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WHITE NOISE
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a constant background noise; especially: one that drowns out other sounds
— Merriam-Webster
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It's not a large room, but its walls are tall and foreboding, bleached with whitewash.
There is no door. Doors let people in and out, but they've gone and locked you inside this little cell, so really, there's no door.
It's been days, weeks, months; nobody has came in, and you've certainly never been out. You cannot escape simply because there is no door, no exit. Not because they'll tie you to a cold, metal table and cut the flesh off your bones if you as much as place a foot oustide. There is no door, you've established this. It's fact, truth, reality.
But then that panel over the hole in the wall not a door not a door never a door opens, and someone enters.
A girl.
This has never happened before. Betrayed, you allow your eyes to study her, to remember every miniscule detail of the girl who puzzles you so with a single step in the wrong place. You are keenly aware that she's treating you similarly, her gaze sweeping over your body chaotically. A famished predator evaluating its chosen victim.
Hello, I'm Fujino. You extend an inviting hand.
The girl hesitates, reaches out; her fingers close in over yours. It's warm, you think.
When she pulls away, the heat lingers—it travels across your arm, up your neck.
The girl smiles; she enjoys observing you writhe in embarrassment, and the flush on your face only intensifies when you realise. She doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound, and just when you are beginning to suspect that she doesn't even breathe, she gently slaps a hand to each of your cheeks and ensnares your face in her palms.
Hello, Fujino-chan.
You are powerless to do anything but bite the bottom of your lip anxiously as she grins.
Her fingers start crawling, and you're faintly aware that her touch is ghostly—like threads of wind, weaving into your hair with a charming ease that beckons you to draw in. You relent, not because you want to, but because you can't do anything to stop her and she knows this very well.
Very soon, you are trapped in a sky of green. It's a lovely green, you rationalise, and some part of you sneers at your optimism. There is nothing lovely about a green that's about to hook its claws around your throat and choke you, drown you, throw you against the ocean floor until there's nothing left of you to choke and drown and throw.
Her eyes bore into yours. Something inside you—instinct, probably—screams at you to run.
You tilt your head sharply to stare at the ceiling.
This is not a good idea, because the fluroscent lights glare in your eyes and offer you a splitting headache.
The wind in your tresses stops flowing, curls into fists, and yanks angrily. You flinch, tears springing to the edge of your eyes at the pain, and dig your nails into her outstretched arms. It's futile; the girl only smirks and closes in. Her eyes narrow into lovely green dangerous slits.
I'll see you again, Fujino-chan, she sighs, the ragged whisper of air caressing your lips.
You shudder in a strange concoction of fear, shame, and anticipation.
The next thing you know, the girl has vanished. There is no puff of smoke, no gust of wind; she is gone—hopefully, gone forever. You do not want this girl in your life—this girl with her lovely green sky and warm hands, who destroys your fact, truth, reality in just one encounter.
It is only when you stop shivering then do you realise that she never left her name.
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You don't recall the existence of the speaker, yet it is hangs from an extreme corner of the ceiling right before your eyes. Perhaps it was installed while you were sleeping, but that couldn't be the case since nobody has ever came in before except for her and speakers don't mount themselves to the wall.
It's a mystery, a phenomenon.
You decide to ignore it.
But this proves to be incredibly difficult, even for you, because the speaker is loud and annoying. It refuses to shut up, and it's not as if you can shimmy up the walls and give it a good kick in the name of peace.
SUBJECT FUJINO, it yells. CAN, a crackle of static. -OU. HEAR. US.
No, I can't because the noise level is frightening in here is what you'd like to say, but you don't have the energy to argue so you just nod obediently. You're seated on the hard surface of the concrete floor, tightly hugging your knees to your chest and wondering how they could see you if there wasn't any cameras around the place. Maybe you should inspect the walls again.
WE. WILL. SEND IN A. You calmly note that the electronic speech was grossly disjointed. CHILD.
Ara, you say intelligently. This is not good news. From what you knew, everything they sent in was another expandable playtoy they used to conduct experiments on your kind—to goad you, slowly push you to the point where you felt as though you could explode, to test your reaction and let them jot everything down on their clipboards in messy, excited penmanship.
You're not sure how you were aware of that, but the information lies cold and stale inside the recesses of your mind. A deadweight.
The panel over the hole in the wall slides open again, but this time, you're prepared.
Fixing a fierce glare into your expression, you charge at the intruder from the side and send them flying into a wall. It's the wall with the speaker, you realise, and you feel a brief glow of satisfaction as the annoying contraption wobbles from the impact.
PLEASE. REFRAIN FROM. VIOLENCE.
While you are distracted, the intruder quickly throws you off, tackles you onto the floor, and sits on you. This brings about the discovery that your opponent is female, very much so, and as you stare at her face, you cannot dismiss the feeling that she is very familiar.
Oh.
It hits you with the subtlety of a freight train: this was the problematic girl.
You are unable to decide whether to feel impossibly displeased or unusually ecstatic. The girl does not get up, and you eventually choose to settle for a mixture of both. When the pressing matter of warring emotions is resolved, you focus your attention on your foe who appears content to remain seated on you for the rest of eternity.
In fact, she is even smiling. You are overwhelmed with the need to flee; it is not a pleasant smile.
We meet again, Fujino-chan. Her eyes gleam in amusement. You are tempted to point out that she seems to be quite fond of your name, but you're not given the chance as her hands wrap around your neck, tensed, as though they were waiting for the opportunity to throttle you.
There is something different about her, something indefinitely more feral than before.
She bends forward. It takes every bit of your willpower not to shy away. The girl speaks; her words are smothered in a sickening sweetness, like a cake richly coated in layers and layers of chocolate. Chocolate so thick that it would stick to the walls of your mouth, trickle down your gullet and into your windpipe, where it would clot together and slowly suffocate you.
Do you know who I am?
For all the burning curiosity you possess, you can only shake your head timidly.
The girl sneers—she had expected that. It was all going according to plan: she was in a position of power over you, and she adores shoving that fact into your face as much as she adored shoving her face into yours. It is not altogether a bad thing; she had a pretty face, after all.
I can tell you, she dangles a carrot in front of you. If you give me what I want.
What do you want? you ask, but something inside you already knows the answer. The girl's expression is taunting, and you summon all your strength to avoid her malicious stare, turn your head away, deny her of—
She tilts your chin up so you look at her straight in the eye. What you see in the lovely green sky scares you. You are completely at her mercy, and mercy is something that she seems to be short of, because she pulls your head back roughly and leans in without missing a beat.
This girl, you think to yourself hazily. This girl knows what she wants.
It is a very long time before you start thinking again.
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The first time they met, it was confusing.
Two children, filthy and bruised, standing by the worn-out path. The landscape is torn and desolate, hiding the few survivors behind sloping hills and muddy rocks. A chilling breeze swept by; the weather wasn't cold, but where there were once trees there were now burnt stumps, and the gale was slipping through the cracks and buffeting their broken bodies.
The taller of the pair was supporting a rusty, crumbling bicycle by the aged handlebars.
The shorter girl leaned on a charred metal pipe like a pseudo walking stick, breathing heavily.
Each had a hardened gleam in their eyes, a jaw set in weariness, tatted rags that hung loosely upon shoulders, soles marred by years of constant barefooted travel. Bicycle had bandages wound tightly around her head, dirty and bloodstained. Pipe was paler than she ought to be, and she could manage only irregular intakes of air as her lungs quivered in protest.
Bicycle smiled cautiously. Pipe mirrored her expression.
Who are you?
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Everything is silent.
Everything is silent, except for the blood roaring in your ears and the ghost of a chuckle that couldn't force its way out of her throat. You are dumbfounded; your fingers fly to your swollen lips as the heat painstakingly uncoils itself from within your stomach. The girl, unsurprisingly, wears a self-satisifed smirk.
This is not the first time, she informs you.
You remain speechless, and she follows your example.
The whitewashed walls twist and warp in your swaying vision. You can feel an upcoming headache, now that you have nothing to concentrate on except for her shallow breathing and her darting eyes. The silence is stifling, awkward, and you cannot cope with this.
Have we met before? you finally ask. Before this. Before the room. Before everything.
The girl stiffens like a deer caught in headlights, panic evident in her eyes as she regards you with distrust. You are mystified by her reaction. It's vulnerable and horrified, a far cry from her usual sneers and scowls. You are no fool to let this chance slip by.
Tell me. Your voice is little more than a whisper, a reluctant villain pleading with a defeated hero to give up before he was forced to plunge his sword into him.
Her gaze is directed right at you, but it is blank and unseeing. Kruger, she complies half-heartedly.
It is not the answer you want.
There is a pause, then her eyes shift back into remarkable focus. Kruger pulls herself away from you.
The hole in the wall—never a door—slides open and shut.
And then there was one.
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A/N: For today's special, we will be serving a generous portion of mindrape, aptly complemented by a wisp of melodrama, along with a glass of well-brewed what is going on. Enjoy.