WICKED told them the Trial was over -no more tests, no more lies, but Frankie had been deceived enough to know that the statement alone could never be true.
Truthfully, she wanted to die. She wanted to leave this cruel world of being experimented an...
The doctor said without lifting her gaze off the chart board cradled in her arms.
"We can do some research and invent something to help you more, but at this point of the Trials... We need all the resources, time, and attention we can get. I'm sure you can understand—"
From the first moment she met this particular woman, Frankie could tell that she wasn't supposed to live.
Dr. Lisa Lebeau —she had introduced herself as the doctor in charge the day Frankie woke up after her initial surgery; seemed like a generally friendly person, considering her fresh look and apparent smile lines. Sometimes Frankie could even heard the echoes of her laughters from the nurses' station.
But whenever she stepped foot into this room, her tone turned monotonous. Almost bored, and definitely annoyed.
She would say what she needed to say then leave hurriedly.
Of course, good thing the patient was her and not one of her fiery, loquacious friends. Frankie wasn't much of a talker, anyway. Especially when it came to conversing with WICKED's people.
"That thing over there is a KAFO."
Frankie tore her eyes off the young doctor, which also meant tearing her mind off all the judging thoughts in her head, and looked meticulously at the bunch of new stuffs she hadn't seen before.
The alien device Dr. Lebeau mentioned was probably that one; a complex monochromatic brace, made of plastics, leather and metallic joints, resembling the form of a leg. It came with a pair of forearm crutches, laid to stand against the pure white wall, a pair of white sneakers and a stack of socks placed neatly on the desk.
"Knee Ankle Foot Orthosis. With proper physical therapy, you can walk again when you wear this thing."
Walk again was a particularly sensitive subject these days, and Frankie's hands shot up reflexively onto her nape —as people said, old habits die hard.
Her left hand managed to find the jagged surface of one of her scars collections and massaged it, trying to loose the tense knot on her neck. The IV needle shifted a bit within her vein, causing a stinging pain.
Her other hand, however, was still a little bit weary. With equally exhausting amount of energy given —even more, actually, it only raised shakily halfway, then fell down limply onto her lap once more.
Three weeks. She reminded herself, the nurse said at least three weeks.
At least three weeks of routine check up and physical therapy, before she could gain more power and control over her right limb.
I'm only halfway through. I'm fine.
"As usual, Brenda will stop by at twelve. She'll teach you how to use this orthosis properly during today's therapy session. Any questions? Or I'm leaving."
"What's next?"
Dr. Lebeau furrowed her eyebrows together and lifted her gaze, finally meeting Frankie's eyes, "I'm sorry?"
"What's going to happen to me and my friends?"
"Just wait and see," Dr. Lebeau paused then regarded her with a very demeaning tone, "Subject A0."
The doctor left Frankie alone; alone with her thunderous thoughts, the drips of saline droplets and an empty, lonely hospice.
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