Young Writers Society

(My format's been messed up by the site again, so if you have any suggestions for that, please tell me)

Introduction

I scream at the pain, thrashing about and sitting up quickly, so quickly I feel as though I'll start

retching. The room is blurry- or maybe it's my vision that's blurry, I can't tell. I can make out numbers above the door, something like a seven, and a five...no, that's a two...and an I- wait, that's a one. Seven twenty-one. Right.

The walls are all white, and as my vision adjusts, I can see that the floor is as well. There's a dark

red substance at the base of the corner where wall meets floor. Is that blood? The room reeks of something that's almost akin to the stench of decaying flesh. I struggle to move, but all my arms do is shake. They're tied down, secured to the bed. I lie back down.

It's like a doctor's room, in a way. Monitors and a bed and a bunch of sharp tools on the counter next to the bed. Of course, it could also be a murderer's room, or a mad scientist's, or a-

The door slams open. “How are we feeling this morning, Atlanshi?”

My name? How does she know my name? I groan, before muttering, “Where am I?”

“Don't you remember?” She asks, and I say nothing. “You poor thing,” she says, pausing, as she

pulls out a folder, and marks something in it. She walks over, leaning down next to me. “But you'll find out soon enough, don't worry.”

“Okay,” I hear myself say, half-dazed. She's fiddling with something now, and I feel it poke against the center of one of my eyes. “What are you...?”

“Sorry. Everytime a new one comes in, we have to completely immobilize them.” I feel a needle

pressing against my arm, and wince in pain as she injects me with some sort of blue substance. She fiddles with something near my other eye, and next thing I know, my eyelids have been shoved apart, leaving the eyes completely exposed and able to see everything. I feel one of them start to water, and try to move my hand, but it's still tied down, and my arms don't even want to move at all. She stands up, grabs the folder, and proceeds to walk back toward the door. I try to call out, but my voice is lost. I can't speak.

Almost as soon as she leaves, another figure walks into the room, a man, who nods, looking down at me.

“Adequate.” He finally says, before shining a flashlight in my eyes, and untying one of my hands,

letting my arm drop lifelessly off of the bed. “I suppose you're wondering where you are?”

I try to nod, but my head won't move. He seems to understand though, and, unblinkingly, replies, “You're in a space called the Void. It's a passing dimension, if you will.” He pauses. “You're dead.”

I can only lie there, saying nothing as he continues to talk, poking and prodding at my unmoving body. I'm dead? What?

My widespread eyes stare unblinkingly at the ceiling.

What the hell is going on?

“Would you like to watch?” The doctor asks, as the nurse wheels a screen in from the doorway. He presses a button, and the screen flashes to life.

I'm standing on a chair, placing a rope around my neck, tightening the noose around my throat. I can see the me on the screen visibly swallow, and then-

“To whoever cares,” the doctor reads, and my eyes widen even more. “I'm sick of it. I want out. My head hurts. I'm just...done with this. You know, just about everything they say about love, hope, happiness, prosperity...it's all bullshit. I don't care why I'm so depressed, I just know there's enough bullshit in this world without my contribution.”

He smirks at this, pausing, before continuing. “So that's how it is. And tonight, the night of my birthday, will be the night that I kill myself. How ironic. When you find me here, hanging from the rafters, with the color drained from my face...well, you'l have to face reality, I guess.”

The me on the screen kicks the chair, and the rope drops. I struggle, kicking my legs, hands trying to reach for my throat, and then there's a snap, and my body is there, dead...hanging...

“Cheers for the end...” he reads, and I feel my throat opening up again, voice preparing to scream.

“Stop it!” I yell.

“...Atlanshi Ackerman.” He laughs. “What a great suicide note. I have to say, I'm impressed that a kid your age put this much thought into it.”

“Shut up.” I say. “It has nothing to do with you.” He jams another needle into my arm, and I scream.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“An injection,” he answers, blank-faced. I struggle, thrashing around.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“Ah ah,” the nurse mutters, waving a finger at me. I feel my limbs and throat starting to grow heavy again, and fall back.

“Tomorrow you'll start the catechism.” The doctor says, walking out of the room with the nurse. “Until then, please try and rest up. It'll greatly benefit you in the end.”

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I'm already dead. I died. What the hell's going on?

The door shuts, and I grit my teeth, trying to move, but I can't. I feel drool leaking from one side of my mouth. They told me to rest. How can I rest when my eyelids are propped open? I feel tears beginning to leak from my eyes, and a noise tries to escape from the back of my throat, and I choke on it. Is this what death is supposed to feel like? Am I in hell? What's this catechism they're talking about? This has got to be some sort of sick joke.

I lie there, completely still, staring forward at the wall. I can't think straight. My mind's going in twenty different directions at once.

I lean back as much as I can and try to force my body to rest, but it can't. Whatever they injected me with is burning, and it makes me want to pass out. So I just lie there and wait for their return.