Thank You for Your Donation: Day Thirteen

The man took Barry’s body into the freezer this morning and then rolled a chair next to my bed. I’ve been trying to pretend to be asleep for what’s felt like a century. The man keeps looking at his watch. I heard the heat kick on in the center and could smell its smoke-like stench. I peek through barely opened eyelids every once in a while. I wonder if he smells smoke. I tried to look again and found the man grinning.

“Benjamin,” The man said, “I hope you don’t think that I’m a fool. I’ve watched you open and close your eyes all morning. Why is there a smell of smoke in the air?”

“Fire,” I whispered.

The man looked up, sniffed, and then returned his gaze to me.

“I don’t believe you,” the man said. “You don’t seem concerned in the least bit.”

“Because I’m ready to die,” I replied.

There, I said it out loud, now he can grant my wish, and this hell will end. But as the man stood up, a solid knock came from a door towards the building’s front. I grumbled in disbelief. How could someone interrupt the final moment of my life like that? Then I realized that it could be someone here to save me. I opened my mouth to scream, but then the man shoved a pair of socks into my mouth again. Ugh, what’s with him and those damn socks? I don’t know where my strength was coming from, but I felt the new energy like I downed a gallon worth of energy drinks. I tried to spit the socks out of my mouth, but they held. Then I resorted to screaming and groaning through the fabric, hoping that I could get loud enough for the person at the door to hear. 

I turned and saw the man take off his lab coat before he changed into his Hazmat suit. The man looked like one of those forty-year-old men that have bodies like Mike Wazowski. That explained why the scrawny arms didn’t match the rest of the man’s body. I couldn’t see his face, but the image of Mr. Brown started to form in my mind. His daughter was unmarried the last I could remember, but she’d stopped donating here months ago. Most of the time, regular donors tell you when they leave because some form friendships with you. Though you don’t grab a beer with them, they act like donating is on that same level. The man left the donation floor. I took a break from my screams and groans and could hear voices talking.

“—reports of a strange state agency quarantine a building,” the other man’s voice said. “Would you mind showing me the permit for the agency you work for?” “Of course, officer,” The man said, with a distinction to his voice I recognized at once. “Here you go.”

The man was Bradley Brown. Double B is what we called him in front of other donors, but the nickname meant double bastard because whenever he came in pissed off from work, he was a beast of a donor to deal with. Other days, he could have been a fly on the wall, and no one would care for him. We always appreciated when he wouldn’t talk because his voice was too high pitched for his body, and it whistled on the’s’ sounds. He always thought that we wanted to hear his advice on what we should do next in our life. Yet, everyone forgot him the moment he left. Nobody listened to his advice. 

“Sir,” The officer said, “this isn’t vali—”

I heard the body fall before the word finished. The thump of the deadweight sounded more like the ‘d’ in ‘valid’ than anything else. The next thing I heard were grunts, heavy panting, and the squeak of a shoe drug on the floor. The man gasped in exhaustion before the normal clacks of his shoes appeared again. 

“It seems that I shouldn’t have allowed Barry’s mother to live,” Bradley Brown said. “Well, I guess one of your friends won’t mind sharing a bed. And then I have to go off-script.”

The man disappeared into the back before he appeared on the television screen. I watched him grab Kelsey and her bed. Well, she is the smallest. Then I shuddered at the thought. There was no way I could think like this man. The man moved the bed out, and I tried to scream through the socks in my mouth, but what I yelled as I know your name, Bradley Brown! But I only got grunts out. The man ignored me and hoisted the unconscious police officer onto the donor bed with Kelsey. I could see the stab wound under the police officer’s chin and understood. When the man returned from the freezer, he didn’t bother to hide his face or any other features. It seemed as if he muttered to himself in his Hazmat suit. The man left with the socks still in my mouth. I began to work to get them out. There was no way I would live this long just to suffocate on Double B’s socks.

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