This is part one, so it doesn't kick off that much until the next part (if I decide to continue). If you think it is awful, I will instantly forget the work.
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I can remember the crash. I remember two screams (mine? Or maybe two of the passengers?) and someone shouting, “Oh my God!” (was that me?) I remember the way I tried to swerve around, avoid the other car. And the shudder of impact... I felt the car crumple in on itself. I felt myself judder forward, smashing through the glass.
I should be dead.
Lights. White, blue, a shade of mint-green. Cooling colors. Shallow breaths.
“We’re losing him.”
I shouldn’t even be breathing. That’s a nice thing to think about. I wish there was a mirror. Although, judging by the feeling of harsh cuts, chunks of me mauled out, the cool, refrigerated air sweeping on raw flesh, I’m not sure I’d want to look at it.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. That’s what I hear; beeping. The monotony of beeping is quite OK, if not pleasant. I start counting the seconds between beeps.
“We’re going to have to put him on stasis.”
Beep. One, two- Beep. One, two- Beep. One- Beep. One, two- Beep.
“Are you sure?”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Positive. We can put in the other fixtures later.”
Beep, beep, beep, beep. The beeps are getting faster.
“We’re lucky that he’s still alive.”
Still alive... I wish I could know that for sure.
Am I alive?
My eyes open and I see an angel.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Oscar.” That I can remember. That’s what I can remember about me. My name. Which is Oscar.
Wait. Not an angel. A man, white coat; trim beard, short auburn hair, a strong nose; intelligent looking. I think I remember him. Do I? Don’t I?
“What do you remember?”
That’s easy; “The crash.”
“Anything else?”
“Oscar. Sixteen years old. Sister. Lights. Beeping.” Is this even my voice? It sounds soft and cold, a dry whisper. I don’t remember speaking like this.
“Do you remember becoming a donor for the MechaNet Corporation?”
“No.” MechaNet... It does sound familiar, though... Or is it just because the somewhat-familiar man said it?
“Do you remember me?”
“I know your face.” Not his name.
“Well, that’s a start.”
“Where am I?”
No answer. He’s walking away. Vision dims. Eyelids close... Hello, darkness.
Hands shake me awake. My eyes open wide, and my arm lunges for whoever is waking me. No luck. The person’s hand grasps the arm, and squeezes it. Circulation slows. Numb, aching.
“Next time, I will rip it off and keep it as a candleholder. Got that?” the owner of the hand, a girl snaps, lifting me up onto my feet.
I’m in a gray-white room. I look back to a gray and blue spring bed, sharp, uncomfortable-looking. Still, I’ve slept in it for-
“How long have I been here?” I ask. I’m relieved to find that my voice is less dry, more... normal; though wheezy, it sounds like how I imagined... remembered my voice would sound.
“How the hell should I know? I’m not your mother,” she retorts.
“Still,” she drawls, “I’d say about a month, because for a whole week Stasis was occupied. And it takes about two weeks to get the fixtures in. And around four days for recovery. Did you get that, or do I have to say it again?”
A pause as I took her speech in. I didn’t get it, but I felt that she would sneer and sigh if I asked her to explain what that was all about.
“Your name’s Oscar, right?” she murmurs, softly. That puzzled me. I was under the impression that she was snide, rude, and incapable of talking without smirking. “Do you remember your last name?”
I shake my head. She frowns, her silver-gray eyes meeting my pair.
“Welcome to purgatory, Oscar. May it never become hell for you,” she whispers. As this sinks in, she turns around, facing a metal, steel-blue door.
“Come on. The Doctor’s expecting us.”
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