The Created

Chapter 2: Mr. Killoran

KYE

I sit frozen on a bed, a blanket draped over my shoulders and a black cat rubbing its head on my arm, vying for my attention. My hospital robes have been exchanged for dull, yet soft and thick, white clothing. I must've been transferred to this room sometime after the incident, but I'm not sure how. I just woke up here, lying in a bed, my mutilated finger wrapped in bandages. Thankfully, the dull throbbing subsided not too long ago.

Now I just sit. And wait. Sit and wait. And think. I've been thinking for a while now, but I'm really not sure what to think. Should I be scared? Confused? Amazed? Anxious? Maybe all of the above. But really, it's more accurate to say that I, in reality, feel nothing. Thoughts and feelings come and go so fast, I am loath to make sense of anything.

I shake my head clear and rise slowly, pushing the cat from my lap. It audibly protests and claws at my blanket, asking me to stay. I stare at it and it stares back longingly, curiously, like we know each other. Like we've known each other for a long time. It sits upright, its black tail dancing back and forth rhythmically through the air. I scratch the white fur under its chin and the creature starts vibrating. Though I don't know who it belongs to or what its name is or where it came from, I find its presence comforting.

I turn away to examine the room. I like it better than the one I was in earlier. It's cozy and small and poorly lit, but not constricting. Walls painted an ugly mustard color—but real walls, no cinder blocks! A bed with a metal frame pushed long-ways against the wall. A door at the foot of the bed.

I walk to the door and try the knob. Locked.

There's another door to the right of the head of the bed. I try that one. This one opens. I run my hand along the wall in the darkness until I find the switch and the harsh lamp overhead illuminates. There's a toilet to the left and a sink to the right and nothing else. Not even anything on the walls.

I turn off the light and move out of the bathroom to the desk that sits across from my bed. Underneath the desk is a blue chair, and on top of the desk is a flexible lamp and a digital clock displaying 3:12 A.M. There are no windows in the room, so at least the clock lets me know the time of day.

I pull the chair from under the desk, plop down in it, and flick the lamp off. My heart skips a beat and my breath catches as the darkness falls. It's too dark. It's suffocating. I fumble around for the switch and the room illuminates once more.

I jump again when I find the cat inches from my face, sitting atop the desk. I hadn't even heard it move. I steady my breathing—making a mental note to keep an eye on the cat—and begin searching the drawers.

There's nothing interesting: paper, pencils, various cat toys, a dish of food and a dish of water (for the cat, I assume), toiletries, some candy bars and snacks. There's also a tiny locked box, but with no key and no way to open it, I place it back in the drawer.

Standing, I walk to a short bookcase to the left of the desk and kneel down to read the titles. There must be more than a hundred books—big and small, children's and adult, romance and adventure, classic and new. Everything. I guess these are here to help pass the time, but I don't feel like reading.

Grasping one of the shelves, I hoist myself up and sit back on the bed, resting my head on the pillow. Seconds later the cat is with me, curling up against my chest.

I like this cat.

I'm still so confused. Everything feels so strange. And yet, somehow, everything feels familiar.

As hard as I try, I can't take my mind off what happened in that room. It shouldn't be possible. It's not possible. Maybe if I fall asleep right now, I'll wake up in my own house with my own parents and my very own friends, and everything will make sense again, and I'll tell them of this insane dream I had.