Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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"Come."
The doctor that has just pushed aside my door stands with his gloved hands laced in front of him, an authoritative hint to his strong posture. It seems all very theatrical – send the largest, most built doctor that the small, frail, near starving girl cannot defend herself again.
Shortly following my father, an animalistic urge within me resulted in me clawing at the unprotected flesh on the woman that brought me dinner, in the hopes I might get away. I failed, miserably, considering I have not eaten for what I'm sure is near five or six days, and she knocked me to the floor, fleeing with a wail uncalled for.
"It is time." He insists, extending a slow hand as if to offer it to myself. I glance at him with upmost detestation, slowly rising to my feet with a heavy breath.
"Shoes." I request, curling my toes that remain bare.
He shakes his head impassively. "No need. It is just down this corridor."
"A corridor I am to walk down bare foot – that is the problem." I snap at him, clenching my fists as my jaw ticks with indignation.
"We will make you forget that you ever suffered so." His voice drips with mockery, a drawl which pulls my lips to something of a feral snarl and I see him momentarily blanch, reaching for unknown protection in his pocket as though I am about to pounce at him with murderous intent. I am not ridiculous – I could not handle a mouse currently, let alone a full-grown man, but the notion of their fear at least offers me momentarily relief from my reality.
They predict I have gone insane, delirious to the power of love. I suppose, in some sense, they could be quite right. Kian is dead, and quite frankly, there is every chance my mother could be too. Who knows where Zaveri and Margot are – dead too perhaps? Leevy too – my pregnant friend that had no hand in the matter, but her association with me impedes her equally. Everyone I have ever loved, faces that have since disappeared. I am alone, insane because I know I am never to see them again.
I follow him out, walking the length of the dimly lit hallway, faded white walls offering not even an ounce of comfort. The narrowed heels of his shoes click on the linoleum floor – my feet pad heavily, leaving grimy footprints in their wake. Childish of me to decide to run my hands along the length of the walls too, opting to filthy the place they perform such obscene surgeries.
"I know what it is you will do to me." I say.
He hums, amused by me it seems. "Is that so?" He decides to retort.
"A selective frontal lobotomy. Tell me – how is it you manage to do such?" I ask.
"You will not understand. It is too complex for a weak mind." He chides.
"Then perhaps, if nothing else, it will bore me to death and save you the trouble of having to bother performing it." I quip without hesitation, still running my hands down the length of the walls.
