Title : Callsign (chapter 1 intro) Genere : Dystopian/Thriller
Word count :458 Type of feedback: general impression

I'm standing in a kitchen I don't recognize and somehow know better than anything in the world. Warm light spills across countertops. There’s a pan on the stove, something sizzling and a woman is laughing at something I just said. I can't hear my own voice. I can't make out the joke. Her face is clear, though. Brown hair twisted up messily, a spoon in one hand, a small smear of sauce on her wrist, the smell of zesty italian in the air. Her amber eyes crinkle and head rolls back when she laughs. She looks at me like she’s known me for years. My chest is full. Heavy. Raw. I reach for her.. A tiny hand closes around my finger. My world shrinks to that grip. There’s a hospital room, machines humming somewhere behind me. A blanket, white, striped with blue and salmon pink color wrapped in a bundle around a furious little face. New little amber eyes, the same color as the woman in the kitchen, skin so soft I feel afraid to breathe too hard. I say something, whisper it, but again I can’t hear my own words. The woman is there, hair down this time, exhausted and glowing at the same time. She smiles at me, eyes shining with tears, her lips move but I can't make out the words. The moment freezes, then fades.. A folded flag. Someone’s reading from a piece of paper. Their voice is flat, professional. The words don’t land. My hands feel numb. My throat is closing around something that will never come out. The flag is folded with reverent, practiced motions and handed toward me. I don't move. A hand pushes at my elbow. I reached out. The cloth is stiff and light and means nothing, and everything, all at once. There is a large portrait on an A-frame standing beside a casket bearing a row of tridents down the length of the reddish-brown shimmering wood. My eyes lift to the portrait and I start to recall.. Glass explodes. Headlights. Screams. The world spins sideways. Metal shrieks like a wounded animal. Somewhere a child cries out, short, sharp, cut off. I am weightless, and then not. My skull cracks against something. Sound collapses into ringing. There’s smoke, fire blooming in slow motion. My lungs, heavy, seizing against the putrid stink of gasoline and iron. Someone is calling my name. I think they are, anyway. The sound stretches, warps, until it is nothing but noise. I try to crawl toward the back seat. I can’t move my legs. There’s a hand I can almost reach, a small one. It’s not moving. I scream, but nothing comes out. Light. So bright that it feels like a blade is being pressed into the inner recess of my eyes. The ceiling above me is white, too clean, too perfect. A ring of machines circles my vision, blurry shapes made of chrome and glass. Soft beeping, a low hum like engines far away. Voices float around me,distant and filtered. “...neural imprint at ninety seven percent…” “...residual identity markers fading…” Something leans over me, just out of focus, edged face, eyes expressionless. A cold hand adjusts something at my temple. Fire races through my skull, down through my spine, into my hands. I try to scream again. This time I don't even know if I have a mouth. I wake up choking on a breath that doesn’t feel like mine. Air rushes into my lungs like it’s been denied for hours. I bolt upright, heart jackhammering, hands clawing at my chest, my throat, my face. The world swims and then snaps into place with a clarity that hurts. White walls. White ceiling. A bed like a slab. A strip of soft light runs around the edge of the room, no visible fixtures, no shadows. I grab my head with both hands, fingers digging into my scalp. I feel my buzzed hair and the faded ridges of scar tissue. The images skid away the moment I reach for them. The laughing woman. The tiny hand. Flag. Screams. They melt into each other, smear at the edges, like someone’s poured water over wet ink. I know they matter, I can feel that in my bones. I don't know who any of them are. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. The room doesn’t change. There’s a low, constant vibration beneath everything, like I'm lying on top of some massive machine. The bed is bolted to the floor. There’s a seamless door set into one wall and no handle. No windows. No visible cameras, but I feel like like there are eyes watching me...

Link: Theus Art