The Conversion

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: CONVERSION

  CHAPTER 2: SESSION 1

  CHAPTER 3: SESSION 5

  CHAPTER 4: SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 5: PERFECT STRANGER

  CHAPTER 6: BROKEN FEAR

  CHAPTER 7: CLOSER

  CHAPTER 8: EMBRACE

  CHAPTER 9: MAGICAL MUSIC

  CHAPTER 10: DECISION

  CHAPTER 11: CROSSROADS

  CHAPTER 12: MYSTERY UNFOLDING

  The Conversion

  By DK Fire

  Copyright 2017 DK Fire

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  CONVERSION

  Today is my eighteenth birthday, and finally, my birthday wish is becoming a reality.

  Five days ago, the Conversion pilot project was announced. I can’t believe it! After months of anticipation, the pilot is finally up and running. The Ultima Center was seeking five willing and able participants to take part in the final testing stage of this revolutionary new in vivo technology project. When I first heard about the Conversion, I put my name on the list of nominees to be considered for a place on the pilot right away. I couldn’t have been happier or more surprised when not only was it announced the Pilot was to become a reality but received notification that I was to be one of those chosen to undergo the Conversion.

  For all long, as I can remember, I’ve wanted to end my wretched existence. The Conversion pilot is a long awaited dark dream come true. My successful nomination means that I can bring to an end my pathetic life, and in exchange receive lots of cold, hard cash knowing that my life will go to someone who really wants to live.

  I’m standing in front of a gray, windowless building, under a towering, black sign that spells out, Ultima Center. To me, gray and black are the colors of sadness. They go well together. The building reminds me of one of those abandoned, structures in Chernobyl, the site of a nuclear tragedy that happened way before my time. Chernobyl is now a modern day ghost town that came up in my search engine when I was trying to find the most depressing places on earth.

  I take a deep breath and move purposefully forward towards the large frosted glass double doors of the Ultima Center. The wind blows my hair across my face, and it annoys me. I angrily search for a hair tie in my hoodie pocket, then pull my long brown hair back into a hastily fashioned, messy ponytail. The charcoal color of my grubby hoodie, stained here and there with black marks of indeterminate origin, echoes the building’s depressing color scheme and looming menace.

  The sky is blanketed with gray clouds. I close my eyes and breathe in the fresh air before the rain. I love that smell. I’m hesitant to go inside. My heart is racing. My hands are starting to get cold, so I rub them against my jeans to warm them up. “Get moving,” I say to myself.

  Still, my nervousness is almost overwhelming as I pass through the frosted glass doors. My body trembles a little, and my breath catches with each step I take. Once in the foyer I look around and am pleasantly surprised by the welcoming quiet. I of all people can appreciate this place of silent, isolation set in the middle of nowhere, up a bleak and grimy road edged with half-dried bushes and skirted by delinquent, tumbleweeds.

  I need to keep it together; otherwise, I could not only miss my appointment but worse, stuff up and lose my place on the pilot. I take deliberate and determined steps across the marble floor of the empty foyer. Glancing first to my right, I look down a long corridor towards a pair of double white frosted doors at a distance of 50 meters. I turn back to my left and see a small, fifty-something woman in a nurse’s uniform seated behind an antique white desk with a sign at the front saying Reception Desk. Aside from the woman at the reception desk, the hall is empty. Very slowly, almost tiptoeing, I make my way in her direction. She does not move. Her eyes are fixed on a large computer screen in front of her. I stop for a second and check my phone to make sure I have the right place and time.

  “Can I help you?” she finally asks as I scroll through my phone. I stare at her wrinkly face and can’t seem to get a word out. Scanning her face from forehead to chin I eventually force out an “Umm…” I feel as if I have swallowed my tongue.

  “Do you have an appointment with us?” she asks directly, sensing my uncertainty.

  “Yes, I think I do,” I say softly, putting my hands on the reception desk.

  “Great.” She gazes at me over the top of her reading glasses.

  “What’s your name?” she turns her eyes back to the monitor.

  “Alina Bruhler,” I mutter.

  “Can you repeat that?”

  She leans forward in an attempt to hear me better.

  “Alina Bruhler,” I say after clearing my throat, “I have an appointment for two o’clock,”

  “Let’s see. Yes, I have you here with Dr. Deanna Kismen. I will let her know you are here; please take a seat.”

  She nods in the direction of a couch that I don’t recall seeing when I stepped in.

  I sit down and place my backpack on the floor. I nervously run my hands over on the soft leather of the couch and look nervously around at the bare tiled walls. Gray, of course, there are no pictures, no photographs. The only furniture in the hall is the couch I’m sitting on and the reception desk and chair. The hall is literally a long gray box with four walls and an extremely high ceiling. I wish there was a glass roof that could let in the natural light. I guess they decided to make this place as depressing and impersonal as possible.

  I notice an odd smell that begins to fill my nose. It's hard to describe the scent, but somehow it evokes sadness. I take another breath and try to identify the unusual smell when suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel my anxiety rising again.

  I put my hands on my head and try to calm down.

  “Alina Bruhler?” a female voice asks in a friendly yet sharp tone.

  I tilt my head up and see an attractive woman, probably in her mid-thirties. She doesn’t look like a doctor to me—more like an elementary school teacher. She has a beautiful, innocent-looking baby face. I admire her olive skin and stunning brown eyes, her extremely long eyelashes and the tiny wrinkles on her forehead. Her straight brown hair is pulled neatly into a bun. She is wearing a gray long-sleeve turtleneck with a black pencil skirt. Gray and black. What other colors would I see here? She is holding a stack of plastic cards.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I murmur as I stand up.

  “My name is Doctor Deanna Kismen,” she says, extending her hand to me “Welcome to the Ultima Center. I will be your doctor during the process.”

  She seems nice.

  I give her my hand and stare at her long eyelashes, trying to determine if they are real.

  “Oh! Your hand is so cold! Is it still chilly outside?” she asks while shaking my hand.

  “Yes, it is,” I answer automatically, even though the truth is that it’s not the temperature outside that made my hand cold, but rather my anxiety.

  “Hopefully it will warm up this weekend,” says Dr. Kismen. “We need to discuss a few things, so please follow me to my office.”

  She turns to the gray doors behind the reception desk, swipes one of her cards and doors swish open as we approach. We walk side by side along the long corridor. Dr. Kismen ushers me through as if to make sure I’m right there with her.

  I hear nothing but our footsteps as we walk. We pass a few doors that have name signs on them before reaching Dr. Kismen’s office. She swipes a card to unlock the door to her office.

  Her office has the same depressing aesthetic as the rest of the building—gray walls with no windows and no pictures. This w
hole Ultima Center screams sadness.

  There is a black file folder on Dr. Kismen’s desk with my name printed on it, which I read upside-down and the word “Dator” handwritten in brackets next to my surname. I wonder what the word means. Maybe I should ask her about it.

  “Please Alina, sit down,” Dr. Kismen says as she gestures to the chair next to the desk.“Is it all right if I call you Alina or would you prefer to be called something else?” she asks, simultaneously turning on her computer screen and opening my file.

  No one has ever asked me that before. An interesting question causes me to wonder what the right answer should be. My little brother calls me Lina. My mother, on the other hand, has always had plenty of unkind names for me, including “waste of space,”“useless,”“idiot,” and “dumb.

  “Alina is fine, I guess.”

  I force my lips into a smile.

  “What does ‘Dator’ mean?”

  My question seems to catch her off-guard.

  “It means ‘giver’ in Latin,” she answers.

  This makes perfect