Scarlet remnants of shattered life trickle into the drain lining the road. Silence dominates. The world is frozen in shock, like a mistimed Victorian photograph. Flashbacks. Endless flashbacks plague the mind of the young girl standing unsteady in the road. Flashbacks of the event which had, moments ago, pulverised the steadfast flow of her existence.
Witnessing the lorry careering into the ongoing traffic; the explosion of the airbag into her fragile visage; screams, piercing screams of agony, only experienced before death; then ominous silence.
As the scene comes back into focus, she forces herself to breathe, yet her body feels as though it is constricted by the air surrounding it. The pungent taste of smouldering rubber and metal overwhelms her white lips: a stench almost too perfect, like a line of crafted code penetrating reality. As she attempts to suppress the uncontrollable quivering of her bloodstained teeth, her tightly woven braids hang limp, unmoving, ignorant to the malicious wind which controls everything else.
Dark spots begin to cloud her vision as though the fabric of her existence is beginning to crumble and distort. Stumbling around the wreckage, adrenaline courses into her shuddering limbs. Inside her head a voice utters syllables she cannot comprehend. Then peace, almost ethereal in quality, collects her exhausted body.
“Simulation now complete”
The unfamiliar whining of machinery pierces her hypnopompic reality. Muffled voices trouble her mind combined with the faint crumbing of biscuits broken in a sweaty hand. Someone notes, “Another failure.”
Her body feels buoyant in a cool medicinal fluid which brushes her fingertips. Twitching, her nostrils are overwhelmed by the alcoholic odor of hand sanitiser. All pain from before – gone. Loosely spread out on the surface, each strand of her auburn hair lies resolute, radiating calm energy. Cautiously, the girl allows intrigue to work into the networks of her brain, wondering, “Is this death? Am I going to lie here for the rest of my existence?”
Knowing she is a picture of vulnerability, a knot forms in her stomach as a dark shadow looms over her. A woman’s shrill voice drones like she is reading from a script, “Specimen number 8888: girl; age 15; attempted retrieval after motor crash; deceased for 5 minutes prior to transfer; no activity.”
A deeper voice states, “Leave her for 10 minutes then you can remove her from the fluid. Usually the young ones are dormant.”
An urgent pressure instantly implores the girl to breathe. The cool fluid which once seemed so serene becomes her cage, trapping her from coveted oxygen, seeping into her airways. Instinctively, her lungs contract and cough causing glowing liquid to spill over the sides of her plastic tank. Her chest expands, clawing at the air around her mouth as her pupils are dazzled by industrial lights above. White coats begin to rapidly invade her newfound vision, all muttering in confused excitement. “Specimen number 8888: conscious,” exclaims the shrill female in disbelief, “impossible.”
Rebounding around her head: conscious.
The girl whispers, “I am for real?”