I sit there. There upon the heat of the clouded glass walls around me; buried in the heat of my body. I’m locked inside. I’m locked from society. I’m locked from freedom. The implanted headphones are magnetised into my head. They’re stuck; but so am I. My focused eyes are fixated onto the telegram in front of me, airing from an elevating glass ball, ever so slightly bopping up and down. My eyes refuse to move. They refuse to look away. They refuse to be controlled.
My open jaw is dry, from the slaving hours of my body being suffocated in the heat, while my mind was screaming. Screaming to be released. Screaming to be – free. I can feel, through the un-real paralysis that I know to be too true, a drop of saliva escapes the corner of my mouth. It can escape, but I can’t. I’m locked away.
As I watch the aged man on the screen shove his launching words into the very depths of my brain, I begin to realise that the hour has almost ended. I attempt to move my slouched figure, dull eyes and hanging arms but I fail. I’m paralysed with fear, with exhaust, with a pleading will to be free. I’m stuck here for the next half an hour, but I understand that this will be over. This will end. My un-real paralysis will fade. But so will my recollection of this very event. It will escape, but this time, so will I. But it will happen again. Repeatedly. I won’t know when it will end, until it does end. Until I can finally sleep in the comfort of my own pod. My pod that stays luminated in the dark hours of the night, providing a blue-purple glow onto the very bare of my skin. My own space and not sit in a cramped cage for hours that seem to wane and feel like years.
The man I know too well says his goodbyes through the animated screen and my headphones relax. They release the seemingly never-ending pressure I experienced on the rim of my ear drum. But then – I see a flash. It burns my eyes. It burns the nerve endings near my eyes. I feel the pain. I feel it all. But with a slight touch that ripples through my entire body and sends a shiver up my spine, I stand. I stand with a straight back facing doors that I haven’t seen before but -- have felt.
A tall woman wearing bright red lipstick and a navy-blue suit that consisted of a blazer paired with a peplum skirt, rapidly, but elegantly, clicks past my cubicle in her red stiletto heels. She faintly reminded me of someone. Someone with a purpose of being there. Someone with a foul intention.
‘Genevieve, welcome to the Metanoia Civilisation Academy I will guide you to your assigned cubicle’ A young girl followed. She seemed so innocent. So sweet. So young.
If I could only tell her why she’s here. If I could only tell her how she’ll feel. If I could only remember...