Project HALO

Chapter 3

I have to peel my eyes open when I wake up.

I sit up slowly, lifting a hand to my head as if it'll prevent the sudden dizziness. The tiles are cold against my bare feet. I sigh and grab the glass of water next to me. Maybe I shouldn't drink it, but it doesn't smell funky and I'm too thirsty to dismiss it. My throat is so dry it hurts to swallow, but I gulp it all down anyway. It has a weird aftertaste to it, kind of coppery, but it might be my bad breath tainting my taste buds.

I put the glass down and get up from the bed. My knees wobble underneath the weight, but I manage a couple of slow steps over to the nearest wall. The room is so empty the sticky sound of skin against tiles echoes off of the bare walls.

I lean against the wall and scan the room. Where am I? The room doesn't tell me anything. I still hope this is a hospital, but deep down I know it's not. Doctors don't lock you inside a room with no windows at hospitals. They don't drug you and strap you to a chair.

And they certainly don't keep a camera in the corner of the room to watch you.

What the fuck?

I peel myself off the wall and fix my eyes on the black camera over the bed, squinting.

A red light blinks back at me.

They're watching.

I clench my teeth as a wave of heat shoots through me and settles in my head, mixing in with the nausea.

"Hey!" I yell, my voice booming in the empty room. "Let me out!"

I walk across the floor and wipe away the sweat building on my forehead, pulling it back into my greasy hair so it'll stop falling into my eyes.

"Where am I?" I heave for breath. Each time I yell, my head takes another spin, but I'm too angry to stop. "Is it fun to torture a kid?" I swallow the urge to vomit and continue, "To not answer me?"

My pace toward the camera picks up, but this only makes my vision spin faster. I stumble toward the bed and catch myself by holding on to the bedframe.

"Why..." I start, but for a while I have to close my eyes and concentrate on not being sick all over myself. Then I stare at the camera again.

"What do you want?" I don't have energy left to yell. Most of my anger has given away to a new wave of nausea. And despair. I lick my chapped lips and groan, glancing at the empty glass beside me, wishing it would fill up again.

An idea hits me.

Sure, they won't answer me. They won't tell me where I am or why I'm here. But they'll have to come feed me, or at least check on me. If I shatter the glass, I can use the broken pieces to attack them.

When they come, I'll be ready.

I reach for the glass, but as I lean toward the nightstand, the world turns and I crash to the floor. With a loud groan I roll over on my back, wiping away the sheet of sweat on my forehead. My breath is uneven and my heart hammers through my body like the bass at a concert.

"Please," I say and sound weaker than I want to admit. "My father will pay you whatever you want."

"I swear on my life," I continue when they don't answer. My father might hate me, but he would help me. He'd do it for mom. Too bad his money can't bring her back, but maybe it can get me out of here.

"My father has millions. You can have as much as you want."

The minutes roll by.

No one replies.

No one comes into the room.

My clothes stick to my body, yet goose bumps grow on my arms. Maybe they won't come get me because of the quarantine. Maybe this is nothing but a fever dream.

Maybe they've left me here to die.

"No," I hiss to myself, refusing to entertain the thought.

I grind my teeth, prop myself up on my elbows, and reach for the glass again. This time, I manage to knock it over. It smashes against the tiles, the harsh and violent sound of shattering glass warmly welcomed. Shards fly in my direction, some leaving tiny cuts on my left arm. I grab one of the bigger pieces and hold it in my hand, careful not to keep tightening my fists.

Now, I wait.

I grip the bedframe and try to hoist myself up. It doesn't work. Instead, the sickness I've been suppressing bubbles loudly in my stomach. I can't keep it down anymore. I rush to my knees and vomit in the corner at the foot end of the bed. The brownish-green liquid splashes on my white clothes and the white tiles. The piece of glass in my hand falls into the mess as I wipe my mouth, and the smell of it almost makes me throw up again.

I squeeze my eyes shut and crawl across the floor, as far away from the vomit as I can muster. I collapse in the middle of the room, face down on the floor. My entire body shakes and my mouth tastes of bile. Every time I exhale, I smell vomit on my breath. The cool tiles feel calming against my damp face and throbbing head, and though the room reeks, I drift into sleep.