Dolly the Sheep

"Angela?" Marc's voice rings faintly in my ears. "Angela, it's time to wake up now..."

I drowsily crack my eyes open. Everything is fuzzy.

"Ah, that's better." I see the man speaking to me, and he is most definitely not Marc. It's Mr. Neilson. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I croak.

He chuckles. "After that fight I assume you would be."

I scan my surroundings. A white, clean looking room. Something you'd find in a typical hospital, only more sterile. More pale. More lonely. Nothing is here that doesn't serve a purpose. No decorations at all. Not even those cheesy paintings or bad wallpaper. White. Everything is white.

Florescent lights bear down on me from the ceiling, and I shield my eyes. I'm laying in a medical gurney, with who knows how many tubes and monitors hooked up to me. A machine to my left beeps steadily with my pulse.

Mr. Neilson, sitting in the only chair, surveys me silently. I sit up, plucking at the thin gown I'm wearing. No such modesty exists in these things. I pull up the cotton sheet draped over me, tucking it under my arms until I feel the least exposed.

"What's going on?" I ask, although with this question I'm meaning a dozen others. Why was I taken down to that place? Why did you leave me? Who are you really?  Where am I? Is anyone going to answer my questions?

He shifts in his chair and looks down at his hands.

"Why am I here?" I prompt. And when he still doesn't answer: "Tell me!"

"I can't tell you everything now," He says, almost frustrated at me.

But not frustrated as I am. I bang my fist down on the guard rail edging the gurney. It dents inward. Cheap aluminum. "Why isn't anyone telling me anything!"

Seeing how I bent the rail, he stares at me with what I guess is wonder.

"What!" I yell through clenched teeth.

"That rail is steel." His voice is quiet.

I hold my hand up. I just dented steel with my bare hands. I laugh at him. "Yeah, right, I believe you, especially after all this... this..." I'm at a loss for words.

"Angela, why would I lie to you?"

"I don't know. Why wouldn't you? I can't see now how it would benefit you, but then I don't even know where the heck I am and why!"

He sighs. "I know. Believe me, I hate you not knowing. But I can't change that. I can't-"

"I know! You can't tell me now! But, when will I get some answers?" I scream at him, bracing myself on the rails.

"Soon," He mutters.

A nurse barges through the door. She faces Mr. Neilson. "I heard yelling... Is-" Then she looks at me. I'm panting with anger and the effort of holding myself up.

I sit there, quietly, while she checks my vitals. My head is still pounding, and my muscles ache, weak with remaining numbness.

"How are you feeling, sugar? Any pain?" With that typical nurse attitude, She jots downs my temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate from the monitor that displays almost everything going on in my body. There are sensors taped to my forehead and where my skull had split. A screen shows my brain activity, which is now a bright red from my burst of anger. I see a blue area on the side of the image where the plate is my head is. Green nerve impulses snake from that area, subduing the red colors.

The nurse hooks a fresh bag up to my IV drip, and I slump back, exhausted. She leaves, and immediately a doctor enters, along with Colonel Roche and my parents. I try to sit up but I can't now. I'm too weak. Whatever the nurse put into my IV settled me down considerably.

"Hello, Ms. Bennet," The doctor says, plastering on a fake smile, "My, you've grown since I last saw you..."

"And, who are you?" I ask. "I may be mistaken, but you're not my Primary Care Physician."

He chuckles. "I'm doctor Parker, and actually, I was your first PCP."

Roche chimed in: "Yeah. Way back when you were still in the petri dish." He received more then one harsh look. But none that indicated that he was joking.

He didn't take the hint, but came closer to my bed. "Ya ever heard of Dolly the Sheep?"

"Yes...?" What did some failure of cloning have to do with the price of tea in China?

He fingered one of the syringes laid out on a dish. "Well, I'd say that you were a mite bit more of a success than she..."

The End

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