the window and our eyes lock. There's certain sharpness in her gaze, like a muzzled beast searching for imperfections in its cage. It makes me wonder if she's found any loose bars yet. The moment is fleeting before she's gone again and my eyes drop back to the floor. If I didn't know any better - and I should know better - I'd say she was almost, kind of, maybe looking at me. But that's impossible, and it's completely rational to disregard such a thought. The glass is too thick and dark to see through, even for her. But that doesn't quite explain the way her eyes followed mine. We pass a few more doors pass, coming up to the next inmate that leaves me infatuated. This one holds a quiet, lighter-skinned boy. Past the blonde hair that hangs ragged at his jawline, his lips move in a frantic whisper that bungles and totters through the air. But what really catches my attention are the dark, angry scars breaking up his smooth skin. They aren't thin and jagged like mine, but wider, thicker, and swollen red. There are a couple scars peppering his face and hands, but most of them hang from his wrists like ropes and circle his neck in a tight noose. Some of them are old and faded, while others are fresh and bright, popping with an irated red. His bed is neatly kept and completely forgotten. I've only ever seen him on the floor, usually sitting cross-legged, staring openly at the ground as the air around him shimmered. Which is where he's at now. Arcs of opalescent light twist through the air, coiling like long vines on an invisible perch. Most slither around his arms, bare centimeters from his skin, probing lightly at the arteries in his wrist and curling deftly around his neck, circling his jugular and brushing softly against his pulse. Some twist together, weaving dozens of strands into a wiggling lump that pulses with its own heartbeat. Other's flash into existence, writhing in the air, before dissolving seconds after its creation. He's always in the same place whenever I walked by, and I wonder if he's ever slept in that bed. Looking at the dark skin under his eyes, I wonder if he sleeps at all. We pass more cells. More kids like us. I don't pay much attention to these ones though, aside from a few sparing glances here and there. There's a shivering boy huddled in a corner of his cell, hugging his arms tightly over his shoulder as puffs of fluffy, condensed air seep from his mouth. Curling, like white smoke. There's frost on his window, creeping up steadily along the pane, digging crystals into the glass. Another little kid is turning over in her bed, wringing her little hands in agitated jerks as patches of her skin rot and wither, before healing over seconds later. A process that probably continued over and over again, even in sleep. It was funny how we all came to this place together but were strangers to each other's faces. The only times we ever got to glimpse one another is when our Handlers take us away. Well, it was the only time I ever glimpsed them at least. Either way, we don't really know each other. Just the names printed on the sleeves of our clothes. Of course, we all have other names, both self-dubbed and given by the Workers. Back there, she's the restricted lunatic. He's the insomniac boy with burns. I'm the windowless freak with scars. But our official titles, the names given to us by Doctor, are a bit more professional. The strait-jacket girl is O-219. The burned boy is X-208. I glance lightly at the black symbols printed on my own jumpsuit: X-227. Here, we're just a bunch of numbers. Anomalies spread out in long rows, put on display for the Workers to observe and test. They said it was because we were "special," but I hardly feel special. The extraordinary became ordinary when you put them in the same room. The more cells we pass the more jittery I feel. Nervous worms breach my stomach with each step taken, slowly becoming hissing snakes the longer we walk. We turn down different hallways, go up through the elevator, walk down more halls, and turn around more corners. I know where we're going, but a part of me hopes, pleads, that maybe its different this time. Those hopes fall dead with atrophy though when the cells are left behind and we descend down an unpleasantly familiar corridor. The door at the end is thick metal with the words: Testing Room, stamped in bolded red letters on the front. The snakes bite at the walls of my stomach, seeking an escape that won't come. I don't realize I slowed my pace until a gun nozzle jabs me between the shoulders and I stumble. My Handler's aggressive hand finds the grey material of my jumpsuit, and she pushes me toward the door with an irritated mutter. She types a quick code on the access panel, and the door clicks and briskly slides open. There are Workers waiting inside, who waste no time. I'm handed obediently off to the group and within minutes I'm stripped of my jumpsuit and washed down. Immediately afterward, I'm led to a treatment table bolted in the center of the room, where several Workers buckle me down. Transmitters and wires are plastered to my temples, pulse, and nerves. When they twist my head back to clip up my ragged grown hair, I spot Fighters lining the perimeter of the room. For one brain-numbing second, I want to laugh. What do they need Fighters for? I've been safely escorted. Why else do they need to be here? But when the operating lights above me are adjusted and send small rays sliding over the long barrels of their guns, I shudder instead. I'm thankful that the strap around my head prevents me from looking around the rest of the room. I don't want to see what other monsters lurk in the shadows. Once the preparations are finished, the Workers step aside and fall in a line behind the table as someone new strides into the room. He's tall—unnaturally tall—with willow-like arms and spindly legs that are too elongated to be normal. A thin plastic hood is hooked to his lab coat, covering his head completely, while a pale green medical mask concealed the lower part of his face. Aside from his eyes, I don't know what he looks like. I doubt anyone, even the Workers, really know. The only way I can even tell he's a man is by the low, muffled bass of his voice. But I do know his name because its the only thing he's ever referred to as: Doctor. Doctor stares down at me with blue eyes, too bright and pure to belong in a place like this. He bends down to my level; actions slow and steady, with a voice as dreadfully soft as the blue of his irises. "Hey there, how are you feeling today, 227?" I don't reply, nor does he expect an answer. He glanced down at the straps, unperturbed by my silence. "Oh," he tsks in concern, "I hope they didn't tighten these too much. We've got to keep that blood flowing, huh," Skinny fingers curl around the plastic strap pinning my wrist, tugging on it lightly until the pressure is relieved. I try not to flinch as his rubber gloves rub against the scabbed scar on my palm. Doctor does the same to my other wrist, then the ones around my ankles, and finally the one around my neck. He leaves the strap on my head the same. I stare at the ceiling until he's done, trying my hardest not to bite at his fingers when they get too close. Once he believes I'm "better," he straightens to his full towering height and addresses the leading Worker. They discuss my health state, but I drown out their words to focus on calming my sputtering heart. Calm your body. I feel both jittery and dead. Can something feel jittery and dread at the same time? It should cancel out, but its the only way to describe the way adrenaline climbs through my skin as the rest of my insides flop and freeze. So, maybe half-dead. Dread rolls around in my stomach, crushing the snakes. My fingers rub lightly against the padded table, but it does little to soothe my nerves. Maybe I should try calming my mind first. But it's rippling and splashing. The water is disturbed with every shaky breathe I take. It drips down, falling behind my eyes and makes them blurr. No amount of calming my mind, body, actions, counting to 10, or wishing that Travis was here was going to help. It never did. I barely manage to get my heart to land before Doctor is back over me with a needle, and sends it sky-rocketing again. He repeats the same seven gentle words he always used before an injection. "This will only hurt for a second." Then the needle is there, probing against the skin of my neck. When the point sinks in I only wince a little. But no matter how many times I feel it, I don't think I'll ever get used to the overwhelming crash of dizziness that makes my vision trip and sends me face-planting into nausea. Fortunately, it's over within seconds. Unfortunately, darkness eats away my consciousness like a starved animal. It's sad how the drug eats better than I do. With another shaky breath, I let it devour me. A/N: This is chapter 1 of 5 parts.