Watching you like this, struck by slumber that could easily become eternal, is not the same. What has been done to you is absolutely unforgivable. I wish I could have been there for you, to show you the way back to your real memories. I hate seeing you on that monitor, your chest rising and falling in perfect peace, perhaps unaware that you're even asleep.
Memory restoration complete," the computer informs. Well, it's not as if you can get out yourself, I suppose. I step further into the advanced basement -what an oxymoron- to retrieve you, knowing and more than a little anxious of the fact that if you don't wake up when I take you out, you never will.
There it is, the white pod DiZ put you in. It opens just by my getting closer. What a sick kind of joke this is. Seeing you here, this isn't like watching you, yourself, when you, yourself is 'on.' Your body falls out and you're so light it's like catching a child. Which, I remind myself, you are.
I wait a long moment, waiting for you to awake, for your eyelashes to flutter open.
But you never do...
I sit down, laying your upper-body on my lap. I think about it for a while. And I cry. I cry for a long while because you haven't woken up, and you never will.