After being frozen for a millennium, Avanna Myles awakes to a new age of Earth. She is in a time of plastic beauty, of advanced technology, and of life easily bought. But her newfound life is not a blessing, but rather a curse. Her past visits her in her wake, when she closes her eyes, and it takes all of her strength to ignore it. She is a slave to the government and its people, and every time she escapes them, she reawakens in the arms of authority. When she finds her reason to live, it lies too far away for her to reach. But her hope is strong. Unadjusted to the new life ahead of her, she needs to learn to adapt to the new rules of the society, or else her heart will stop. For good.
(Currently in the process of being re-written.)


4. Chapter III.

I keep waking up to constant surprises. The first one is that I am alive, the second one is that I am still alive, and the third one is that I am bound to a white chair, with what seems like a comfy headrest. I feel like when I keep waking up in places I don’t recognize and tied to certain stationary objects, the odds are not in my favor. When I experience such things more than once, in two different lifetimes, the odds are definitely not in my favor. My room is once again white-walled. It, to put it frankly, creeps me out how little color there is left in the world. The hospital’s color palette could really use a makeover.


The screens on the wall monitor my heartbeat, and many other things I can’t discern. A metal table stands eerily in front of me. It doesn’t take me more than seconds to put the pieces together. I wait for what could be hours. The clock in the corner says that what I feel are hours are actually minutes. After ten of these agonizingly long minutes, doctors file in one after the other. The room is quickly permeated with the toxic odor of melted rubber and disinfectant. They pull out their long needles, and their clipboards, and their facemasks. My face must have twitched into a face of extreme fear, because their eyes bear into me through their goggles with looks that could be concern, and they try to utter words of encouragement. I spy a screen across the room that shows camera feed centered on me. I look a lot worse than I actually feel. My skin looks like thick leather and my eyes have sunken below my cheeks; I look like a zombie. The only telling that I am actually human is the emotions my face still has the capacity to make. The doctors begin to swarm me with questions. My age? I’m not sure if I know the answer to that one. Allergies? None. Pre-existing medical conditions? When I was four, I shut my hand in a door because I didn’t want to go to school. I got a cast, and my mother made me go to school to get it signed. I wasn’t sure if that really counted. They ask me if I want to stay awake for the procedure. For the only time in the duration of the next two months, I say yes. They mutter to themselves, as if they didn’t expect that answer.


The long needles pierce my skin at my stomach, and it hurts at first, a sharp pain I didn’t expect. Then, I can’t feel anything. I can’t move anything. More doctors come in, wheeling in tables of scalpels and blood pouches. Out of the very corner of my eye, I see an IV drip. They remove the bonds on the chair and, before I can fall over, gently lift me to a metal table. I don’t bother to ask what is happening; I have lost mobility of my jaw, and I know I won’t receive any answers. In horror, I can only watch as they cut my chest open.


I didn’t think I would ever see so much red again. I try to scream, but I remember I can’t open my mouth. I scream into my thoughts, and hope that will suffice. I watch them crack apart my sternum, and poke a needle into my heart. I black out, for what doesn’t seem to be too long because when I come to, they are still operating on me. I look down again, and to my horror, I no longer have my real heart. A pale white orb is in my chest, pulsing. Beating. I hear the pound of blood in my ears. I cannot scream, and I become fraught with hot rage. They put my chest back together, stitching me up. I watch them burn the skin, melting it back together. And then, spraying a certain liquid on it that makes new fresh skin instantly blend over, erasing any scaring. It could be as though it never happened. Once again, the needles pierce my skin, this time at my neck. I’m put back to sleep.


I awake once again back in my hospital room, with my cot and dim lighting, and my drab hospital gown. I try to sit up, but my chest feels like I’ve survived getting hit by a train. My head spins, and I decide to play it safe and lie still. There are times in my life where I feel like it is rational to cry. My brother abandoned my family. My parents died alone on the streets. My heart was stolen out of my chest. Ironically, the only times in my life I don’t cry is when the tears are rational. The sorrow is just so heavily overwhelming, all I can do is shut my eyes and let it wash over me. I don’t know what’s in my chest. I don’t know how I’m still breathing. I don’t know anything, and my sorrow is replaced by a heavy throb of anger. I roll my face into my pillow and scream myself hoarse. The tears come out then, angry tears, flooding like a broken dam. My mind thinks foolish and ignorant things: It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.


Once again, he comes out of nowhere. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and hear his deep voice in my ears. I can almost imagine his dark, gold eyes staring at me in some sort of exasperated attempt to be comforting.


“It’s the fourteenth of September, still 3014 if you were wondering. My name is Sea, and I am quite possible one of the few valuable allies you can have in your life.” I recall that he is extremely pretentious. My reply is another round of gnarled screaming into my pillowcase. I hear his footsteps leave. 

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