The ceiling above him was an empty white. It was not the gentle white of clouds or sunlight or warm fabric. It was the kind of white that belonged to cold rooms and forgotten places, the kind that hummed faintly under the twinkle of fluorescent lights.
He had stared at this same ceiling every day of his life. In truth, he could not remember anything else at all.
His body lay beneath that ceiling. Although even calling him a boy felt wrong. His body no longer resembled what a child should look like. His arms had shrunken to thin trembling branches. His legs were no more than bones wrapped in translucent skin.
Every rib of his body was visible. His cheeks had hollowed like a mummy. His lips were cracked and pale. His hair had lost any softness it once had. They were very fragile as if a single wind blow would shatter them.
His body was surrounded with white sheets and various wires.
They pressed on his chest like a weight he could not push away.
Beside him, a monitor beeped every few seconds, although the sound was irregular and weak.
Sometimes the machine paused for longer than it should. Sometimes it did not register a heartbeat at all.
He opened his eyes with great effort. They felt dry, as if scorching sand had been poured beneath his eyelids.
Even blinking required strength he no longer possessed.
He looked at the room around him, but everything was blurred at the corners.
There was a metal cabinet, a tray of empty syringes, a folded white coat left on a chair.
There was also a glass window that separated his bed from the observation area.
He could see the faint silhouettes of people in masks behind it.
He tried to swallow, but his throat burned.
He was thirsty. Extremely thirsty
He felt a chilling cold.
And he was dying.
His body had been pushed too far this time. He could feel it.
The latest blood extraction had taken everything from him. They had always taken from him, but today they had taken too much.
Step, step, step...
He suddenly heard footsteps. Soft, slow, hesitant.
They approached his bedside. A figure in a lab coat leaned over him. The doctor's face was half covered by a mask, yet the boy could see the unrest in his eyes.
The doctor then whispered to someone behind him. The boy heard the words, although they seemed no longer register in his senses..
"Bastard! what have you done? He is not stabilizing at all."
"I am sorry doctor. But the director told me take one dose for his grandniece."
"Fools! The extraction drained him completely this time. We need more fluid support. No. His veins have collapsed. Try a different angle. Hurry. He cannot die now. Not yet."
The boy closed his eyes for a moment.
Not yet.
That was what they always said.
He had heard these words for as long as he could remember. They resounded throughout the facility like a magic spell.
Apparently, he was too valuable to die. Too important to lose. Too precious to let slip away.
!Precious!!
He wondered what that word meant to them. Because to him, the word meant warmth. Care. Love. Something he had never been given.
To them, precious meant useful. It meant profitable. It meant something rare and strange that they wanted to keep for themselves.
The doctor gently pressed his palm against the boy's forehead. The hand was warm, but the warmth felt unneeded, almost painful.
"Subject 017, can you hear me?" he asked.
The boy tried to reply, but only a faint exhale escaped from his mouth.
His voice had not been used in days, maybe weeks. He could not remember. Clocks did not exist here. There were only procedures, tests, and lights turning on or off.
The doctor's face tightened with concern.
"Stay with us, subject 017. No! You have to stay with us!"
But the boy wondered why. Why did he have to stay? Why was he being held here? Why could he never see the sun or the sky? Why could he not recall a mother's touch or a father's voice? Why did his memories begin with needles and bright lamps and cold metal tables?
He tried to think back. Back to when he was a baby. When his body was not yet a shell.
But all he found was emptiness. His past had been completely swallowed by a thick grey fog. That grey refused to clear, no matter how hard he tried.
He had no memories of a home.
No memories of parents.
No memories of a name someone had lovingly given him.
The only things he remembered were hands in gloves. Faces hidden by masks. Voices that spoke about him but never to him.
Just then, a woman entered the room. Her steps were quick and sharp. She wore a badge that marked her as the director.
She glanced at his shriveled body and clicked her tongue in frustration.
"Unbelievable. We were so close to finishing the regenerative sequence. Why did his levels drop so drastically today?"
The doctor wanted shout out to her as this was her fault, but he swallowed his anger.
"Sorry, Director. But We accidentally increased the extraction volume. And now It appears to have overwhelmed his system. His blood chemistry destabilized too fast."
The woman glared at him. "Fix it, Wesley. You should know we cannot lose him."
The doctor looked at the boy, and for a moment something like guilt shown in his eyes.
Then he shook his head slowly.
"I am sorry, Director Jones. I think this is it. He is crashing too quickly. His organs are failing. His blood count is below survival levels. Now only miracle a miracle could save him."
The woman snorted softly. "A miracle. That is exactly what he is. His blood can cure terminal illnesses. How do you expect me to explain this loss to those old men?"
She had nor remorse, no sympathy as she galnced at the boy.
"Wesley, we cannot lose this discovery. Do whatever it takes. Force oxygen if you have to. Run artificial plasma. We cannot allow this specimen to die."
!Specimen!
The boy felt something cold born in his chest. Not fear. Not anger. Something emptier. Something hollow.
He was not a human to them.
He was not even a child.
He was an object.
A tool.
A resource they believed they owned.
The male doctor looked conflicted. He wanted to say something, but he swallowed his words instead.
Just then, several nurses rushed into the room. They tried to inject fluids. They tried to force air into his lungs. They tried everything they could, but nothing worked. Their movements were frantic, yet pointless.
"Useless! All of you people are so useless!"
The director angry bellows filled the room.
The boy couldn't care leas.
His body was fading.
He felt lighter. As if he was floating.
The monitor beeped irregularly. The sound grew low, then loud, then low again. It was like a heartbeat struggling to remember how to keep going.
Finally, the boy's vision blurred entirely. The silhouettes of the room grew soft then melted into white.
He wondered once again where he came from.
Perhaps he once had a mother who held him close. Perhaps he once had a father who whispered promises. Perhaps he had a home filled with warmth.
But none of these memories came to him. He searched his mind desperately, but there was nothing. Only darkness. Only the cold. Only the feeling of being alone from the very beginning.
His breathing slowed down.
He felt tired. Very tired.
Someone grabbed his hand. It was the male doctor. His voice trembled as if pleading:
"017, Stay with me. Please. You have to fight. We need more time. Do not go yet."
The boy wanted to laugh, but he no longer had the strength.
Fight. For what? For whom?
For monsters who drained him dry?
For devils who saw gold where his heart should be?
For researchers who valued his blood more than his life?
Right now, he only wished he had someone who actually cared if he lived or died. Someone who would call his name. Someone who would hold him and say he was not alone.
.
But wishes were fragile things. They broke easily.
He sucked in a breath, then another, each one smaller and quieter.
The world began to fade in darkness.
The voices faded in nothingness
Even the pain seemed to found its own journey.
The male doctor's hand trembled around his.
"Please. Not yet. Not now. Not after everything we have done together."
There was movement.
The boy's lips parted slightly, and a whisper escaped, so faint it did not spread across the room.
"I do not want to die here."
The doctor froze. It was the first time the boy had spoken in days.
And it sounded very heartbreaking to hear.
Tears filled the doctor's eyes, but he blinked them away. He pressed the oxygen mask tighter.
He shook the boy's shoulder gently, saying:
"You will not die. I will not let you."
But the boy could feel it. Death
His dry fingers finally loosened.
The director came forward and shook his withered body harder.
"Stay. Please stay. You are our only success. You are our greatest discovery. You cannot die."
The boy wondered if anyone had ever begged for him to live because they cared about him, and not what he could give.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time in his life, the room grew quiet.
He felt nothing. No pain. No fear. No cold.
Only peace.
Only silence.
Only the soft thought that drifted through his fading consciousness.
I wish I had been born somewhere else.
That was his last wish
Then everything stopped.
And the boy who was never meant to live finally left the world that had never welcomed him.