"No matter your problems, face them with a bright smile and a bucket of chocolate ice-cream," nana once wisely told me. At the time, I was barely twelve and thought that I could summon a unicorn if I just believed in myself.
A decade later, despi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Maeva's point of view
After a long weekend of me reading books and dodging my parent's questions, the Monday sun rises high in the sky, and it is time for round two of the "Maeva vs hell lab" contest. The clock is an hour away from hitting five p.m., and I'm still working on an experiment Dr. Richardson had assigned me before going back to his clinic.
Looking around, I remember that day I worked at Mrs. Letterman's bookshop. It was so nice, so peaceful. No deadline to shed hair for. No Virgil to turn the place into a purgatory. And most importantly, no high-tech prison to bring out the claustrophobic maniac in me.
From the tiles to the ceiling and everything that comes in between, no spec of color's spotted. Unless, of course, we consider white to be the sum of all colors. In that case, we could say that whoever designed this lab is fond of rainbows and unicorns. Even the staff has turned all white in proof of ownership to the realm of science. White coats. White gloves. White hairnets. White masks...
Why did I have to leave the bookshop? Although Mrs. Letterman's organizing techniques are far from being perfect, she at least brought warmth to her shop. Why can't we at least have a plant around? It'd bring so much life to the room, and perhaps purify the air from a certain guy's toxins.
"Don't die near the centrifuge," barks Virgil, his eyes squinted at me in accusation.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. I'm just watching you slowly going crazy."
"You should've brought popcorn."
"No need," he assures as he walks away, "You're leaving, soon." What's that supposed to mean? I better not listen to this prick, otherwise, I'll end up pouring acid all over his polished scalp.
As the centrifuge finally beeps and snaps me out of my reverie, I take the lid of it off and am about to collect my sample. Just then, a hammer-like hit smacks me in the forehead. My heart beats are strangely accelerated and the tube I take out of the machine is suddenly duplicated.
Trying my best not to get anyone's attention, I walk to my purse and begin searching. From the tiny window of the changing room, I spot Virgil huffing a cigarette outside, and so I sigh in relief for I just spared myself a stupid audience. Where in the world did that tic-tac container disappear?
Having finally found my holy grail, I somehow manage to hold my hands from trembling and swallow the pill. Please calm down, heart. Please.
A minute later, cold sweat slowly evaporates from the surface of my skin and I sit on a stool to catch my breath.
"How long has this been happening?" a deep voice emerges from behind me, and I keep my head low as I ignore the question. "Maeva," he says, sighing what seems to be all of his lung content, "you can't hide it anymore." Wasn't he and Emma out for the rest of the day?
