What I See in Her Eyes | Freewrite ~ Flash Fiction

Twelve white coats stand awkwardly in a semicircle in a yellow-tinged, windowless room. Some have a clipboard, upon which few scribble wildly, while others tuck the accessory under their arm and rock back-and-forth on the speckled linoleum floor. One has a tape recorder, wire-framed glasses, and noise-canceling headphones despite the deafening silence.

A stenographer sits outside the circle, excluded not only by proximity but in dress: she wears a matching beige skirt suit ensemble, with sensible shoes and ear plugs. Her machine is unlike those of her time; the keys are flat, each gentle tap deafened by soft material beneath the letters.

In the center of the room, strapped to an examination chair, is a young girl with sleek, ebony skin. Her head shaved, her body stark naked, numerous cords and suction pads adhered to acupuncture points on every meridian the white coats could access. Over her mouth is a mask with a small vent near the mouth, but otherwise, complete debilitating her speech and consumption.

Her eyes are closed, but the toss and turn beneath her lids. A clock on the wall reaches 6:13 pm, and the white coat scribbling furiously furtively eyes the device. One minute passes. He raises his hand, and the headphone-clad individual turns to face him.

“Begin the test.”

In an instant, a muffled, piercing scream rips through the windowless room, causing the fluorescent bulbs to flicker and each individual in the place to breath hot and heavily from their mouths. Nervousness and the odor of clammy skin immediately fill the air.

The headphone-clad white coat holds steady his tape recorder and watches a meter on the wall as it rises, showing the accumulation of energy. The young black girl continues to scream, now writhing in her seat as though she might destroy her bonds and eradicate the entire facility.

Beads of sweat drip down the faces of those with clipboards, and though they each record their prescribed information, there is a mood most insidious creeping into the minds of every white coat in the room.

“End the test.”

Homeostasis is restored. The young subject is returned to an otherwise surrendered state. White coats file out with haste, and the lights cease their flicker. All is quiet. The test is over.

I quietly pack my stenographic typewriter, though it’s unlikely that the subject would be disturbed if an explosion were to go off in the next room. The same mood that crept into the minds of the doctors stays with me as I moved to leave.
Something comes over me. A magnetism, an urge, a calling from a voice not my own. Setting down my things gingerly, I make my way over to the subject. What the doctors see, I still cannot. They see a monster, a fiend, a creature they have captured and can now harvest from, like a field.

Yet, I see nothing more than a girl, whose skin glistens like moonshine on the midnight sea, with unexplored depths we could only dream of. I am overcome, and I reach out. I place my hand on her shoulder, her skin warm and soft despite the harsh conditions.

Her eyes jolt open and find mine immediately. Where in the eyes of the girls I know I see innocence and joy, I am met with an unfamiliar pairing on this threshold. And it is only in this moment that I understand why we are all here in this windowless room, under yellowed fluorescent lights, upon speckled linoleum floors.

Rage. In her eyes exists the purest form of human power upon which I have ever laid eyes. They are harvesting it.