Before:
Vivian
All my life I have been raised to do one thing and one thing only, and that is to heal. I heal those who have wronged our government just so they can suffer a fate worse than death for what they have done. I have no doubt in my mind that death is more peaceful. That death is the easy way out. In the world that we live in, death might just be the best thing imaginable. I've seen death and I've seen life. Healing is what I do every day. It is what I've been raised to do and it is what I will carry on once my father retires. It is what I will pass down to my child as they will pass it on to theirs. For my family, healing is a never ending cycle.
"Conceal your emotions, Vivian, and don't feel your feelings." My father always tells me. "It makes this life a little easier. Just be the good girl you are and you won't get into trouble. Soon you'll be done, and it'll all be over for you."
So I go through every day without showing emotions or feeling, which can be wonders in life. I might as well be a robot, programmed only to do one thing. This is my life, conceal, and don't feel. I train with my father, learning everything he has to teach me. He can save anyone who is even on the brink of death, breathing their last breath of life. I will have to do it soon, someday, but not yet. It's not my time.
I always wondered when my life would begin. I thought of what freedom would be like, how standing in the light of day would feel. But I wouldn't know, not yet at least. When I am sixty and pass on my job to my son or daughter, then I would know. I would get my first taste of freedom then, but only then.
But freedom came when Beatrice Prior brought it to me. That is really when my life began.
"Vi," my father says coming into my plain, white room. It is simple, with a large book case covering the back wall, hiding the head of my bed and a large wooden desk. Above the wall of my desk was a dartboard that was keeping most of my attention. I was sitting on my metal bed, the thin mattress underneath me. "They're bringing someone in now. She's in critical condition and we don't think she'll live. I need you to help me."
"What did she do?" I ask, throwing another dart.
"Vivian,"
"What is so wrong about knowing what she has done to be brought to this hell?" I protest, running my hand through my thick brown hair. The curls make knots in between my fingers, making it hurt when I pull my hand through.
"For now, it is none of your concern. Come help me."
I climb off my bed, pulling my hair back into a simple braid, taking my lab coat off my coat rack and follow him out of the room. Halfway down our small hallway, the only place I've ever known, we wash our hands at the sink outside the surgery room. My father hands me a pair of blue latex gloves and I slide them on over my fingers. I reach out, taking two surgical masks from their cardboard box and hand him one, watching him cover his mouth and nose. I do the same.
Together, we walk into the surgery room. I'm adjusting my coat as they bring in the stretcher. On it is a blonde hair girl who is covered in her own blood, her face pale and ashen. I watch as they gracefully lift her on to the sheet of metal where we will perform the operation. My father and I get to work immediately. He removes her cloths so we can see the wounds. I get the machine that will keep her heart beating so we can save her hooked up and ready to go. Then, the two of us begin to work.
My father and I have worked together long enough that we both know what the other is doing without having to ask. We both begin removing bullets, working on opposite sides of her body. I find a bullet to close to her heart. It was wedged in an opening, slowly making its way to what would be her death. Without hesitation, I work on removing it. My father stops to watch me, making sure I know what I'm doing. Lately, he's been giving me the harder, more challenging tasks so that I will be ready to take his place. I focus, keeping my hand steady as I remove the bullet that is wedged in her heart. I hold my breath as the steady beating that her heart wasn't producing returned.
After checking for damage and conforming to each other that there's nothing left, we stich her up. I had checked her blood type at the beginning so now I began my task of injecting her with packets of blood we get monthly from the soldiers here. All that is left is waiting for her to wake up and keep making sure she's healing correctly.
I glance up at the clock. Five hours have passed since we began, though it only feels like minutes. That's the way it normally is; we go into a state where time flies because of all that's going on around us. My father tells me that it's something that we've all done, so it's perfectly normal.
My father wipes his head clean of the sweat that had gathered there. He is a pale man, a few inches shorter than I am, with graying brown hair and scary thin, like a victim of malnourishment. His sad brown eyes suggest that he has seen too much, and for someone like us, I have no doubt in my mind that he has. His hands are warned and calloused; there are scars running up his arms from where scissors and knifes have missed their marks. Underneath is eyes are swollen purple bags that tell me that he hasn't been sleeping. His skin is paler than ever. Looking at him now, I know he's not okay.
"Go get some sleep." I tell him, "I'll finish up here."
My father nods and walks away. Before he leaves the room, I call out, "Don't forget to eat something." I return to cleaning up all the utensils. When I'm done sanitizing those, I wash the girl's body clean of her blood. When I'm done doing that, I put patches on her skin, directly over all the places that we stitched up. Her body is small and muscular. To me, she doesn't seem like anything special. She isn't particularly pretty or noticeable, but I know better than to assume that she is an innocent human. No one who ends up getting patched up by me is ever innocent. I think of all the things this small blonde could've done to end up here. This isn't a fate anyone would want or choose. I can't help but think, if she knew what would end up happening to her, would she still have done it? I dress her in a thin nightgown and carry her into the infirmary the next room over; laying her on a cot that is comfier than mine. Once I've hooked her up to the I.V., I begin recording what I know onto her medical record.
I hear the door open and close behind me and look up.
"I was sent to see how the patient is doing." Says Spen, the older brother of my best friend, Larkin. Spen is wearing his Black Hawks uniform that tells me he was one of the ones who brought the girl here. The Black Hawks, the elite team of soldiers once known as the Navy SEALS, only do missions such as finding threats to our government and protecting our leaders.
"She'll live," I say to him, "But you won't be able to do anything with her for a while. She was in one of the worst conditions I've ever seen." I continue writing, then hand Spen the paper.
He takes it from me, nodding. "I'll leave you to do what you have to. I'll check in again in a week or so."
"She should be awake by then." I conform.
Spen leaves me alone for a few moments. Then, I decide to go clean up the rest of the surgical room. I walk silently into the room and begin cleaning the bloody table. The girl had lost a lot of blood and I'm shocked she didn't die from it. My mind wanders to my father, and I think about how much I hate to see him wither away into nothingness, but I can't help him. Only he can. He was falling apart and I wasn't so sure I could keep him together like I normally do.
The door opens again, but it doesn't close. I glance over and see Larkin, standing half wedged through the doorway. I follow the line of his gaze and notice that it lands on the blood all around me. It is a good thing that neither of us has a weak stomach.
"I didn't know that someone could make that much blood." He says hazy.
"Blood makes up a lot of you, Larkin, but at some point, a substantial amount of blood loss kills you. She's lucky to be alive." I explain.
"Her name is Beatrice Prior." Larkin tells me as he comes over and helps me clean. I don't refuse his company. "She came from the Chicago experiment, but when it started to fail, left with a group of others and ended up at the Bureau of Genetic Welfare. She somehow resisted death serum and reset the whole Bureau. She was shot in the process."
"So what are they doing about it? No one in that place remembers who they are, how will they be able to continue their research?" I ask. Everyone in the Compound knows about the experiments. A few were successful, like the Chicago one. Others weren't. I personally find the experiments to be pointless. They were started because some of us were 'genetically pure' and others were 'genetically damaged'. From what I've done here, I know that the GPs and GDs, as we call them, don't change human behavior like the scientists at the Bureau wanted to prove. What makes a person damaged is what is in their minds, not their genetics. All of this issue is what had caused the Purity War in the first place, and another war could be on the horizon, if my senses are correct.
"What is the lie they gave her family?" I ask. They never tell the loved ones of our prisoners that they are alive and here. There's always a lie.
"She died in the Weapon's Lab of multiple gunshot wounds. They're bringing in a clone to show off as the body before they cremate her. They will move one, thinking she's gone from the world."
"Meanwhile I'm preparing another person for slaughter." I mutter to myself.
"I'm sorry, Vi." Larkin says to me, and I don't know why. All his words are nothing more than words without meaning in a situation like this. The life I live, this life, is all I've ever known. I hate it, but it's not like I have any other choice in the matter. His words are plain. So why waste them on something that doesn't change anything for me?
"This is my life, Larkin." I tell him. "You think I would've accepted this fate by now."
"No," Larkin shakes his head, "You have a choice, Vi. They're not going to give it to you, so you have to take it yourself. You can stay here and dream about leaving," he takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look into his deep, sea green eyes. "Or you can walk out yourself. Don't wait for opportunity to knock: do it yourself. You can't these people take everything from you. If it's rightfully yours, then it's not stealing."
I laugh, "I wouldn't make it off this floor, let alone out of here in general. They'd catch me and where would we be then? I'd be no better off than her." I gesture to the room where the girl, Beatrice, is waiting for life to return to her.
"I believe you could do it."
"Thanks for the sliver of hope, Larkin, but it's not enough to make me want to leave." Larkin releases me. He's six foot five exactly, three inches taller than me. I know because I have to give checkups to the people who live here as well. His shaggy black hair is almost in his eyes, and I can't help but brushing it away from his face. He is so innocent that it pains me. I'd be risking his life if I left, and that is enough to kill me. I love him, and I can't hurt him. I won't hurt him.
"Please, just think about it, okay? This is your life. Be who you want to be." Larkin tells me.
"Okay Larkin."
I watch him walk away, and it kills me to do so. He doesn't know how much I really love him, and he may never know. I am not allowed to date or even marry. Even if he wanted me too, we could never be together. So I always leave those three words unsaid between us.
I fell asleep on the chair next to Beatrice's bed without realizing it and the next thing I know, I wake up to my father stroking my hair. I sit up quickly, my clipboard falling out of my lap. It hits the floor with a loud clang and I shout, "Shit!"
"Watch your language Vivian." My father scolds me.
"Sorry Dad." I reply, picking my clipboard off the floor. My father takes it from me, checking to make sure everything is in order. "How long have I've been asleep?"
"You tell me." He says. It's meant to be a joke, but he's not really the joking type, so it just sounds monotonous. "When I came here you were sleeping."
I stand up, walking over to change the I.V. drip.
"Why don't you go clean off and get some sleep? I can take over here." My father tells me.
"Are you sure?" personally, I'm a little scared to leave him alone. That thought just never sounds appealing to me.
"Yes,"
So I finish what I'm doing and leave my father alone. I make my way down the simple white corridor of the Compound. This hall in particular was created for my family when we were first brought here. There are three bedrooms, with a bathroom in each one. The surgery room, infirmary, and recovery rooms are also here, but that's it. Each of us is born here, not knowing who our other parent is, and we grow up, following in our known parent's footsteps. If you're lucky, you even meet your grandparent who lived the same life we have. It is against the law to know our parent's names just as they cannot name us. When I retire, I will learn who my birth mother is and what my father's real name is.
I walk into my bathroom, stripping away all the bloody cloths I am in. the girl's blood still stain my hands and body. I hop into a hot shower, washing it all away. It is here, when I let myself enter the deepest, darkest parts of my mind, The Forbidden Part as I call it, I dream about running away. I even plan every escape route and picture all the places I would go.
By the time I have stepped out of the shower, I have the plan that seems the most logical in mind to use. But I don't. If I did, it would take a great amount of bravery to go through with it, but bravery is one thing I don't have. No matter how much I despise cowards, I am one.
Toweling off my body, I enter my room and dress in my white pajamas. I braid my hair back again, and then I climb into my bed, turning off the light along with me. I lay in the dark for a while, hating my coward self. Eventually I fall asleep, though I don't know when.
That night I dream of the world outside, though my image isn't clear, but I see blue skies and a vast green plane. I am chasing the birds that soar through the air. I am one of them. I am free.