The room was bathed in red light. Tubes ran across its walls, and in the middle a large metal cylinder hummed, reflecting the light with its metallic sheen. The air smelled of anesthetic, of stinging chemicals that cut one's brain, and it was the kind of cold that seeped up nostrils and forced people to hold their hands to their noses.

A whirring sound. A step. Two. A man entered, dressed in a plain shirt and khakis, and a push of frigid air escaped behind him. He strode forwards, past an open area, to a desk filled with meters and commands. It lit the bottom of his face a brighter red than the top, and he sat in a chair overlooking the chamber. The system awaited his command.

"Computer, report."

"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point two percent."

And he left.

[hr]

The door opened, and the air rushed outside. A man - the same man as before - walked in, a beam of white thinning behind him into nothingness. He made his way to the same desk. With an exhale, the man sat. He gazed over the readings. Normal. Good.

"Computer, report."

"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point three percent."

This time, as he left, he looked back. The door opened, and for a moment he could see the true silver-grey of the machine, the black tubing on the white walls, the brown wooden floor, the blue on his sleeve -

And the doors closed, and he was left with his blue and the white of the stairs.

[hr]

It was Saturday.

The door opened. He stepped in. And he paused, staring at the tubing, the computer, the machine itself.

He stepped forwards, and sat himself in the chair. He looked happier - or perhaps it was a trick of the red light.

"Computer, report."

"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point five percent."

"Computer, run full diagnostics scan."

"Running full diagnostics scan."

He stood. He walked over to the railing, and stepping carefully down the stairs, reached the great chrome contraption, and in the infernal light he set a light hand on its top. It was cold, and he imagined he felt a body.

"Hello." No response.

"How are you doing?" Nothing.

"You know, I miss you." Nada.

"I wish you were here." Nope.

"Everyone else misses you too."

"They had a funeral for you the other day."

"It was nice. They had flowers and gave speeches."

"Everyone said they love you. Well, I love you too."

"Don't worry. After all, no matter how we may be hurt, time will heal our wounds."

[hr]

It was Sunday.

And something was terribly wrong.

He rushed in, the doors opened, the air blew back at him -

Everything was dark.

The column of light he could see showed an empty wall. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and turned on his flashlight.

The pipes had been ripped clean off, bits and pieces of the wall taken from when the mounts refused to give. The cylinder was dented and crumpled, blue fluid dripping out of a crack in its edge, and chunks of metal were missing from its smooth surface.

"Computer, report."

Silence.

"Computer, report."

"Computer, report!"

"Computer, -"

And he felt as if he had been cut up, and a piece had been taken from him. And in that moment, he knew that time could not replace his missing piece.