🏆 WATTPAD CREATORS PROGRAM 🏆
🏆 8CC November - December 2023 Completer 🏆
𝘛𝘏𝘙𝘌𝘌. 𝘛𝘞𝘖. 𝘖𝘕𝘌. 𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯.
Thirteen remembers one thing from the moment he woke up: live on, through whatever means necessary. When he is thrown into a society...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A mixture of cement and plastic greeted him when light filtered past his eyelashes. With a groan, he hauled his body off a stiff cushion. Cold shot up his ankles when his bare feet slapped the bare floor. White. Everything was white, from the walls, the fixtures, and the door. The only respite was the silver crank of the door handle, the black book on the plain table, and the square packet with a bright red but blank wrapper next to it.
He strode towards the cabinet facing the door and yanked the doors. An array of black jackets and pants hung undisturbed from their rack. Below them, two pairs of laced boots waited for their owner. When he looked down, white, wide-cut trousers and a sleeveless shirt covered most of his body. The room had no mirrors, not even windows or anything glass, but curly black hair flapped into his periphery. That's everything about himself.
Where was he? It should be the question at the top of his head, but something nipped at the back of his mind. He was supposed to be here, and what here meant would be revealed to him soon. With a sigh, he changed into a black outfit, bending down to tie his shoelaces when it was time. His fingers slipped and fumbled, showing him how far his knowledge and muscle memory went. He must have not tied a lot of shoelaces before today.
Which raised the next question—where was he before today? His eyes landed on the rumpled mess of his bedsheets, pushed away when he crawled out of the bed. His hands froze. Memories...
He creased his eyebrows, his gut roiling. Before he went to bed or anything in the past beyond that...there's nothing. Just a wall of black and white, faded on some parts and a solid fill on most. Noises—clicks, beeps, and a lot of static—dominated the slate in his head. He squeezed his eyes close, picturing a life—anything—before this white room. A name, perhaps? Surely he had one of those? Would there be a rare event he would never forget? A fond memory? Something. Anything.
Nothing.
There was nothing there. A clean slate—that was what he was. A flash of light zipped behind his lids, showing him an image. A woman with flowing black hair, smiling down at him. Her lips moved, but no words reached him. Even if he tried to focus on the movement, the traces of teeth and tongue peeking every millisecond, words were distant. Understanding, even more.
He wrenched his lids open, frustration crawling in his gut. With his shoelaces stuck into the criss-crossed weaving by his ankles, he did the best he could. At least he wouldn't risk tripping on them. He went back to the table and picked up the black book and the red packet. Instinct told him he should tear the packet open and read the book.
The distinct smell of food wafted across the room when he figured out how to tear the wrapper with his teeth. What greeted his tongue was a bland gel which tasted like iron and water. If he licked the door handle, perhaps it'd have the same taste, if not the exact consistency. Next, he opened the black book on a random page to find...nothing. Again. It's like his memory. Should he take a hint or something?
