#☀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴍy ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄʀy ⇾ drabble.

[florafounda]

WHAT’S IN A NAME? | Pt. 1

Warnings for Medical atmosphere, Psychological Torture, Child Abuse and Gaslighting

“The Tower? Kit, what was the Tower?”

She barely remembered it, a nightmare long past, but the word brought the taste of copper to her tongue, and she cowered before it like a frightened child. 

She woke up freezing, wearing nothing but a hospital robe that barely covered her knees. She was lying on the familiar post-operative gurney feeling as sluggish as she usually did after her surgeries. The scanner against her skin was just as cold, clutching to her temple and forehead like a head-sized wrench.

Every thirty-seven – she’d counted – seconds it beeped, a noise that gratingly echoed in her ears like a knife being stabbed into them. Too tight and too loud, the girl wanted nothing more than to rip the contraption from her head, but the operation had made her tired. She literally didn’t have the energy to move. Moving her hand – which she hadn’t noticed she’d been doing – took everything out of her.

The girl heard the sounds of pen scribbling on paper, the movement of a rolling chair across the floor. This wasn’t the first post-operative recovery she’d had. She knew right now they were watching her vitals, watching her brain waves, making sure everything in her brain hadn’t turned to complete mush.

It felt like it. Her brain felt like cotton and her vision blurred as she stared at her splayed fingers.

“Subject Zero? Is something wrong?”

Subject Zero…No that wasn’t right. No. Her name. Her name was something else. She had a name. A real name. Not just a title, not just what Oliver liked to call her. A real, true name.

The nightmares lately had been getting worse. Another name on her lips when she wakes. She was starting to get confused about a lot of things.

“My name…” she murmured.

“Subject Zero, look at me.”

A light flashed in her eyes checking her pupils. She assumed they worked properly by the way the doctor ‘hmmed’ above her.

“My name is Sophie,” she finally managed, “Sophie Poole.”

The doctor froze, lips pursed tight. “No, it’s not,” he said, in a way one chastises a child. “Subject Zero, can you sit up?”

“I…don’t think I can.”

She tried anyway, because the doctor would force her into the position whether she liked it or not. It was like moving through water or perhaps more like mud, sloshing around and struggling to move forward. But she made it into an upright position, though she swayed in place, nevertheless.

The girl looked around the room but everything was too blurry to make out.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Post-op fuzziness – it will pass.”

She stared again at her fingers, counting them as if expecting one to be missing. Her name…Why did she keep coming back to that? The beeping behind her ear seemed to drown out any other thoughts, bringing her back around to the same thing. Who was she? Subject Zero? No? No!

“My name is Sophie,” she said again, firmer and this time she made eye contact with the doctor as she said it.

“You are not Sophie,” the doctor chided, peering over his glasses as if she was doing something wrong.

“I was….,” she trailed off, staring at her fingers again, mulling over the cotton that was her brain, “I am. I am Sophie.” She let the words fall from her lips softly as if it could call her old self back to her body, as if she’s been lost to the stars and nothing more.

“Subject Zero—”

“No—I don’t want to do this anymore.”

She knew she’d said something wrong the minute the doctor paused in his movements. “I’m tired,” she added, in some attempt to lighten the words coming next.

“Just a little more Subject—”

“I’m Sophie!” she protested loudly.

The beeping behind her ear was growing more incessant and Kit felt the need to raise her voice to be heard over it. “I’m Sophie!” she repeated, “Sophie. Sophie. Sophi—”

That was the last straw. The doctor slammed his clipboard down onto the counter making the young girl jump. She stumbled to the floor fueled by pure adrenaline and childish rage, but her muscles could barely hold her upright. Her eyes were wide with fear, breath coming quickly – wild like a cornered mouse as the doctor approached her.

The scanner was so loud now it was practically one singular stream of static.

“Sophie Poole was a disobedient little nuisance whose parents didn’t want her!” the doctor snapped, grabbing her by the arm, “Do you want to be disobedient? Do you want Dr. Kendrick to send you away where no one will ever want you again. He can you know.”

The girl snatched the scanner forcefully from her head with her free hand feeling it scrape some skin as it went. She ignored the pain, in simple euphoria from the relief of the lack of static. “You’re a liar! Dr. Kendrick would never—”

“He will if you don’t stop this nonsense, SUBJECT ZERO!”

Kit screamed at him as he clung to her by the arm, slamming her fists against his chest. The movements were too slow and sluggish to do any real harm, her body too exhausted. “Liar, liar, liar!”

She could not say when she actually collapsed to the floor or when she started convulsing and which one happened first. She probably fainted long before either started, the last of her energy seeping out of her with her short-lived spat at the doctor.

By the time the convulsions ended, she was trying to move again, babbling incoherently. The doctor had hit the red emergency button and a new wailing sound had begun. If she’d been more coherent, the girl would have covered her ears in annoyance. As it was, she curled her legs towards her stomach, moaning. Everything in her body felt wrong, it didn’t feel like it belonged to her, too far away.

The convulsions started again, conscious lost in a tirade of darkness.

As several agents flooded in the doctor directed them to get the girl off the floor and back onto the gurney as he readied what he needed for an IV. “After I get her stabilized, she needs to be put through conditioning again.”

One of the agents – newer to the crew and possibly on his last day – had his eyes glued on the seizing child, frozen, horror evident on his features. The Commander pretended he did not see, pretended everything was fine, pretend, all he had to do was pretend he was apathetic and all would be okay. For everyone.

“Conditioning? Sir, in her state?”

“This, Commander?” The doctor quirked his head towards the girl as her second set of seizures came to an end. “Is simply a child throwing a tantrum.”

The doctor gestured at the commander to hold her arm up for him. Preston hesitated before moving forward and doing as he was directed. Stay quiet, keep your mouth shut. That was the way things were done here. No one asked questions about the tiny girl seizing on the table. No one protested what they were doing. No one—

“Sir, please…Conditioning? After an operation?”

“Commander, need I remind you what happened the last time someone started asking too many questions?”

“No…sir.”

“Good. Anyway, she will be more moldable in this state anyway. Perhaps it will finally take. Perhaps she will finally learn what she is now.”

Kit was still now, breath coming in shallow gasps, face white as a sheet. She did not move as the doctor had placed the IV or when he hung the fluids above her. Her eyes were opening, blearily trying to take in everything around her. But it was far too bright and she shut them again. Shut it all out.

The last thing she heard were the doctor’s words, “Give her an hour for the fluids to get into her system then escort her to the Tower.”

She didn’t have the strength to panic or run. Only slip away yet again into darkness.

[florafounda]

Day 1 - Introduction

Kit sits, perched on the wall, watching the water below roar past her. The rain was gone, but her hair was still wet. She hated it, hated the wet, sticky feeling of it on the back of her neck. She had tried to hide from the rain, but the bridge had only protected her so much before the rising waters had sent her running to higher ground.

Now she perched, waiting for something.

She didn’t know what she was waiting for – perhaps the waters to recede so she could cross the flooded bridge safely. She shouldn’t have to wait much longer. She was able to currently perch in her precarious position without the waters lapping at her ankles.

A soft noise caught her attention and she turned to see a little gray tabby cat meandering across the stone wall. “Oh hello!”

Kit softly cooed at the cat, clicking her tongue. The cat hurried its little steps towards her, releasing a loud enthusiastic meow. “Lovely to meet you! I’m Kit.”

The meowing seemed conversative – an answer and Kit nodded emphatically catching sight of a collar. Shade. “Cute name…” she said, giving a meow back in return. The cat allowed her to scratch its chin, turning its head to guide her careful fingers to its cheek and then down its neck. “Are you also waiting for the bridge to dry?”

Though the cat meowed yet again, Kit did not feel like it was answering her question this time and sighed. “I suppose not, I’m sure you’ve got a home somewhere. Someone feeding you?” The cat stared with wide yellow eyes and Kit felt the vibration of a purr beneath her fingers. “That’s alright. We all deserve a home. I’m glad you’re not alone.”

[florafounda]

SHATTER. | A Drabble

CW: unreality / fugue state, blood, warped self image

The shower is a relaxing warmth I rarely experience, particularly in the recent cold snap of the month. Aches that have sunk into the bones seem to seep away and I watch the drain steal it all away like a thief. I catch myself watching how the water spins and spins and spins – down and away. Nothing like a river, I think absently, though I’m not sure why I think such a thing at all.

I do not want to leave the warmth, but I’m hyperaware of how long I’ve been in this one place. The faint urgency is there, as it always is, at the forefront of my mind, pushing and pushing and pushing me onwards. The shower is simply a foolish indulgence I have allowed.

I tell myself it’s a good idea. We stand out less after a shower.

The water comes to a stop, but honestly, I do not remember touching the handles. I continue to stand there for several moments as the water drips from the skin. A neat pile of leaves has collected at the drain and the water pools in puddles around my feet, blocked from its escape. Most of the shower had been spent working the debris from the hair and now the locks cascade across the neck uncomfortably. It tickles where it lay, but a deep part of me knows she will love what it means.

I am yet again aware how loathe I am to leave, to step into the cold rushing under the sliding glass. But I must. And it hits me, a gust of cooler air built up beyond the glass and I suppress a shiver. Worse yet, I feel the aches – the pain that accompanies the body – already beginning to crawl across the bones yet again. It’s probably my imagination though. The cold must be worse than a little chill to hurt us. But outside – that is a different story.

I plan to take us far away from here. I have tropical locales in mind, but more than likely I will simply find somewhere further south.

The other side of the glass is as I have left it. Our bag has been sat as far away from the door, but equally as far from the shower itself. Stolen clothes are neatly folded on the counter opposite the toilet and a towel awaits my hand to the side of the shower door. As I reach for it, movement catches my eye and I freeze in place.

The mirror must have an antifog coating because I can see the reflection staring back at me clearly. But its familiarity does not encourage me to relax. If anything, I am now frozen in place, an unknown emotion battling within me.

She is but a waif of a thing.

Skin holds to bone in thin layers that are too far stretched across the lanky body. For her age, she’s a short little girl, but for her body she seems too long overall. There’s the barest sight of muscle in her arms and thighs, thick enough to hide the bones, but thin enough to wrap an entire hand around. She has been bruised this way before and I blink with pain at the memories I call forth.

Under her too-small breasts, her ribs are visible with each one individually countable by anyone looking close enough and I am looking far too closely than I’m comfortable with. Better than the last time I saw her, I think to myself. But not enough. Never enough. She never puts on enough weight. Never eats enough to please the machines.

Her hair too, even cleansed and wet, looks dirty and messy. I know she must get it cut to make it look right, but she will not. Never again. It is her pride and joy to feel the locks of red in her tiny fingers.

The fingers – the scarring there is bright and pink in the too bright florescent. The telltale signs of WORSE scarring shine on the side of her neck, the barest visage of raised skin and red welting. And I know they travel down her back in a library of horror I do not want to read ever again.

The emaciated form reaches for the towel I am touching. I expect our fingers to meet, to touch. But there is only one hand.

And it belongs to her.

To me. To her. To me. To he—

I wrestle with the identity of the hand back and forth for several moments until it is basically redundant to use the towel at all. WE step out of the shower, the form following my movements with her nervous, uncoordinated gait, all but teetering on one foot as she stands there.

I reach up to touch the hair and so too does she.

The building EMOTION in my chest threatens to explode and I have yet to identify it.

“Stop it.”

No one answers, but the girl’s lips move to mock me.

And in that moment the cruelty of her childishness sparks into flame against the tinder of emotion.

I do not recognize the pain, only the sound as glass shatters around a fist. I peer into the cracks now stained with blood and I see her. I see her and me and her and me. I see a dozen of us.

And then just like that the emotions are gone as if they never existed at all. I am but a shell now and compared to the explosion from moments before – I like this better. I patiently pluck out glass shards from my knuckles and wash my hands as if part of my post-shower routine.

I collect the pendrive and hang it around my neck, then I clothe myself. The fabric is soft across my skin and I appreciate the choice I have made. I heft my bag onto my shoulder and look back at the mirror. She stares back silently at me through the cracks.

“I’m sorry.”

She does not answer and I don’t say anything else.

We are silent.

[florafounda]

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