Hello, my name is Miralis and thanks for checking out my story. This is the first thing I'm posting on this site, so I'm kind of nervous, but I hope you enjoy it.
One thing I would like to clarify which is especially relevant to this story is that none of my stories will ever feature OC main characters. There are no other warnings I can think of just yet, but please keep in mind that the story is rated M for a reason and will get more intense as it progresses.
I also have no beta, so I apologize for any spelling, punctuation or grammar errors.
Prologue
For as long as I can remember I've resided in this room.
There are no windows or lights and the door is so heavy that no outside sounds can reach my ears. The only sounds are the hushed cries and whimpers of my cellmates, the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet patter of bare feet on concrete.
Even in this tiny six by ten-foot room I try to keep myself as far away from my cellmates as possible. Being here has made all of us wary of touch. Nothing good comes from touching.
Suddenly the door opens, blinding us with fluorescent light. A tall figure drops down what sounds like two trays piled with food. Another tosses two plastic bottles of water into our cell. The door slams shut immediately afterwards and everyone rushes to grab what they can. I still can't see, but based on the texture today we were given bread, thick soup and rice. The rice is dry, the soup sour and the bread stale, but we're all so hungry that none of us care.
I'm lucky enough to grab one of the two bottles of water and guzzle it down before someone else can snatch it away. We each know that water is precious and that one must be selfish to survive here. If someone happens to die of dehydration or starvation… well, that only means more for the rest of us.
...
Number fifty-nine died yesterday. She had been weak from the moment she arrived here and recently had begun performing poorly, but in her final days she was too weak to move. According to the Scientists it was from illness and malnutrition.
My cellmates and I are each able to stretch our legs as we sleep tonight, though the faint, stale scent of decay and vomit clings to our thin sheets.
...
The vacancy did not last long.
We have a new cellmate now. His number is eighty-three. He carries an odd mix of scents, most of which are unpleasant. As he fumbles around in the darkness trying to establish a space for himself I hear the others hurriedly scuttle around. Are they trying to avoid him? But then I catch it—a scent we all know far too well:
Blood.
After the shuffling dies down I hear the soft yet desperate scrape of fingernails against smooth metal. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," I say as quietly as I can. I'm not too eager for a repeat incident.
"W-What is this?" eighty-three asks, his voice trembling.
"Your suppression collar. You'll die if you tamper with it."
The scraping stops.
...
It is Testing Day. Only one cell takes tests per day. Today is cell eleven's day, our day. While Testing Day is a day of physical pain and mental stress, it is also the only time we are granted marginal freedoms.
Everyone is separated for individual sessions. The first segment is purely academic. A wide variety of knowledge is memorized at a high speed and you are then tested on it. If you fail you are forced to memorize the material again and continue testing until your result is acceptable while punishments increase in severity with each failure. Despite the time between Testing Days all tests are cumulative to encourage self-review.
The second segment is purely physical. This is the only time our suppression collars are removed. The specifics of the second segment are suspected to vary greatly between individuals and discussing what happens during these sessions in any capacity is strictly forbidden. As for the few who tried to… they aren't around anymore.
Once testing is complete we are permitted to bathe with heavy supervision in an open shower room. When necessary staff also cut our hair and nails. Afterwards, blood is taken and pills or injections are administered. We are then transported to a holding area for the remaining duration of the cell cleansing.
All I remember during my testing is excruciating pain. It feels like it goes on for days at a time and all I can do is try to get away. Sometimes I can vaguely recall sensations other than pain—the coolness of the hard tiles on my stomach, an intense burning sensation, extreme nausea and lightheadedness—but no matter what I feel it's quickly overwhelmed by the need to escape.
The holding area I'm taken to today is different than the one from last time. The cells are not concrete but instead tile and linoleum. The cell walls are thick and solid, but the front has bars instead of a heavy door. Surprisingly, this room has a clock and the time reads 11:37. While it doesn't help much with discerning the day or month I remember it anyway. All information is valuable.
An hour later number seventy-seven is brought in and locked away in a cell across the room from me, two spaces to my right. Even though we are able to see each other in this room we are never placed near each other.
Neither of us speak or move. We stare at each other for a while, trying to assess what we can, looking for indicators to each other's physical or mental condition. While seventy-seven is significantly older than the rest of us—she appears to be fourteen or so—I still remember when she first came here. She no longer cries after testing, though her scars are increasing. We break eye contact after eleven minutes.
One-hundred and thirty-two minutes pass in silence before a second child is brought in. It is not one whose appearance I recognize so it must be eighty-three. He is locked away across the room as well, two cells to my left.
Eighty-three has scarlet hair and blue eyes. His eyes are reddened and puffy from crying and his breathing hoarse from screaming. He is skinny and pale, though the only injuries he has are the red spots on his arms—likely from injections—and rub burns on his wrists and ankles.
It's only after looking at the floor near his feet that I see something breaking the dull, filmy shine of the tiles. Despite the conditions of our cell the rest of the building is always kept sterile. It looks like grime, but he has already been taken to bathe. Upon closer inspection I can see that it's… sand.
How curious.
...
Over time I came to learn two things about eighty-three.
The first was that he heard something or someone no one else could. Every night the silence was broken by eighty-three's near constant hushed ramblings. Often times I couldn't make out words but when I could they sounded like disjointed nonsense.
The second was that he never slept. The Scientists called it "insomnia". His eyes had begun to darken with his sustained lack of sleep. I had never seen someone able to do such a thing. For most of us, sleep was our only escape.
Several nights later the Scientists tried to force eighty-three to sleep.
One of the Scientists was killed that night.
...
Shortly after eighty-three's incident with the Scientists seventy-seven and sixty-one are removed from our cell. There is talk of enforcing something called a "quarantine" regarding sixty-one, but seventy-seven is never mentioned. I am certain I will be moved soon, too. Eighty-three is extremely dangerous.
The Scientists are much more careful about their interactions with eighty-three after the incident. Every three sleep cycles two androids enter our cell. One restrains me. I don't resist. The second forcibly injects eighty-three with a powerful, fast-acting muscle relaxant. A short while later three Scientists come in, put him in a strait jacket, strap him to a gurney and take him away. He doesn't return until the start of the next sleep cycle.
One time I asked him what they do to him.
"…They make me sleep." That was his only answer.
...
After a dozen sleep cycles it becomes apparent that the Scientists don't have any intention of filling the vacancies or relocating me. Out of the three of us I can't fathom why they would choose to preserve the other two over me. Sometimes I couldn't help but think that they may have wanted eighty-three to kill me.
However, with each passing day it becomes more and more obvious that eighty-three is not aggressive by nature. Most instances of his aggression are purely defensive and reactionary. Left alone he's skittish, but docile nonetheless.
Despite all that, I'm not stupid enough to relax my guard just yet.
...
Countless sleep cycles pass before my fear of eighty-three diminishes, but once it did I found myself simply watching him out of curiosity. Maybe it's the lack of anything else to focus on, maybe it's become routine after cautiously eyeing him for so long, but with every passing day my interest in eighty-three grows.
His whispers are getting louder and more urgent. He's begun pacing at night to keep himself awake. He must know that if this continues his body will shut down. Surely he knows his resistance is futile.
Though I wonder why he's so terrified of sleep, I still can't bring myself to ask.
...
"Do you remember anything before this place?"
I can feel eighty-three's intense gaze on me and I can understand why. The only time subjects tend to speak to each other is when they first arrive; they're frightened, confused and eager for anything that might help stabilize them, though they often receive nothing and give up within a few sleep cycles.
However, with eighty-three my curiosity has finally reached its peak.
"…Yes." His voice is low and smooth. It's rather pleasant. "What about you?"
"This place is all I know," I say. He remains silent. "What do you remember?"
"…The moonlight, sticky hands… and a sea of sand…"
Silence fills the air for some time until I ask my final question. "Why don't you sleep?"
I receive no answer.
...
It is during one sleep cycle that I reach my breaking point with eighty-three's murmurs. Today had been another Testing Day and I was especially exhausted. Without even thinking two words slip past my lips. "Let's talk." The suddenness of my words is met with tense silence.
"…Why?" is the hesitant response.
"Honestly, I can't sleep with all your mumbling. Perhaps talking will distract you from it," I explain.
"…Alright. But what can we even talk about?"
Truthfully, there wasn't much of anything we wouldn't be punished for discussing, but I was too tired and irritable to care about potential consequences. "Tell me more about what you remember. Parents, your home… anything."
"…My mother was very kind," he says, his voice solemn. "As for my home… it was a small, isolated town. People liked my mother, but they were afraid of me." I remain silent, waiting for him to continue. "They would whisper behind our backs… saying I have demon blood in me…"
"Demon blood?" I ask. "But demons aren't real."
"They are," he says adamantly. It's the first time I've heard him raise his voice. "…They have to be," he whispers. "Why would I be like this if they weren't?"
We spend the rest of the night in silence.
...
Strangely, neither of us receive reprimands for speaking to each other. I know they could hear us. Each collar is wired with sensors to detect any vibrations in our throats and microphones to catch any audible sound.
But I couldn't figure out why. Is it because we didn't discuss anything strictly forbidden, like our testing?
I don't speak to eighty-three again for long time, just to be safe.
...
"What's your name?"
"Name…?"
"Mhm," eighty-three hums. I can hear him shuffle around, moving a bit closer to me. "You had a name before you came here, right? Mine is Gaara. What's yours?"
I mulled over his question for a while. Was I ever called anything else before I was assigned my number? Even my earliest memories are of white walls and lab coats.
"…I don't think I have a proper name. If I do, I certainly can't remember it," I tell him.
"Then… why don't I give you a name?" he asks tentatively.
"Why?" I ask, my tone guarded.
"I don't know your number," he says. There's a pause before he continues. "…and it's a bit weird to call someone by a number, anyway…" That sentiment only proved he hadn't been here long enough to acclimate to such things. Personally, I didn't see the point in giving me a name. All it was doing was exchanging one form of address for another, but there was no harm in allowing him to do it either.
"My number is fifty-four," I tell him.
"Okay…" he says, clearly waiting for more.
"…and I don't really care what you call me." Thankfully, eighty-three wasn't dense.
"Alright," he said, his voice almost sounding happy. "What do you think of Yuujin?"
"I already told you I don't care."
"Yuujin it is, then."
...
I'm startled awake by a foreign touch on my arm. Immediately I throw off my assailant, prepared to attack before the pained groan of my cellmate reaches my ears and sobers my mind. It's only eighty-three.
"What are you doing?" I demand, my tone harsh.
"I-I'm sorry," he stammers. "I-I didn't m-mean to—"
"What were you doing?" I didn't want his apologies, I wanted an explanation. He can't seem to calm himself and sounds like he's on the verge of tears. Not wanting him to become hysterical I take a calming breath and try another approach.
"Look, I'm… sorry for reacting so harshly," I said reluctantly.
"N-No, it's my fault… I-I'm sorry, Yuujin, I… Y-You're right," he admitted.
"I just want to know why you touched me," I said as calmly as I could. Scaring him more would do me no good. Tonight he had been returned from one of his regular absences. He was never in particularly good shape when he returned from those, but he certainly was never like this, never so desperate for touch.
"I had to… to make sure you were real," he mumbles.
"Real?" I ask, dumbfounded. "Why wouldn't I be real?"
"He said… he said he killed you," eighty-three explained, though his answer only left me with more questions.
"Who are you talking about?" I ask. Eighty-three's breath catches and shuffling sounds can be heard.
"Nevermind, it's nothing," he says far too quickly. "I'm just… glad you're still here…"
"Whatever… just be quiet so I can sleep," I tell him, rolling over and clinging tightly to my thin blanket. Unfortunately, eighty-three refuses to respect my wishes. His whispers keep me from sleeping that night.
...
During the sleep cycles that follow, eighty-three's breathing seems to get louder as he nears closer. Each time he seems determined to close the gap a little more, bit by bit. I'm certain he knows I've noticed, but I also haven't confronted him about it. I assume he views my lack of resistance to be equivalent to granting permission.
During one sleep cycle he is near enough for me to faintly feel his body heat. His breathing is more uneven than usual. After a while I can't help but bask in the barely-there warmth. I'm not sure if I imagine the hand that touches my hair.
...
As the day's rations are haphazardly thrown into our cell I immediately notice something wrong. After the door is shut and my eyes recover I feel around to see what we got today.
This time we are given two bottles of water and small portions of bread, fruit and soup. The bread is still stale and as usual the fruit is slightly sour, but the soup smells different. While the smell is still rancid, it has a faintly bitter scent. As I feel around in it I notice nothing unusual; it's still full of cold, undercooked potatoes, celery and carrots, hot, overcooked meat and thick, lukewarm broth—there are no pills hidden in it. A powder or a liquid, maybe?
"Gaara," I say quietly. He says nothing, but I know he is listening. "Don't eat the soup."
...
The soup continues to smell strange and eighty-three and I continue to not eat it. Lately we have been fed less often in an attempt to coerce us into eating it. Sometimes it is tempting, especially during the nights when hunger tears at our stomachs and the growls echo into the darkness, but our minds know better.
Unfortunately, we became too comfortable in our knowledge and too narrow in our suspicions. Over time we became so focused on the altered soup that we didn't take notice of what they had done to our water.
...
I woke up to a sharp, searing pain that ran up the entire length of my left forearm. From gently touching the affected area I can detect what feel like extremely crude stitches and lazy bandaging. As I touch it the pain can be felt even deeper, close to the bone.
"Ah!" Eighty-three's pained gasp tells me I'm not the only one affected. "What happened?" he asks, his voiced pained and frightened.
"I don't know," I admit. I couldn't remember anything after drinking that water. It's strange; normally I would be able to detect even subtle differences in taste and smell. I should've been able to tell that the water was laced. "They drugged the water," I tell him, knowing that he already knows that but still feeling the need to say something.
"And after that?" he asks.
"I don't know."
...
Dozens of sleep cycles have gone by and life seems to have returned to normal. The only variation in our respective routines seems to be the cleansing and redressing of our wounds. Aside from that, eighty-three is still taken every third night, Testing Days proceed as usual and the soup no longer has that bitter scent, but the longer things continue like this the more anxious I become.
One night, eighty-three echoes my concerns. "Why haven't they done anything, Yuujin?"
"I don't know, okay?!" I shout, my frustration and anxiety finally reaching their breaking point. "I don't know!"
I can hear eighty-three's breath hitch and the sounds of his feet as he shuffles further away, afraid of me… of my reaction. I try to calm down and explain myself. "I-I'm sorry, okay, Gaara? I'm just… really nervous. I hate feeling like this, I hate not knowing anything—"
"Yuujin—"
"I hate fumbling in the dark and I hate that I'm rambling—"
"Yuujin," eighty-three says firmly. I immediately fall silent, shocked at how calm and confident his voice is. "Breathe," he says. I hadn't even noticed that breathing had gotten so difficult and when did that even happen— "Just breathe. It's okay."
I barely register the sound of him coming closer until I feel a slow, tentative touch on my right hand, silently asking if the touch was alright. I allowed it and two arms gently embraced me, holding me close to a warmth I had never felt. Slowly, fingers wove themselves into my hair, soothingly rubbing my scalp and another arm wrapped itself tightly around my waist, eighty-three's left hand settling on my back. We stay like that for a long time, silent tears falling down my cheeks as a gentle hand wipes them away.
Gaara doesn't say anything once my breathing slows and I return to myself. I don't say anything back to him either, but things were never the same afterwards.
...
During the time that followed Gaara and I seemed to accept whatever it was that was forming between us. A silent understanding was met and we slowly fell into something of a routine.
Every few nights Gaara would slowly approach me. If I moved away then he would cease all attempts at physical contact until the start of the next sleep cycle. If I remained still he would continue his approach, sit beside me and touch me as he pleased until I stopped his hands and drew a line.
I didn't like to think too much about what these strange feelings meant. I was terrified at their mere existence. I had never experienced anything like this in my life. All I knew was that I didn't hate these feelings. I wanted more of whatever this was. I needed it.
And it seemed Gaara understood that. He seemed to need this just as much as I did.
What neither of us needed was to label it.
...
I lost count of how many sleep cycles passed after a while. Gaara and I became more and more comfortable with each other. I no longer flinched at his touch and he no longer felt so hesitant. Our lives and routines remained unchanged.
One day, as usual, food was tossed into our cell. We each felt around for the water bottles before going for the food. Unfortunately, shortly after drinking it I was filled once again with that disgusting, familiar heaviness in my limbs. I couldn't move, couldn't even speak. I was filled with terror as my consciousness quickly faded away.
The last thing my mind registers is Gaara's panicked breathing.
To be Cont.
And that's it for the first chapter. I wanted to try a slow-burn kind of story with a lot of my favorite story elements. Who do you guys think Yuujin is? I won't tell just yet, but I'm curious about people's guesses. I'm trying a writing style that doesn't come very easily to me, so any tips to improve are greatly appreciated. Because I write this fairly sporadically, updates will also be sporadic, but if you choose to stick with it I'd be really happy. :)
Thanks for reading,
Miralis