The White Complex

Everything changes for 1109853, more commonly known as Christine, when her closest friend discovers cracks in the white complex, a massive living space filled with teenagers without memories. When people start to disappear, to what lengths will Christine take to escape the white?

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5. A Dark Black White

I try to speak but no words come. My hand outstretched, I can only stare at the figure sitting a distance away. "Mark?" His name slips off my tongue crackilly. He still doesn't turn towards me. Slowly, measuredly, I walk to wards the table, slightly aghast. I walk up to him and lightly touch his shoulder. He doesn't move an inch. I release my touch and pull back, my body wandering around the table to sit across from the boy. He stares down at folded hands resting on the table, completely silent. I can only stare at him. "What happened?" I stutter, my voice inchy with disuse. He clears his throat a bit but doesn't make eye contact.

"We failed," he says bluntly, completely absent of emotion. My eyes begin to mist over. "Everyone is dead," he says.

"I'm not dead," I counter. Slowly he raises his head towards me and I can see the agony and sadness which fills his eyes.

"No. I suppose you're not," he says, his voice unmatched his hurting expression. I'm confused, and upset, unknowing what to do. I stand up to walk away, but the blatant voice coming from his lips stops me suddenly. "You've been asleep for two days Christine," he says solemnly. I walk away, confused.

 

It's been three days since I've woken up from my apparent extended sleep. I've done nothing but sit and think. Now, I stare at a blank wall in the commons. I listening to the whirring of fans above my head. I wait for the feel of a bodies sliding up against me ready to chat for hours. I listen in silence to the cheering of fans as two competitors battle it out in the corner of the commons. I wait for Mark's reassuring voice to reach my ears, but it never comes. This is my new reality, I tell myself, but it doesn't feel real in the slightest. Hours pass by without me knowing, meal times pass without me eating. Days pass without me talking, or being talked to for that matter. I find myself slipping into a depression like state, and I lose touch with reality, just like I have lost touch with Mark.

 

I sit and think over the day we were caught; how they pierced my skin with a needle, breaking all boundaries of personal comforts . They physically and mentally toyed with us here. They lock us in big white prisons, taking away memories of all we once knew, only leaving the colorful tid-bits of what appears a normal, happy life. If this wasn't enough, they go and kill of everybody except the one person... I care for. The thought strikes me as odd, as if a sudden revelation were wavering across my faces like rumbling waves. I cared for Mark, unlike the way I cared for all my other fellow inmates. The feelings begun to stir inside me, shelling up into a painful collection of memories, definitions and emotions. Pictures came to my mind, those they are so “mercifully” left in tact. A disconnected grey image of some unknown boy and girl holding hands and letting their lips touch, a loose lock of sandy blond hair being pushed off a clean brow, and a brewing anger over Marks abandonment of me when I needed him most. I feel sick, my stomach twisting into freakish somersaults over my rushed and mixed emotions. I cradle my head in my hands, my elbows resting on the hard service and begin to cry. I weep for all those killed, I weep for Mark, and I selfishly weep for myself, struggling to cope with life. As I weakly melt into my own hands, I notice a strange reflection glowing on the glassy, white tabletop through the cracks of my fingers. Slowly, I drop my hands from my face and turn towards the cause of the pinkish reflections. Glowing brightly in red over a tall white door blared a sequence of tremulous numbers. 1109863. 1109853. 1109853. My breath hitches in my throat and I open cracked lips in shock of the display before me. The blood red, rolling numbers made of tiny glowing dots sear into my head and slowly in a daze I stand to their attention. Stumbling slightly, I make my way towards the pulsing beacon and lift my hand shakily to the cold metal handle of the door. For a moment, my senses return and my hand momentarily slackens its grip. The haze wrecks my mind once again and I fall into the will of my dying subconscious. I turn the knob slowly and walk into the bleak hallway.

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