Frozen

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: House Of Ten Thousand Exotic Rooms
Prompt: Day Eight Prompt: Scientists have discovered cryogenic freezing. You are its first test subject and it is a massive success. They plan on releasing you in 500 years. You had no way of telling them you were conscious.

Submitted: October 14, 2018

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Submitted: October 14, 2018

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“We’re sorry, but based on our tests, there’s an unfortunate certainty that Tearra is not going to wake again. There have been no life sustainable brain waves or activity. We can only humbly suggest that you strongly consider whether to keep her body sustained on life support or remove these breathing and heart sustaining measures. There is no rush of course, take all the time you need on your decision. While she did not declare a desire to donate her body as a transplant, I personally encourage it as a way for her to live on through others. Of course, should you donate her body to transport solutions, your medical bills will be excused.”

It is a fitting solution to the nearly million dollar debt Tearra’s life support had accrued over the past two weeks. There are tears, lots of tears. Dr. Wren does her best to console the undone family, especially her husband. He’d been away, serving the country when Tearra was so brutally attacked in their home in an act of hate and violence. She had survived, but sustained injuries to her brain that now, were proving fatal.

The man paces back and forth in the room, in the hall. He cries. He does not listen to those who try to comfort him. He signs off on it, his hand shakes. His signiture does not look like his own. He wishes someone would stop him, Tearra, or God- himself, anyone, but no one does. His tears blot his signature, his name to end her name. Dr. Wren signs her name as well. Her eyes shine with appreciation at his descision to donate her body to science. The grief is palpable.

He crawls into the bed with her. She is oddly warm, but very thin. Her face is still bloated with fading bruises from healing, her breaths mechanical. She had pumbing but no electrcity. He hugs her so tightly he fears to break her, knowing he already had, knowing he was broken himself.

He speaks to her, about the stupid things. Things he would miss, things that annoyed him, things that he adored about her, how much he loved the little things, how much he missed her. Every day even more. Now, the most. Love was there...but it felt so far. He hated that. He hated it because he loved her so much. But he couldn't feel that love, it was too painful. 

He didn’t want to be there to see it, to see her dying- dead by his hand. When Dr. Wren returns, it is with a cold hand on his shoulder that does not bring comfort. He shrugs it off, glowers at the woman, the tears never end from his eyes. He gives her one last kiss, hating that this wasn’t a fairy tale, hating that this was his life. There was no power with love, but there was so much power with hate.  

He leaves the room, giving her one last look before he would never see her again. His love breaking through his breaking heart. She sighs, as if missing him already.

No, he would see her soon.

 

Dr. Wren has the patient discretely draped and sent to her lab. In her office, an award no one wished to receive is brought out blank. The name Tearra Lacks typed on it. She and her peer, Dr. Crom sign the death certificate. It is folded, enveloped and sent to the address of the mourning husband. It would not be too long before another doctor was signing one for him as well.

Dr. Wren then returns to her lab. It is cold, freezing cold. She unwraps the shawl from around the body of Tearra Lacks, her thin form bristled with goosebumps from the chill.

Dr. Crom inspects her as well, her rhythmic breathing and the beep of her heart. The man frowns as he squints at the MRI scan in his hands. “Are you sure-”

“Those aren’t the right ones, Crom.” Dr. Wren scowls as she plucks the papers from the man’s hands. “Those scans are from an actual dead patient- hers are in the system.”

She drops the pages on her desk, then takes the end of the stretcher and wheels it towards the freezers.

Being a woman she’d had to work twice as hard to get where she is in neurology. Her studies on cyrogenic freezing had proved successful in mice, and apes and now it was time to move on to the first human trial. It had taken her months and constant repeats of MRIs and brain scans to confirm the optimal patient.

Dr. Crom peers over the scans on the computer, nodding with satisfaction. “very impressive, Dr. Wren. But you’re sure she-”

“This subject is perfect for our project.” She beams down at the unconscious form of Tearra Lacks as she unplugs the mobile life support. It takes several seconds but eventually the body gasps, takes in a strained breath and continues to breathe on its own. Tearra Lack’s perseverance, the same perseverance that had allowed her to survive the vicious attack in her home would be the same to lead her into the future five hundred years.

“And you got support from her family to do this?” Dr. Crom asks, taking a pulse and blood pressure on the body. Finding them within normal limits, he notes them in a chart.

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” Dr. Wren scowls, as she beings a thorough examination of the body. “A family of superstitious black people with no inkling to contribute anything to science. They think we’d sell their organs on the black market and let them die.” She rolls her eyes as she pulls back the eyelids of the subject. Light is shined in the eyes. Pupil response was a good thing. Dr. Crom laughs at her frustration, but agrees with her.

“They’d never agree, so the excusing of medical bills was a big incentive.” Dr. Wren smiles to herself, she’s had her doubts but was grateful the man had decided to donate the body to science. It was legally binding.

 The two medical scientists then vault into a discussion about their plans for the future of this subject, and the amazing possibilities for their expiraments. In five hundred years they had plans to release the subject from the freezer into a whole new world, the most hoped for success in modern science.

The body of Tearra Lacks is prodded, examined, lifted, turned, tagged, written on, measured and scrutinized to a meticulous thoroughness, as she sleeps, breathes, and listens on her own.  

 

 


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