Writing Prompt: Day 42

42Day 42 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write about a hospital preforming odd procedures.

Shannon: “So I see you’ve signed up for glitter eye infusion,” the doctor confirmed. “And I have you down for silver, is that correct?”

I nodded, excited and nervous at the same time. This was my first chance to add my spirit color to my appearance, and my first step toward defining my identity. It was a big milestone, and the rest of my peers had already taken on their eye colors. I was feeling left out, but before I could get too envious my parents had saved up enough money to begin my transformation.

“I’m obligated to run through the possible side effects…” he started before listing a long list of symptoms ending with loss of sight as the rare worst case scenario. “However, it still has happen to a few people. Are you still sure this is what you want? It’s not to late to change your mind.”

“I’m sure,” I nodded. “It’s worth it,” I confirmed without hesitation. I was going back to school with my color. The world wasn’t worth seeing if I wasn’t silver inside and out.

“Ok then, let’s get started. I’ll need you to drink this,” he handed me a cup and I downed it quickly. It was sour and bitter at the same time, and I gagged at the taste. That was the last thing I remember before waking up in front of the mirror. The silver circles looked only slightly different from the white of my eyes. My real colors were finally starting to show through, I liked it, and I wanted more.

Erin: “I have an appointment for disconnection,” I said to the woman checking in the patients.

“Okay,” she started pounding away at her keyboard and then handed me a clipboard with a piece of paper full of questions for me to answer.

“These seem kind of personal,” I shouted from the couch as I got further down the list.

“They need to be,” the secretary assured me.

“Why,” I refused to take that simple answer at face value.

“If you don’t pass this last questionnaire you will not be a good candid for the surgery.”

“Oh,” my heart started to sink. I concentrated more on trying to answer the questions with what they would most likely want vs what I would have said honestly. And it worked.

I was strapped into the operating chair. A gas mask was placed on my mouth and my heart fluttered before I was knocked out. When I woke up my heart never fluttered again. That knowledge made me neither happy nor sad. Nothing would ever make me happy or said again.

Before the surgery, they were concerned that patients were not fit for losing their hearts deciding pull on their life. But, after surgery that doesn’t matter. As someone who only thinks with my brain, I know that makes no sense. If the disconnected get our way, everyone will be able to experience our clarity.

What are they doing in there?

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