Falling Skies

Sixteen

Jenn's lips fall into a harsh line as her head falls into her hands. Loose curls brushing across her tear stained cheeks as she sits in the darkness of her office alone. Just the occasional tick of a clock accompanying her lone sniffles and cries.

Her mind won't let her leave the previous hours alone. Merely playing the scene on repeat, watching the hatred in her son's eyes as he looked at her, the way his words flew out with such a venom that the wounds still burn.

The only thing that pulls her away is the pain that runs the course of her arm, the broken glass of her desk embedded deep within her cream colored skin. Ignoring the pain, she brushes her hair out of her face in one swift movement, sniffling once more before exhaling the pain in one rickety breath.

Cautiously, she navigates through the broken glass to find a singular phone in the dark, breaths still shaky as she presses only one number, holding the phone to her ear and speaking a singular sentence:

"Prep him for surgery. Now."

•••

Wren sits with his legs crossed, knees bouncing in a nervous anticipation as he glances at the soldiers around him from the tops of his eyes. They're no longer dressed in their standard white uniforms, that alien-esque portrayal that would patrol the halls visible from his standard glass window.

Now they're cloaked in a funeral black, leather armor strapped to their chests like a beetle's exoskeleton. Their reflective visors only adding to the insect-like countenance. They pace behind the woman standing ahead of Wren, his leg still nervously bouncing in rhythm to the march of the beetles.

"Today's the day." Jenn's lips purse as she speaks, fingers fiddling behind her back as she attempts to read the thoughts behind Wren's lilac eyes.

He doesn't speak, doesn't move, just waits for the woman to continue as he forces his breaths to still.

Yet there are no more words to come, the world falling into silence as the beetles halt their barge. Their reflective bodies turn towards Wren before marching in his direction, the boy too frozen in fear to play with the idea of escape.

The first beetle falls upon him, its black hands wrapping around the bone of his forearm, yanking him forcefully from his seat on the bed. Jenn stands pressed against the wall, watching as more men crowd around him until he's engulfed by their black shells, every inch of his flesh crowded by hands that pull him away from the small holding room.

Wren had rarely been outside of his room throughout his stay at Haven, his eyes now blinking at the bright lights reflecting off the white walls. He's pushed through corridor after corridor, mind too frazzled and disorientated to concentrate on how many turns they had taken or where in the maze they might be.

It's almost as if a calm has washed over him, comforted by the rhythmic march of the guards surrounding him as the blinding lights beat down on his protruding bones. This isn't the way he wanted to die, but compared to life within this whitish hell it seemed admirable at this point. An undesirable option, but the best out of what was laid before him.

The crowd turns one last corner before stopping, Wren's chest rising with one last breath as he glances in between the cracks of the beetles. Just white walls on white lights on white floors.

It's what paradise is supposed to be. A bright haven, a whitened and pristine salvation. And yet to Wren the walls are already stained with his blood and smudged by his cries, his body trembling as his mind rushes to match his frightened heart.