I breathe through clenched teeth. I glance at the drab, white walls. “Shortly, my ass!” I’m nearly grinding my teeth, and my fingers ball into fists. There’s a fog in my brain. A malediction slips from my crisp lips: My dignity they mock, give me a rock.
And in my hand appears a smooth, round rock. I chuck it against the wall with every muscle in my body. And clang goes the dark gray stone against its white contrast. My lungs heave with the inch of ire left inside.
A faint but pleasant voice filters through my brain. Abrasive moods can upset the Oxygen Generator. Please, calm down. Aimery apparently left out that they also inserted a communicator in my brain.
“My moods,” I mutter to myself, “my choice.” Then, one question burns in my brain: Where am I? As the inquiry leaves my thoughts, I glance to the side of the room. There, in a far corner is a marble desk guarding a swivel chair, things I dreamed of having on the Fiery Haven.
Fiery Haven. Despite it being my hometown, the name urges a snort to escape my nostrils. Last I remembered, the citizens of the Fiery Haven were safe from nothing. So what made the cursed isle a haven? The people of Jethiola are safe from the isle’s inhabitants. They live in luxury, in comfort, while children huddle under the tattered awnings of the few buildings that the youth deem innoxious enough to hide from the parents who give them welts of purple and blue around their eyes.
Of course, the entire realm of Estadell is threatened by a barbaric force: L’armée de la sorcière sombre. Army of the dark witch. Legend has it, these soldiers shrouded in steel and black capes tear young teenagers from the arms of those who love them and imprisoned in another dimension—le monde sombre,I hear kids whisper the prison’s name before shuddering in fear.
Before I dig further into that memory, that communicator blares against my brain. Hail Caylee.
“Hail Caylee.” In my head, I add, Who the hell is Caylee?
All of a sudden, the door creaks open. A woman peaks into the room, her body almost entirely concealed except for her face which raven waves drool down. My heart jumps even though her voice is quiet. “Hello.”
She pushes the door open the rest of the way, revealing her lithe frame straightened by the white lab coat on her body. Like in the Fiery Haven, she doesn’t wear a nametag. “Are you …?” Now, I can’t remember the name of the doctor mentioned by Aimery.
“Doctor Kingsley?” the woman says. After a slight pause, she nods her head. “Yes, I am Doctor Avalon Kingsley.”
Shakespearian1 
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