The Genetic Code

Chapter 12

As I lie rigid in bed that night, willing myself to go to sleep, I can't force shut the floodgates of thoughts that wash over my restless mind.

Just imagine white, nothing but white — a void of nothingness.

I tell myself that over and over, trying to clear my head of its running thoughts and get a hold of my mind. But the thing about the adolescent mind is, the more you try to control it or shut it down, the more force it fights back with.

I'm always on the side of rebellion — When there's an argument, I never take the side of one party, or the other. I'm against both.

But when it's an internal struggle, the person I am ultimately fighting, is myself. My will is too strong for my own good; I'm merciless, unrelenting. I don't let myself lose, so I can't win.

Even in this simple play of mental control, I'm unable to prevail, because in that span of white I attempt to paint in my mind, pink spots keep appearing, shining glaringly under my eyelids so that I have to force my eyes open into the darkness.

Those damn pink spots. Its like they've been tattooed onto my eyeballs, so that I see them everywhere I look, even following me into my sleep, haunting my subconscious. They're taunting me, never letting me get any peace, constantly there reminding me that, no matter how vehemently I try to deny it, I know what I saw. It wasn't any optical illusion. It wasn't a mistake. My eyes are never wrong, I have perfect eyesight.

My mind flips back to the moment in that testing room, replaying the series of events in my head...

***

"Kera Rosamund," the wiry-haired witch called out from the list. I despised even hearing my name slip out of her greasy lips. She somehow managed to make even the most regal name sound so... unrefined. I guess even vocal chords have different calibers. Such a name as mine shouldn't be spoken from the likes of people like her. Sure, she may be a Perfect, but anyone who can't recognize the status of the Rosamund name is worse than an Invalid, because of their flagrant ignorance.

As I sat at the testing table with my arm numb, disgusted that she's one to have to draw the essence of my purity from my arm, I dropped her a gentle reminder, "Stick the needle in correctly, it should form a 30 degree angle with the surface of my arm, no less. I don't want to get a scar because of your incompetence." I flipped my head to the side to look directly at her, "You may be okay with having holes in your skin but I actually care about my appearance."

That wretch had the tenacity to breath a deep sigh, speaking as if to a child, "Miss Rosamund, I have no intentions of starting any catfights with you today."

Who was she to decide whether or not I wanted a fight? If I wanted one, I'd get one. It started when I wanted to, and ended as soon as I held out my hand. But this witless wretch didn't seem to be able to grasp that concept. Catfight? She made it sound petty, when it was obviously a blatant breach of respect on her part. All I was trying to do was show her where her place was — beneath my feet. She's just an employee, while I'm the heir to the very company she's working in. She should be bowing down to me in surrender if she knew what was good for her.

However it seemed that this lady had a death wish, as she continued to prattle on in that same tone, "Yes, I understand that your family owns this company, and someday, you will too. But not all of us are as lucky as you are, and I actually have to work to earn a living. So I would really appreciate it if you would just let me do my job, we will get this over and done with, and never have to see each other ever again."

This woman sure knew how to make my blood boil. My anger was brimmed so high that I could feel it all the way to my fingertips. Well, the hand that I could feel, anyway. I curled my left hand up into a tight fist, throwing her a scowl with narrowed eyes.