The Test

Chapter Six

When I awake, I can't see a thing.

My heart starts beating fast and my face feels flushed. Where am I? Picking myself up off the floor, I take deep breaths to keep from panicking. I feel my way along the walls, which doesn't take long. The room is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet. Suddenly I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic.  After retracing the first wall, I feel a small bump a few feet in from the corner. Frantically, I start placing my hands on all areas of the wall and find what I think is a door, except with no doorknob. Of course.

Thinking there might be more to this room, I feel the second wall again. Nothing. However the third wall, the one opposite the first, seems to also have the weird door-with-no-knob- shape in the middle. I'm just scanning the forth and final wall, with no luck I might add, when the room is suddenly cast with an eerie red glow. I look up to see the whole ceiling is some sort of light with what looks like a cage protecting it. As if the whole place being a dull red isn't enough to make me wonder what's going on, a siren suddenly starts, the lighting pulsing with brightness to every tone.

After what I'm guessing was twenty or so alarms, the room falls quiet, the ceiling's light turning to a normal white colour.

"Brenda Abbatelli, code O-4."

Where did that come from? 

"Please wait for further instructions."

"Further instructions? I haven't gotten any instructions!" I yell upwards, though I'm not sure why. Suddenly, my mind focuses on the voice. That mature, female sounding voice. It belongs to the same woman, or women, who brought me here. 

A few seconds later, I hear her again. "Brenda Abbatelli, please step outside."

"What do you mean step -" I cut myself short when one of the doors opens, surprisingly smoothly. Tentatively, I walk out into the new room.  

The door opened to a ninety degree angle before it had to stop against the wall, which is perfectly white, with a brick pattern to it. The room is a fair size with a large black desk atop an ever so slightly elevated platform from the floor, which is plain white to match the ceiling. I have no idea where this room is getting its light from, but I feel blinded all the same.

Behind the desk is a big black chair that appears to be able to roll. Although the back is faced towards me, I can see someone's arm along the armrest. Before I can say anything, I notice a white door in the same place as mine, except directly opposite from it. A moment later, an Asian lady walks out backwards, filling me with anger. I hate her. I hate all them. I stand here and watch as she pulls something out of the room - a wheelchair, with someone sitting in it. When I look closer, I realize it's not just anyone. It's Genevieve, except, not the Genevieve I know.

As the lady wheels her to the middle of the room and situates her to face me, a chill runs down my spine. This Genevieve doesn't have that fired up look in her eye, doesn't have gum between her teeth, or a smirk on her face. This Genevieve looks lifeless; eyes closed, expressionless. I notice metal cuffs attaching her wrists and ankles to the chair, like some sort of prisoner. 

"What did you do?" I scream, too afraid to move. What if I run over to her and her eyes don't open? What if I find no pulse under her jaw?

I can feel the tears behind my eyes and a lump forming in my throat, though I will them both to go away. I will not show weakness to these people. She looks gorgeous, as always, except right now she has an enhanced beauty to her. She sits there with her hair perfectly curled, dress on, makeup done. She's missing what be the most important date of her life because of these people.

"I can assure you she will be all right," I hear a deep voice say, "as long as you cooperate, Miss Brenda."

After my name, the chair turns towards me and I see the man behind the the chilling words. He's big, muscular and has no trace of facial hair. His dark skin looks like a mix between African and Hispanic. He wears a dark suit and an ear piece. I notice a smile creeping up from his lips, as if he's proud of his dramatic chair turn.