I stepped through the mirror-doorway, leading Jink into the next room. The walls were white, and smooth. There was a small bed on the right, a little toilet and sink, and a desk near the front. And, laying on the floor in front of them was a small and familiar form. It was a younger version of me. She was on her stomach, watching a bug crawl across the floor in front of her. Her little hand reached out and touched the bug's back. As it scurried beneath the bed, she smiled and laughed a little. She looked at her little hand as she made it shift into the same texture as the bug. Moments like this weren't so bad. But they were always short. Little me gasped, the smile fading from her face at the sound of approaching footsteps. She quickly got up, her hand returning to normal while she hurriedly dusted herself off and straightened herself.
The thick white door opened, and the looming figures of two guards stepped into the room. The scene shifted into little me walking behind the guards through the prison-like facility where I grew up. With Jink beside me, I walked behind them, looking around at all of the familiar convicts and criminals the facility kept for weapons testing.
We stopped when we reached a large room with a lot of tables filled with vials and microscopes and science things. The guards left, and little me walked into the room. My mother sat behind one of the tables. She was looking into one of the microscopes as she gestured to a chair beside her.
"Sit down. We'll start in a minute."
Little me obeyed without question, hurrying over and sitting down. My mother pulled out a small little vial from underneath the microscope, loading it into a syringe. She stood up and strapped little me into the chair by my wrists and ankles. I knew what was coming, and so did my little self. As the liquid was injected into little me's system, I started squeezing Jink's hand. I could remember the pain as clear as day. Mom's drug tests always hurt.
Little me squirmed and wiggled, her scales spasming and shifting. She started to cry, but she didn't make any noise. Mom hated it when I cried "like a child". Mother stood in front of little me, observing her her reaction and scribbling things down on a clipboard. She didn't even look a little concerned at what she was doing to her daughter.
I looked at the ground, gritting my teeth. Just the memory of those moments with mom made my body ache.
[member="Hijinks"]