The Florence Project

• Chloe Doran, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2014

The only thing that hurt more than being rejected was dying. Don’t mistake me for one of those dramatically depressive girls – I didn't intend on killing myself after being brutally rejected by someone who was far out of my league, in front of our entire grade. It was sheer coincidence. A girl can only be humiliated so many times and after the absolutely horrid day I was having, I was somewhat relieved that I ceased to exist shortly after. Well, I mean, after the whole ‘feeling-and-hearing-my-own-ribs-split-open-beneath-the-substantial-wheels-of-a-bus’ ordeal. This was as much as my fault as it was anyone else's. It was simply an accident. People from the street surrounded me and began to obliviously suffocate me.
Within my last waking moments, all I could think about was rejection. Not only from my previous crushes, but by others, like job interviewers, potential friends – even my own mother left me. I was so lonely for reasons unknown and now all I wanted was to be alone.
And then, I died.
The insufferable pain vanished along with my consciousness. I felt myself fading, and fading…
Before, I was suddenly pulled back in and woke with a jolting start.
Although the agony had disappeared, I breathed as if I never tasted air before. I couldn’t tell if this was a dream, or whether my past life was. Blinded with intense brightness, the clean scent of the room infiltrated my nostrils. I felt around uneasily; my fingers swept across the cool metal surface of the table I lay upon, and shortly, I discovered I was naked.
Is this the other side? I thought.
“Heart-rate: stabilized,” said a static voice.
“Hello?” I jolted upright. My eyes began to focus on an inconspicuous movement at the foot of the table. The figures blended in with the whiteness of my surroundings, their movements mechanical, similar to a machine’s.
“Heart-rate: dramatically increased,” the monotone voice said as the robots approached me, their faceless heads were like large white eggs, with thin metal poles for limps, “Do not be alarmed. We are trying to help you—”
“What’s happening?” I went to ask, but it came out as a petrified scream, as I inched backwards desperately. “Get away from me!”
“Do not be alarmed,” the robots peered facelessly down at me, “We are trying to help you. Your DNA has been found among the scraps of Planet Earth and has been preserved over 134 years. Your DNA has been the center of The Cloning Project, protocol ninety-six – if the human race was to perish, all robotic forms must sought, preserve and clone human DNA samples, in order to repopulate. Your identity has been found and has been saved to the master system. Welcome, Florence Roadnight, to the year 3067.”
My mind struggled greatly to process all of this new information. All I could think about is how I wanted to be alone. And how I was now truly alone.