For some reason, she was back in that too-polished, white room, blinded by the rude circle of light. Then there was those robed men and women. There was that woman. The woman always bring in a cloud of small storms, snapping at her own henchmen and tell them to break her. The woman didn’t know she could hear so well. Pity.
“Look, she is already healing.”
“Do you really think I am so desperate as to torture a child? It’s just a disguise.”
“If you do not have what it takes, I completely understand. Perhaps I should transfer you to another project — ”
“ — No, no…sorry.”
Sometimes, if she remembered right, when time don’t flicker in and out like the rude angry light and stretch and leave her like the sparse spirits that wanted to protect her giving away each day, she would tell those men with scalpels to stop and to call them cruel. She would suddenly take her to a different room. There would be something delicious and something sweet. And the woman would wait until she was done. So, sweetness meant something else, they tasted so bitter, so horrible.
The last time they dined, she her just a tart. A beautiful, flower blooming in bitter gull. She hadn’t ate in days, perhaps it was just a week, only a month. She was exaggerating. But she didn’t want her time in this room to end.
“We are almost finished, Vega. But, they almost found out. Sorry that I couldn’t get you anything better.”
“After this, you will be free.”
“Go on, then.”
And sometimes, the woman dared to take things in her hand. She knew how.
“We are going to find it, don’t you worry,” The woman would observe her over the machines and tubes and tables, smile.
“What do you mean by that?”
“The core of who you are, Vega.”
“We all have…what we are meant to be as the Creator intended deep within –”
“– You believe in the Creator?”
“….Yes, of course. We are all his vessels.”
“I guess…you don’t know Them, then,” She would stop listening to her, but at some point she remembered the images: the woman made sure that she was well-informed of each cut and slice, every trickle of blood that escaped her. She tried to find ways to still trust.
“Until you are what the Creator want you to be,” The woman would say. Layer by layer, stripped in a cycle, methodical, regular.
Nothing but ribbons of what she was laid waste by man, unfurled, painted by agony and tears and eyes stinging when she was too dehydrated to cry. She couldn’t recall, she didn’t want to be here, she had to go. But everytime she opened her eyes it was the rude white light and scarlet-splattered room.
It felt much longer than it was.
When she finally opened her eyes to comforting darkness and those soft colors of familiar eyes in place of the bright cyclop, she just wanted to see her hands without the white of her bones, to feel their weight, the comforting of another human’s heart and warmth humming against her.