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The last thing he remembers is choking.
His own desperate hands clutch at his throat, struggling to breathe around the food lodged inside. Adrenaline rushes through him, but his head is going light, and panic has stuffed his brain too full to know what to do.
Everyone else at the table hasn’t moved. They sit in their chairs, frozen, staring at him in horrors. None of them try to save him.
The next thing he remembers is waking up here.
It feels as though every nerve is on fire. His lips are open in a scream, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
Other than the scream, he can hear laughing- its not from him, though.
His body jolts as its quickly lowered, and he forces open his eyes to watch as someone approaches him, a wild grin stretched across their lips and a crazed look in their eyes. They don’t seem to care as they get soaked from the rain pouring down from above, pushing wet curls of their own face as they look over him, squealing in delight when his eyes move to follow them.
“It worked, it worked!” They cheer, louder than the ringing in his ears. “Oh I can’t believe- YES!” They look away, rushing back to where they were before, writing something down eagerly in a book. Every few seconds they glance back at him, that crazed look never leaving their face.
He tries to sit up, only to find himself tied down to the table. Restraints hold him still, the metal red with heat- it’s strange though, because it doesn’t burn against his skin, the only pain that of what he woke up with.
The person returns, flipping a few switches. The window above him finally closes, rain no longer soaking him. With that closed, they approach him again, pulling their orange curls back into a ponytail. He follows their gaze with his own eyes, and his brow furrows - why does he have so many stitches? What had caused the injuries needed for this kind of care? What incident did he have that left his skin so much paler than before, almost grey? Surely choking hadn’t caused this.
“Oh, it worked!” They’re still muttering happily to themselves as they pull gloves over their calloused hands, using the fabric to protect their skin as they undo the restraints holding him down. “Lift your arm.” Its not a request, but an order. He listens, lifting his left arm, and they clap their hands in delight.
They take both his hands in theirs, pulling him up into a sitting position. Everything inside of him lurches as he sits up, and his body curls into himself as a gasp slips past his lips. It doesn’t hurt, thankfully, but the feeling isn’t nice, and he squints his eyes closed as he works a few shaky breaths through his lungs.
“What’s wrong?” They ask as they watch him breathe. “Is something not feeling right?”
His attempt to answer is quiet. No words make it out of him, and their brow furrows. “Can you not speak?” His head shakes, and inside his skull quickly makes him regret it, feeling as though his brain is sloshing around inside of him. His hand flies up to clutch his head, holding it still.
They don’t speak to him again after that, stepping back to look through a notebook. They look concerned, but the concern doesn’t seem to be directed at him- just his body.
Finally, after a few long minutes of flipping through the book, they speak up. “Ah.. some of your organs might just be getting used to their new habitat. I’m sure it’s alright, you’ll be able to survive if some of them act up. For your voice, I’m sure its just because of the fact its so new.. you’ll figure it out.” They walk back towards him, and grab the hand that isn’t clutching his head, using it to pull him off the table and into a standing position. His inside shake with every movement, but they seem so sure that its nothing important that he believes them, following behind them with a wince as they walk him to a different part of the room.
The room is a big one, filled with tables and desks, books, jars and medical equipment scattered around each one. The centre of the room is where he woke up, an elevated table surrounded by chains, able to be lifted up and out the window on the roof.
As they walk, he spots a mirror on the wall. The other person doesn’t reflect, and his brow furrows in confusion until something else about the mirror distracts him- that isn’t him.
Short black hair, silver streak. Two mismatched eyes, green and brown.
This isn’t him.
Those aren’t his eyes.
But what were his eyes?
He doesn’t remember.
His eyes slowly drift down from the face that isn’t his, at the body. He can see more than he did at the table, and the look of it makes him feel sick. What had happened to leave him like this, stitches around every joint, holding together pale greying flesh? His eyes drift up again, just slightly, and widen when he sees two silver bolts sticking out from his throat, skin pulled tight around them. His hands fly up, feeling, and panic shoots through him when he feels them there.
The other person looks back at him, noticing his panic. They tilt their head, a curious expression on their face. “Is something wrong?”
“What..” The voice sounds like it hasn’t been used in years, hoarse. “..Did you.. do to me?” That voice isn’t his.
Their head stays a bit tilted, but the crazed smile returns to their face. “I made you! I built you from scraps into what you are today! Is something wrong?”
“What did you do to me?!” This time the words are stronger. He grabs at the bolts in his throat, wanting nothing more than to rip them out. “Why do I look like this?”
His ‘creator’s smile drops. Their eyebrows narrow. “What do you mean? I built you like this, this is all you’ve ever looked like. Whats wrong with it?”
“This isn’t me-“ He pulls. For once since he got here, something causes pain. He keeps pulling at the bolts. “You- what did you-“ They rush forward, trying to stop him from pulling, but he stumbles away. “You made me into a monster! Turn me back, bring me back!”
Something gives, and the pain ends.
So does everything else.
He’s restrained again when he wakes up. His creator seems less excited this time as they lower him, searching his eyes as he looks at them. They look more dishevelled, a bit more tired.
They don’t release him from his restraints as they get closer, voice quiet as they speak. “Who are you?”
“What did you do to me?” Their expression doesn’t change when he speaks, and they sigh.
“This wasn’t meant to happen..” They mutter to themselves, turning away, leaving him there. “What went wrong..?”
He doesn’t call after them. Just lays there, staring at the window above him as rain pounds against the glass.
What happened to him?