shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

o49

vance

The rhythmic beeping of a machine at my bedside is what rouses me from a drug-induced sleep. A soft groan slips past my lips as I open my eyes, revealing a room unlike my own. The walls are white, the only exceptions the large windows that face the city. I see the Love Bureau from where I am, the science labs, where life is pumped steadily out of machines. I turn away from the sight and soak in my surroundings from where I lie, my body tingling as feeling slowly returns.

I know exactly where I am. The hospital, of course; the drip by my bedside and the needle sunk into a vein on the back of my hand are dead giveaways. Vaguely, I remember waking up from the- the dream, shirt wet with sweat, beads of perspiration drying up on my forehead. I remember looking down and seeing Robin there, reading the book we all own, oblivious to what was going on above her, not a care in the world, because she has no secrets. I remember staring right at her and feeling a sudden wave of hate overcome me. Why do you get to be perfect? Why do you get to be ordinary, why do you get to be the way they want us all to be? 

And then I simply got up and walked myself through the hospital doors. They must have recognised me; that's why I'm not in a ward with other people.

I remember staring at the broken Japanese vase scattered all over my bedroom floor. There's a weight in my pocket; I'd pocketed a fragment. The broken clay is harmless; the nurses haven't taken it off me. I remove it from its little hiding spot, and turn it around in both hands, staring at the half of a beautifully painted wave, identical to all its brothers and sisters that had made up the remainder of the vase, but, if one knew where to look, one would see that each wave was slightly different.

"I'm surprised they let you keep that." He's like a ghost. The sound of his voice makes the little dark hairs at the back of my neck prickle; it hands in the air around me, no breeze present to wash it away.

I drop the piece of painted clay into my lap and sit up in bed, the papery gown I wear rubbing uncomfortably at the side of my neck. "Well. It's not like I could've stabbed someone with it," I answer stiffly, my eyes meeting his. "Father."

He laughs, and there's a horrid squealing sound that ensues from him dragging his stool closer so he can sit right by my bedside. "I don't think you would've been able to bring yourself to do it," he says. "I ought to say 'I'm disappointed in you, Vance,' but I'm not." I can feel his breath on my cheek. It smells like coffee and fresh peppermint. 

"Why not? It's a perfectly logical thing to think," I answer. "I've done plenty enough to disappoint you."

He reaches over and I flinch, but his smile doesn't waver. He brushes my bangs from my warm foreheads. "You're ill, Vance, and I'm going to take care of you, I promise. I made sure they didn't  put you in a public ward- we don't want questions being raised."

I jerk my head to the side and his hand falls onto my pillow with a soft thudding sound. "Well, I've got a question for you. What were you looking for, when you sent a squad of your minions to my apartment? The chip? I know you didn't find what you were looking for- but I want answers. I want them now," I seethe.