Final Reality (THG Fanfic)

Chapter XXVII

I wake up alone on a cold, metal operating table in a room of white, my head and heartbeat surprisingly calm. Overhead, the entire ceiling is a glowing white, almost blinding, but I manage to keep my eyes open. I slowly sit myself up, avoiding a possible head rush from sitting up too fast, and instantly noticing the gauzy hospital dress I am covered with. Am I dead? I ask myself. I shuffle off the table; carefully placing my feet onto the cool, white floor tiles and examine my current location. I am in the centre of the white room, possibly buried underground somewhere. To my right is a table with what’s left of my wetsuit and bikini sitting on top of it, still matted with dirt and blood. To my left is a silver door, no doubt keeping me locked in from the horrors that wait for me outside.

There is nothing I can do. My wetsuit and bikini offer me no task or interest, but the door is whole other story. It is tempting me. Before I even know it, I am standing in front of the door, my right hand clenching the doorknob. I expect Liliana or Sean to be waiting for on the other side, but I am also hoping that Quent’s lips are waiting for me, or maybe perhaps I am dead. If there is some sort of trap or mutation behind this door, I have nothing to attack with or defend myself with. I slowly turn the doorknob in a defensive stance, fearing what may be on the other side. I walk into a light corridor that leads only one way into a beige-coloured, spacious room. I’ve no choice but to go there. Nothing rings of familiarity as I step on the soft, purple carpet. On one side of the room sits a black, velvet couch and a table with an array of snacks and beverages, and the other sits a full-length mirror and a vanity table. My stomach gurgles as my eyes scan the table of food and drinks, landing on a steaming broth. I quickly make my way to the table, unable to resist the temptation, and stuff my face with chicken broth, bread rolls and a couple of apples. I consume two bottles of water and a glass of juice before settling down on the couch.

It’s then do I notice the white corridor has disappeared and I am trapped in this room. There are no windows or doors, essentially no way of me escaping. I start to panic, furiously banging on the walls hoping they will give way. But nothing happens. I end up in front of the mirror, staring at myself with tired eyes that show no emotion. I stare at myself for what feels like hours and I stay that way for sometime because of an uneasy feeling that has erupted in my gut. Maybe I ate too much. But I know it’s not that, there’s something different about me. Maybe I am dead.

Suddenly, two surgical-masked beings enter the room with suitcases. I cannot tell if they are women or men as they both wear the same black suits and hairnets. They approach me without a word, and lead me to the vanity table where they open their suitcases. I am taken aback when I see that the contents of the cases are a wondrous ensemble of shades and hues, all used to make me look pretty. Why am I going through prep? Didn’t I already do this already? But my real question is: what for exactly? Although they ignore me, I continuously try to ask them what I’m here for or where I am as they apply makeup to my plain face. I think they pay more attention to the way I don’t resist the makeup than the words coming from my lips. However, when I ask them why my face looks odd to me, they actually open their mouths and speak.

“When we got you out last night,” one-with-a-deep-voice-whom-I’m-guessing-is-a-man says, “We sprayed you with a quick-working serum that eradicates any type of infection and foreign diseases and also heals sores and wounds. Some scars are still on you, but at least it’s not the face. We hardly ever use it, but the President insisted.”

“President?” I ask them. No response.

The rest of my makeup goes on without another word – black eyes, nude lips, soft accents to give an illusion that my cheeks are no longer hollow and my eyes are bagless – and after an hour, I am put into a black lace dress that covers my arms and goes down to ankles. Navy, rugged flats hug my feet as one of the people pull my hair back into a simple ponytail. They stand me in front of the mirror, but they don’t ask me how I think I look or compliment on their hard work as my prep team had only a week ago. I insist that the people have done an impeccable job, although they do not thank me. The two men/women instruct me to wait here to be escorted. They don’t tell me where I am being escorted to or why or who, they simply leave with a curt nod and disappear behind a panel in the wall that closes seamlessly behind them. Part of me wants to lunge for the panel in the wall and try to pry it open. But another part is curious for what I am to be escorted to. I juggle the options in my head for a minute, and curiosity wins out. I wait for half an hour, counting the seconds, before a woman in blue and black jumpsuit and a headset planted around her neck appears.