Affinity 6 Ally

The room looks just as I expected it—simple. And yet an aura of comfort surrounds everything inside. My hand runs alongside the desk situated in the closest corner to the door. Silky smooth lines of cherry-colored wood greet my fingertips, and nothing grates beneath them. No specks of fine dust, no neglectful cobwebs—only the wood to feel.

There isn’t actually that much room to move about (not like I need a gymnasium to sleep in), but something tells me they knew what they were doing when designing. A bed dangles from the ceiling like a hammock, suspended by two lengths of chain and held against the wall on the opposite sides. I don’t have to climb in order to reach it, but a ladder is there, just in case. I suppose Avery will need it.

Off in the far corner is what I have been looking for, and wanting all along. A simple door is contrasted against the walls—dark wood against white. Why they did that, I have no idea. To add some color and variance to the brightness? Not like it matters to them in the massive hall. The color blinded me out there.

I make my way over to the door, walking around a simple chair set in the middle of the room. I frown as I pass by, staring down at its strange place in the room. Everything else is so carefully set as though they are matters of life and death, and this one chair—one so puny, I wonder if I will break it when sitting down—set in the middle of the room like a centerpiece.

Without thinking, I pick up the chair and move it over below the bed. There’s just enough convenient space beneath to sit and read a book, or just look up at the metal bars and think.

True to form, when I set the chair down beneath the bed, I stand up to full height and wham!—congratulations. Bruise number thirty-five of the day. Rubbing my head, I look up at the offending bar and slap it back. My knuckles rap against the hard steel and I AGH! in frustration and aching pain, now both in my head and hands.

Deciding the chair isn’t worth any more time or pain, I turn around to the door, one I know has what I want and need. A pair of fresh clothes has to be in there. Surely, they cannot expect us to run about in embarrassing nightgowns for the rest of our ‘stay’ here.

The door opens just as I knew it would—silent and unrestrained, rotating on its hinges as though suspended in space without anything to hold it back. And just inside the door are the clothes I want, folded and pressed together like sandwiches atop the shelves lining the inside.

My eyes scan the wannabe wardrobe, starting at the bottom and working my way up. Everything is taken into account. Nothing looks particularly interesting, because socks and underwear are only so exciting. But eventually, I see what I hoped for—or at least think I do.

I reach up to the top shelf and pull out the first one I see. It isn’t exactly what I was hoping for—a relaxing pair of jeans or sweats—but I decide anything is better than the clingy gown. I hold up the jumpsuit with a skeptical eye. Like everything else in this place, it’s white. Spotless and clean, just taking it out of the closet has probably dirtied its perfect appearance. Not like I care.

In a moment, the gown is off and I am left shivering with barely anything on, the room seeming surprisingly cold without the thin covering. But I step into the jumpsuit and try to fit both legs into it without falling down, and then slip my arms into the sleeves and zip and button it up to a few inches below my neck. I leave the top open so I can breathe.

The outside of the suit feels scratchy and extremely durable, but the inside is as soft as the softest blankets. How they do that, I have no idea. But I don’t care. Just looking down and feeling and stretching the jumpsuit tells me they built this to last. Reinforced at every joint and fitted to my form so I move without any constriction, this is one thing I will enjoy wearing. Anything but the gown.

And, of course, the Affinity symbol is emblazed across my chest like a beacon. I am tempted to open the desk drawers and find a marker—anything I can to cross out or ruin the symbol of the place which confuses and angers me, but I don’t want to ruin or dirty the suit at all.

The first good feeling I have had since I woke up, and I don’t want to ruin it.

The chair beneath the bed looks tempting, but the aching reminder in the back of my head keeps me from sitting in it. Besides, I still think I will break it. Looks way to flimsy. Pushed into the desk is another chair—one that looks like it could handle countless hours of studying or reading or reclining or thinking.

I pull it out, ignoring the protesting screech from the legs sliding across the hardwood floor. A cushion is set into the goth-ish seat—the entire thing strangely black, clashing with the white everywhere else. I recline back into it, leaning against it and fumbling with switches on the side to push it back until I lie almost prostrate. And then I stare into the ceiling.

Everything exhales—the past few hours and their struggles coming out to be appraised, the only things inside my memory. I find I want to keep them there instead of forgetting their confusement, because they are all I have. Something to cherish.

But I still hate them. All of them.

The test felt like everything I am was being scrimped and scratched away, all of my personality laid bare as they threw different situations at me. Like pitching me in the middle of the field during a baseball game would do anything except confuse me and anger fans—never mind the agonizing pain of the thrown ball in my side. Like having a boxer throw me around for a few minutes will do anything except prove that punches truly do hurt—not like the bruises and cuts across my face are still here. Like falling from the ceiling onto a table surrounded by dozens of businessmen will do anything except bring forth the stuttering—a memory that still makes my neck hot with embarrassment.

Supposedly, the entire was to determine how I would act in certain situations, and to decide which girl brought in would be paired with me. Such brilliance. If I wasn’t the one they had thrust into the issues, the one thrown into each problem to face and fail, then perhaps I would see the genius in their plan. But I cannot.

I will not.

And now here I am, inside an immense building they call ARC—the meaning of that word still a complete mystery to me. Now I just sit here until they fill me in on my purpose here, or if I have a purpose, and what it will be.

I suppose I shall learn in time? But sitting alone in this room won’t tell me anything except to reinforce in my mind one thing. That I hate the silence.