On The Scale Of

Prologue

I'll never forget that look on his face.

Gone was the smug half-smile and overall airy nonchalance he usually wears, his oppositely-arched eyebrows and open-mouthed frown highlighted this new expression. It was hilarious to look at. Well, it would have been hilarious if it weren't for the searing pain on the space just above my left collar bone.

Ah, but at least he's safe. Hopefully.

What would my mother think about this though? And my sister. She'd probably cry like a little baby. She still better not touch my stuff, though.

Daniel. Hmm. Maybe now he'll stop thinking about how to 'fix' me. He'll probably come to the realization of how mature and responsible I was, and how he cared for me despite his very convincing charade that tells me otherwise. At least, that's what I hope. His cool facade did crumble before my eyes. I wish I'd be there to tease him about it.

Wait... does transitioning to death involve nausea?

My eyes snapped open before I could even form an answer. My vision was cloudy at first, so I continued to focus on the ceiling of the room I was apparently in. Disorientation was imminent. I struggled to sit upright, only to be hit by another wave of nausea. The world spun again. I held a hand to my mouth and prayed I wouldn't hurl.

The dizziness passed moments after. I wiggled my aching toes and cracked my dry knuckles. I took a brief look around and recounted the events that transpired not a while ago. I started to panic when I began noticing that I was in an unfamiliar room. The walls were plain white without any sort of decoration. The floor and the ceiling too. No drawers. No cabinets. No nothing. There was only a single bed in the middle of this barren room. Which I'm currently lying in. I suppose there's a door, too.

A sharp sting punctured the skin connecting my neck and my shoulders. I grasped the area, tracing it with my fingers. The texture wasn't as smooth as the skin surrounding it, I noted, as my fingers felt through tiny bits of lump and jarred skin.

A scar. But I got shot only a while ago. Hours ago even. There shouldn't be a scar here. It was a fresh wound! How long was I even out?

A ringing silence filled the room. The door creaked open and a brown-haired man slipped inside.

"You're finally awake. I was worried you'd take longer," he said.

I continued to stare at him, not recognizing him from anywhere.

"Do you remember how you got here?" He looked down at the chart he was holding, all pretense of worry gone.

I do, but the look on his face suggested that I wasn't supposed to.