Son of Lazarus

Chapter 4: The Boy in Room Seven

October 16th, 2038
3:31 p.m.

   The hands that had her by the biceps were rough and unkind. She could tell by how tight they were holding onto her. She felt them stop and heard a door spiral open. Then she was tossed unceremoniously into the room. She landed ungraciously against the polished, white marble floor with her hair scattered around her head.   "We're looking forward to your next treatment, Subject Six." Spat a man's voice, laughter edging each word. The laughter died down as the door to her room—her prison—spiraled shut. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, listening as the footsteps faded into the distance, giving her a moment of peace.   She allowed a soft sob to jerk out of her pale lips and she could feel her muscles beginning to tremble. Slowly, she drew herself up onto her knees, her slender arms dragging across the floor and into her lap while her head tilted back to stare at the hard fluorescent light that was embedded into the ceiling above her head.   They were always cruel to her, the people here. They had been for a very long time and they always would be. There was only one person whom she truly trusted; he treated her like a daughter instead of an experiment.

   With shaking fingers, she brushed away the tears that had scored lines on her dirt-covered, diamond-shaped face. She heaved a deep breath and exhaled in a drawn-out sigh, her left hand now reaching around to her right arm where a new, purple bruise had begun to form.
   Her actions paused when voices drifted toward her through the door. She craned her head around to listen, trying to pinpoint where the voices were coming from. It sounded like they had just entered this section of the facility from the back just beyond.
   But thanks to the door that separated her room from the rest of the hallway, the voices were muffled nearly beyond recognition. Despite this, she was still able to identify them individually based on the pitch and tone.
   She could thank the years she had spent here for that ability, though it wasn't her only one. As the source of the voices drew closer, she could feel each mind. A useful skill that came in handy when she needed to identify the facility's personnel.
   "Make certain that Mister Cummings is well taken care of, Mister Stanford." The first voice made her hands clench into fists against her legs as a reflex, her knuckles turning white from how tight they were. That voice belonged to Jason Thresher; a man she deeply despised.

   "Of course, Doctor." The second voice was more gentle and much softer than Thresher's voice. That was Stanford. She continued to listen as a single set of footsteps passed her room by, the visual of Thresher's chestnut hair appearing and disappearing from the frosted window that was set in the door.
   Then a third voice rose to her ears, the strength of youth in it. "Are you sure he's a good man?"
   The pleasant sound of Stanford's chuckle greeted her ears in response to the youth's question. "He is intimidating, for sure," he answered. "But he means well. Now, Mister Cummings, you should go and get some rest. God knows you'll need it. They want to run more tests and find the best way to help, so they want you at full strength."
   Either the sound of scoffing or a laugh came from the younger man and when he spoke again, his voice sounded drained.
   "Like I told Thresher when I set foot here," he began, his voice softening. "I haven't slept properly in years. I highly doubt I'll be able to now."
   She felt her heart go out to the young man and listened as his door spiraled shut, the mechanism clicking into place as it locked. She had heard rumors from the other patients that the facility had taken another in. Perhaps it was time she discovered for herself whether they were true or not.

   The sound of a sudden knock on her door made her jump and sent her slamming back onto the marble floor with a softer impact than earlier. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her hands were flat against the floor when her door spiraled in on itself.
   Standing in the doorway was a tall, bulky man. He wore a vee-neck shirt that was neatly and loosely tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans. He wore the signature white coat of the faculty. It covered most of his body and seemed to hug his shoulders a bit too tightly, showing off the muscles underneath.
   His skin was softly tanned and his black hair was slicked back, a single stray strand dipping down over his forehead. Stanford fixed her with a chocolate gaze, his black eyebrows shifting on his face so that one was raised and the other dipped in a quizzical look.
   "Were you eavesdropping, young lady?" He asked, his voice soft and gentle, yet as firm as a father would be.
   "No," she responded bluntly, shifting so that her legs were drawn under her in an Indian-style sit. Her hands even moved so that they were resting against her knees as she sat forward. "I was simply listening to you talk."
   Stanford gave a soft chuckle and stepped into the room, the door spiraling shut behind him. "Come on, Lily," he said, reaching down and offering her a hand. "It's me. Tell me the truth."