Falling Skies

Sixteen

Heaven isn't white. Hell is.

It's the only thought that can find its way through his disoriented mind. His breaths begin to falter and quicken as the crowd idly shuffles, waiting for an unknown to happen before proceeding.

There's a mechanical sound from the front of the crowd, the beetles picking up momentum once again as Wren is pushed forward along with them, his feet barely gracing the floor as he's dragged through the doorway.

Within the room lies death and hell, a small operating table and a set of staff dressed and ready. The beetles begin to clear the room, replaced by a pastel green staff that is few in numbers. Just one man, his hair a white-blonde peeking out behind his pastel cap, nose and mouth hidden behind a mask and eyes cast away by protective glasses.

He's accompanied by a team of 4 women, their attire matching his own and one guard assumably for backup. Their hair is all tied back, hands gloved to the elbow as they stand behind the operating table, arranging a small side table of tools.

There isn't much else in the room besides a movable light over the table and a strange tank that Wren can't comprehend. It's one of the few foreign items in the room and he takes advantage of the fact, focusing heavily on its glass detailing and metal rims to distract from the guard pulling at his bruised arm.

The air is too fresh to the point of being stale, as if they had sucked all the air from the room and replaced it with something straight from a bottle. It smells too clean, too pristine like the rest of the white Hell. But accompanied with the heavy stench of metal and antibacterial soaps.

"I'm Doctor Irving."

The voice snaps Wren from his close examinations, forcing him back into the reality of the moment.

The man doesn't outstretch his hand, rather holding it up abruptly before it slams back to his side. His focus shifts slightly elsewhere for a few moments before honing back on Wren held tightly in front of the table.

"As I was saying, I'm Dr. Irving and I will be performing your surgeries today. It's an uncomplicated procedure. Our anesthesiologist will painlessly emit gas into your blood stream through the mouth. The blood will no longer reach your heart and you will..."

The doctor pauses, his balled hand limply covering his mouth as if afraid to speak the truth of his words. Afraid to admit his sins outright as Wren's eyes close ahead of him, body trembling as it grasps the too cold metal of the operating table.

His bottom lip trembles as he bites to still it, grip tightening on the operating table while he shakes uncontrollably, the first tears falling as he shakes his head in protest. There's a hand on his forearm, the guard helping his shortened frame onto the table where the metal stings his skin.

"You won't feel a thing, it'll be alright." The doctor reassures him, an arm reaching over Wren's body to secure his arms to the table.

He can barely see through his tears, mouth dry and lips quivering as his body shakes against the table. The doctor straps his torso down with a belt to ease the trembling, but the boy continues to struggle against the restraints, his cries now uncontrollable as he incomprehensibly begs for release.

Wren shuts his eyes against the bright light of the spotlight, red dots blotting behind his closed lids. A pair of cool hands caress the sides of his temples, pulling up at his messy curls dyed white from fear, and attaching an item chill and circular.