That graceful, flowing hem walked away softly; as it passed the clock, the timepiece shattered into a hundred pieces, yet she was still cradling the child in her arms. It did not fuss or cry, but only "slept" in silence.
"A good child."
She remarked, then the recording flickered out as it simultaneously dissolved into a plume of smoke, trailing the stench of a rotting corpse before vanishing into the deep abyss. But then I realized I was on the floor; I was no longer floating.
Looking up at the ceiling, I felt a slight urge to go up there once more. But a cold sensation rushed over my back, pulling me away from my idle thoughts.
I looked around; the scenery had changed. It was no longer an endless kitchen with black and white tiles, but piles of steel on both sides, laid horizontally and stacked upon one another without any connection, yet remaining strangely sturdy. The floor was now a dull grey.
I stood up and stretched a little; I could finally walk with a light step, no longer sluggish. With every footstep, that dull "keng" resounded—a sound I had no way of silencing. It was multiplied many times over as the "keng" from each step didn't fade immediately but bounced back and forth between the steel walls, ceiling, and floor. This created a lingering "tail" of sound. Before one footstep could end, the next would overlap, creating a chaotic, noisy mess.
Nothing but steel. The color of steel was the only thing I saw, creating a monotonous and dreary image. It lacked the warmth of 'Mother.' And God, how could the same color 'white' feel so vastly different? This thing is blaspheming the white I once knew. I will not accept this. Absolutely not.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
Steel must not be white; it must be green.
I wanted to keep uttering those affirmations, but I found it redundant; for it is an IRREFUTABLE, SELF-EVIDENT TRUTH. No matter how many times I repeat it, IT REMAINS ETERNALLY TRUE. I walk on through the blinding white space, seeing no end.
"I told you, it must not be white."
I wanted to keep uttering those affirmations, but I found it redundant; for it is an IRREFUTABLE, SELF-EVIDENT TRUTH. No matter how many times I repeat it, IT REMAINS ETERNALLY TRUE. I walk on through the blinding green space, seeing no end.
The GREEN steel columns stacked horizontally on both sides were somewhat captivating, so I wanted to touch them.
As I reached out to feel, the biting chill of the steel jolted me completely awake from my drowsy daze; it was a dense, solid substance, possessing immense weight. It barely yielded under the pressure of my hands, a stark contrast to the everyday materials I was used to, like wood. It emitted a distinct metallic tang, giving me the sensation of a surface that was "clean yet sharp and cold."
Running along the steel surface were longitudinal ridges and transverse fishbone-like ribs. To the touch, it felt incredibly rough and rugged, with a high degree of grip. It was hard, sharp-edged at the ridges, and left a residue of fine dust on my hands.
But my hands... so cold. I look at my hands. All ten fingers are still there. All ten nails remain—rosy, slightly glossy, with distinct white lunulae at the base. When pressed and released, the pink hue returns within two seconds. The palms are an even, warm pink. All ten fingerprints are still present, etched into both the epidermis and dermis, their ridges dense with sweat pores.
My right thumb and index finger still carry whorls—ridges forming concentric circles or spirals around a core, resembling a storm or the cross-section of an ancient tree. The right middle finger, left ring finger, and left pinky still bear loops—ridges entering from one side, curving into a U-shape, and returning the same way. The remaining fingers show arches—ridges entering from one side, rising like a small hill, then exiting on the opposite side. The prints aren't straight; they are filled with minutiae: ridge endings where a line abruptly stops, bifurcations where a ridge splits into a Y or V, enclosures where a ridge divides and reunites to leave a small island-like gap, and dots—tiny ridges like periods between the grooves. There are still two crease lines on the right palm and three on the left, and still 1,000,000 bacteria per square centimeter of skin.
It's just that they are no longer on my arms.