Novocaine

"They said everything was fine.

They said that nobody got hurt.
They said that everyone was safe.
What they didn’t say was who there.
What they didn’t say was who wasn’t.

But most importantly, what they didn’t say was what happened there.
And why it happened there.”

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1. an introduction of [somewhat] names

Her head was a pumpkin.

 

At least, that was the first impression he got when he caught a glimpse of two people - their genders were hard to know, masks covered their faces and large baggy radioactive suits covered their bodies - dragging a girl into one of the white rooms.

 

He’d only caught sight of her limp leg and her head. A large amount of excruciatingly painful orange was what he saw in the space above her neck and where the stump was erupted the tendrils of the pumpkin’s stem furled around it and curled at the end. He had the odd thought that it might have actually be curled with a curling iron, but dismissed it immediately, the steam of a pumpkin was thicker than hair - obviously. However the thought did amuse him enough to wipe his blank stare off his face for several seconds.

 

He watched through the small, rectangular,plastic window imbedded in the walls of each white room, to try and see what happened to the girl with the pumpkin on her head. He couldn’t tell much about her other than a possible appetite for pumpkins or that it must have been Halloween the previous night. He wasn’t bothered in the dates or the days or weeks, months, years, seconds or hours. Time just seemed to blend in together and suck out the life out of people before they even notice. It was quite morbid, but morbid is what the world is full of, whether it came from the actions of others - family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, law enforcements, grocery shoppers, aunts-whom-smells-like-cat-pee and that guy from across the street that constantly carried his lamp around - to either themselves or those who surround them or the actions inflicted on unsuspecting beings.

 

One of the two figures who took the girl into the room opposite and diagonal to his walked out and shook their head, the helmet they wore was dented and the tinted plastic,that hid their identity and occasionally intentions, had scratch marks on it. He scoffed and went back to concentrate on the bandage wrapped around his hand. It was the only thing in the white room he was allocated that was discoloured compared to the bland colour scheme he endured for almost half a year.

 

Almost.

 

He heard a knock come from the window in the door, he didn’t turn around and heard the knock return a moment later, this time slightly more impatient if knocks managed to sound so. He watched over his shoulder as the figure with the scratched mask gestured to their own arm before they pointed at his. He shook his head, unbothered by the somewhat concern.

 

The figures asked the same question over and over again for the past two weeks. They didn’t particularly ask considering they haven’t spoken to him in over two weeks. He didn’t mind. It gave him peace that they stopped being bothered to have any vocal interactions with him.

 

“Shot three-oh-five will begin in half an hour,” the figure said, their voice soft and higher than a man’s so he concluded that the figure was either a choir boy or a woman. He went with the latter. “You mustn’t pick on the bandage oh-four,” she scolded and he raised an eyebrow at her.

 

Whenever they used the technical terminology given to him rather than his actual name he felt a piece of humanity rip away from the picture painted in his head and imagined it being tossed onto the ground and set alight. The woman tapped on the plastic again and pointed at the digital watch that blinked the numbers 13:04, he nodded and waved her off before he stood up.


Once the woman was gone from his view, he walked towards the blank wall that was the only thing that separated him from the hallway full of other plastic rectangular blocks for windows. The wall that separated him from the others, from the others hidden behind those rectangular plastics on the wall. Stuffed away into their very own oblivions until the time came for their turn to go. He didn’t know when his time to leave was nor was he interested in finding out, but it was a curious game he had played with oh-six when she had the room opposite to his. They’d try to mime what they think happened and mouthed the words and times, the dates and years, the month and place. It was an odd game of theirs but it was their very own game.

 

He leaned forward, head touching the window. It was warm while he was cold, his hand was warm while the rest of his body was cold. The room was average temperature, he remembered one of the Leaders informing them about it last October, but he was cold, frozen actually.

 

Without the sudden interest in the outside he went to slump into the mattress and newly changed duvet to rest but halted and squinted at the room diagonal from his, the room where the pumpkin headed girl was put in, on the window, pressed tightly was a hand with black markings on her palm, she pulled it away and slammed it back again. She pulled away and slammed again, and again. And again.

 

The second figure who dragged the girl in had managed to shut her in there while they slipped away, he wondered what they thought about this. How they felt about the entrapment of people in the layers of Murge, a stimulate project that had supposedly begun two years ago but theorists, including him, thought that Project SPHN started two decades ago when the rate of missing children was at its peak. However when rehabilitation sites popped up around the globe since the new vaccines were introduced and how the economy depleted while the death of thousands rose each month, the amount of conflict and rebellion against Murge and Co. dropped to a bare minimum with the fear of death and the dying.

 

The girl seemed to be one of the few rebellious characters with her hostility towards the window and her gestures towards the figures who surrounded the entrance to her room, they called out to one another and spoke into the headsets imbedded in their suits. There was a spark of confusion between the white suits that surrounded Pumpkinhead's room. He was interested and leaned forward, hands pressed against the window while he tried to absorb as much of the issue as he could.

 

The girl screamed profanities and yelled promises of ripping everyone apart when she got out, everything typical he would expect from a newcomer, but what he didn’t expect was the pumpkin on her head. She hadn’t removed it and the triangles where her eyes and nose were meant to be looked demented in the way they were tilted to the side, the mouth wasn’t there, simply jagged lines crisscrossing over the surface of the pumpkin but nothing was carved out. An nonexistent mouth that only seemed to intensify her rage.

 

He felt everything inside him freeze at the sight of her. He’d only seen her foot and part of the pumpkin on her head - why there was a pumpkin on her head he wasn’t entirely sure, worried yes, but completely unsure. But now she had a name, or a nickname that is, names weren’t given around here nor where they often used, an alias if he would give it a proper definition.

 

Her alias was Pumpkinhead.

 

 

I've posted this on Wattpad - an online writing community, however the site has been banned where I live and I'm going through a withdrawal, but I found Movella and it seems interesting, so I thought, why not try this site one, right? Anyways, hope you liked it, feedback is always appreciated.

p.s unedited :/

-zoë

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