"Of the Things that Could Go Wrong..." (StoryADay Challenge/Day 5)

(StoryADay Challenge - Day 5)

THE PROMPT (by Hugo Award-winner Mary Robinette Kowal is the author of: The Glamourist Histories series, Ghost Talkers and the Lady Astronaut series.):

Freewrite from this opening sentence:

“Of the things that could go wrong while crocheting, opening a portal had seemed like a low probability.”

*

Of the things that could go wrong while crocheting, opening a portal had seemed like a low probability. Just as I was beginning to get the hang of this new pattern my Abuela taught me. God rest her soul. It was a quilt I was going to give to my best friend Erica for her upcoming 23rd birthday. But when life gives you lemons, you can refuse if you choose to. I never understood that lemonade analogy. I despise over-sweetened drinks.

The portal was greenish--like The Incredible Hulk comic books I own-- and it had flecks of white light in it. It was as if you were looking into an alien sky. I wish I had my phone to take a picture to send to Erica, but it died earlier after I forgot to charge it last night.

"You're a pathological liar," she often joked. But she probably wouldn't believe me anyway, picture or not.

Out of curiosity, I put my entire head first into the portal. I wanted to see what was on the other side. The portal felt unexpectedly cold and wet against my face. I couldn't see anything clearly on the other side. In a cramped space I could only see an orange light creeping in from beneath what seemed to be a door. I went full-body into the portal. The portal closed immediately behind me. The dimensions of the space felt like I was in a tall locker. I extended my arms and pushed outward. The door swung open with ease. There was a bright orange light from a glowing head lamp. I peaked my head and saw what looked vaguely like a doctor's office.

I heard the door knob turn. I quickly stepped back into the locker, and closed the door.

I heard a woman enter the room. Her voice sounded upbeat and perky. She was on a call.

"Hello? Oh hey thank you for calling,” she said, her voice overly friendly. “I apologize to inform you but we're all booked up. The next available face transplant is three months from now."

Face transplant? Where am I?

"Ahhh yes. Thank you for your patience ma'am. We take our position as the number one face-transplant center in the galaxy very seriously. We look forward to serving you. See you soon."

I hear her get off the phone.

“Why are these calls being forwarded to Me!” she belted, before leaving the room.

I get out of the locker and look around. On her desk a nameplate Gail Givens M.D. Surgeon Chief Resident.

In a picture frame there was a family of four. A very attractive black family. Her two boys, probably ages ten and six, if I had to guess, had on denim shorts and matching Saturn Horsemen jerseys. Gail and who I presumed to be her husband looked like high school sweethearts. She is stunning. He had his arm around her waist and she seemed to be smiling from the very depths of her soul.

That family looks genuinely happy.

Her entire desk was a touchscreen monitor. I clicked the calendar application.

June 5, 2050.

I checked the desk drawers for anything that would give me a clue, but found nothing. I saw a closet in the corner of the office. Inside, I see a white lab coat on a hanger. Maybe I can blend in. I inhaled deeply before leaving the office. I try to slow my breathing and steady my heart rate. Everything is going to be fine.

I walk out the room and into the spotless hallway corridor and keep walking, my hands holding the digital tablet I grabbed to look busy.

“Hey Doctor,” a random muscular guy said.

“Hey,” I said, my eyes glued to the tablet.

Apparently, a patient named Greg Sellers is scheduled for a procedure early tomorrow morning. He’s in room 301.

After I rounded a corner, I saw the exit just beyond the receptionist desk.

I quickened my pace.

“Are you new here?”

I turned around. It was the receptionist. She had a scar that went from just above her left eye over her ear and down the side of her neck. I tried not to stare. Her name tag read Rachel.

“Uh, Yes. Yes I am,” I said, trying to stop stuttering. “Still trying to get familiar with the building layout.”

“I’ve never seen you before. I see everyone that walks in here.”

“I didn’t see you either when I came in. Maybe you were in the bathroom.”

“Maybe,” she said, her eyes locked on me.

“Do you have the time?” I asked.

“Eighteen Forty-three.”

“Thank you. Also, where can I find room 301?”

She pointed to the digital screen behind her. It was a short walk to my right. I smiled and left without a word. Room 301 was open. Inside the room was quiet. A digital interface on the wall showed the room temperature and the audiobook that was paused.

“Face-Transplant: Finding Your Inner Truth” by Gail Givens, M.D.

I rushed out of the room, and walked back to Rachel.

“Where’s Gail?” I asked.

“She’s in the O.R.”

“Where is that?”

“On the ninth floor,” Rachel said, pointing in the direction of the elevators.

On the ninth floor, I found my way into the viewing section above the operating room. There was a group of five surgeons, Gail looked like a quarterback in the huddle.

“We all know why we do this,” she said. “A face-transplant isn’t about burying insecurities, it’s about satisfying a deep desire with advanced technology. Beauty begins on the outside. Not the inside.”

I felt a banging on my head. My vision began to blur. Repeated hits on my head. I felt myself crumble to the floor.

When my eyes slowly opened, I saw my three-year old brother smiling, holding a wiffleball bat.

“Wake up Ugly!” he shouted, as he ran off laughing.

I love that kid.

The End.

**This is a work of fiction. Names. characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.