By: Grace Mastroianni
Salty tears roll down my face, leaving streaks through my makeup before dropping to the metal table beneath me. I’m alone in the room, trapped on a metal slab with leather straps wrapped tightly around my arms, legs, torso, and neck. I’ve yanked against them repeatedly, but they won’t budge.
The room is dark and the table is cold. I can’t see anything around me because of the surgical light shining into my face. The light hurts my eyes. I’m bawling.
“Help!!” I scream at the darkness, but deep down I know that nobody will hear me.
I remember being at a party. Dancing with my friends. Somebody slipped me something. They gave me a drink that tasted funny. I finished it anyway.
I passed out.
I woke up here, strapped to a table that I was sure I would die on. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to go like this. Graduation was just around the corner, I was going to be a college graduate. I was ready for life!
I wasn’t ready for death.
The door opened with a bang.
The stranger stepped into the light, wearing a surgical mask and scrubs. They were crisp and clean, a nice pale blue. They were meant to be calming for surgeons.
My heart wanted to leap out of my chest. I had a twisted feeling that soon it would be getting it’s wish.
“Your face will fetch a very good price.” He pokes and prods at me, pulling at my cheeks and tweaking my nose. I sob silently.
He wipes my tears.
I know he will not let me live.
I hear him rustling around nearby, before he comes back with a breathing mask and a scalpel.
I don’t want to die.
I pull at the straps, the fearful adrenaline returning my strength.
It’s not enough. The straps are too tight.
I want to live.
I’m not ready to leave here.
“Count backwards from ten.” He sounds as if he is grinning at me.
He places the mask over my face with one hand, the other holding me down while I struggle against the leather straps attaching me to the table. Slowly I stop. I feel sleepy.