just
want it to end.
The white surrounding me
fades until all I can see is black. Then finally, thankfully , my body
gives into unconsciousness.
THE TORTURE CONTINUES FOR SEVERAL
months. Or at least, I think it’s been months. It’s hard to tell when all you
know is pain. After a while, you just shut off, hoping the numbness will
suffice until the torment finally ends.
Every day, I’m dragged back
into that damn laboratory and strapped to the same metal table against my will.
The events that follow after are exactly as they were that first time. It goes
on until I pass out, and when I eventually come to, I’m back in this prison, where
all I can do is wait for it to start all over again.
In the few moments of
clarity I have where I can focus on something other than the pain, I think of
Dr. Richter. I think of the promise he made me back when we first met. His
claim that no harm would come to me during my time here.
I realize now how gullible
I was, believing not only that lie, but also the very idea that my time here
would ever actually end.
I’m not leaving this place.
I know that. Just as I know, in the eyes of the good doctor, I’m nothing more
than a science experiment. A guinea pig. I don’t know how I ever convinced
myself it would turn out any different.
People don’t leave the DSD.
Not unless it’s in a body bag.
I stare at the puddles of
liquefied food lying scattered on the floor around me, and the part of me that
can still feel something is consumed with bitterness. They won’t kill me, and
they won’t let me die of my own accord. I’ve tried. At first, I gave in,
believing there was going to be some end to this madness, and I’d need my
strength in order to survive it.
I know better now.
When I stopped eating
altogether, they simply forced that upon me in the same way they force
everything else—even resorting to more invasive methods to provide sustenance.
They always find a way, no matter what.
There’s nothing I can do to
stop this.
My entire body cringes at
the memory of what these people have done to me. I can recall one episode in
particular, as vividly as if it’s happening again now.
I can’t remember when it
first started—a few weeks ago maybe. It was another typical day. Another failed
experiment. Weak and inundated with the now familiar agony, I had finally
decided that I couldn’t take anymore.
Enough was enough.
Upon being brought back to
this room, I had dragged my nearly lifeless body into the corner beside the
door—the camera's one potential blind spot—and attempted to remove the last of
whatever life I had left within me. I remember the feel of my fingernails
scraping the inside of my throat, and the desperation as I tried to regurgitate
the little nourishment my body was still clinging to.
In spite of my best
efforts, there was no hiding from them, and it wasn’t long before the camera
caught sight of what I was doing. Within a matter of seconds, the orderlies
were back in the room. First, pinning me to the floor, then forcing a long tube
down into my stomach and pumping me full of whatever it took to keep me alive.
To keep me in a physical state where they could continue to run their
experiments.
I tried to scream, but I
couldn’t. I tried to reject it, but I couldn’t . Their hands held me down
as my body convulsed. In the end, I couldn’t fight it.
This method has now become
a daily occurrence.
My eyes flicker open and
closed, fighting sleep. The floor is cool against my cheek, and it would feel
good if I wasn’t in so much pain. There’s an obscene smell perfuming the air
that I know is coming from me, but I lack the energy to bathe. I haven’t done
so in a long time now. I guess because I don’t see the point.
I’m going to die anyway.
Eventually, I allow my eyes
to close, giving in to my body’s crippling fatigue. However, I soon hear a
familiar beeping, which rips me back into full consciousness. The sound seems
to
want it to end.
The white surrounding me
fades until all I can see is black. Then finally, thankfully , my body
gives into unconsciousness.
THE TORTURE CONTINUES FOR SEVERAL
months. Or at least, I think it’s been months. It’s hard to tell when all you
know is pain. After a while, you just shut off, hoping the numbness will
suffice until the torment finally ends.
Every day, I’m dragged back
into that damn laboratory and strapped to the same metal table against my will.
The events that follow after are exactly as they were that first time. It goes
on until I pass out, and when I eventually come to, I’m back in this prison, where
all I can do is wait for it to start all over again.
In the few moments of
clarity I have where I can focus on something other than the pain, I think of
Dr. Richter. I think of the promise he made me back when we first met. His
claim that no harm would come to me during my time here.
I realize now how gullible
I was, believing not only that lie, but also the very idea that my time here
would ever actually end.
I’m not leaving this place.
I know that. Just as I know, in the eyes of the good doctor, I’m nothing more
than a science experiment. A guinea pig. I don’t know how I ever convinced
myself it would turn out any different.
People don’t leave the DSD.
Not unless it’s in a body bag.
I stare at the puddles of
liquefied food lying scattered on the floor around me, and the part of me that
can still feel something is consumed with bitterness. They won’t kill me, and
they won’t let me die of my own accord. I’ve tried. At first, I gave in,
believing there was going to be some end to this madness, and I’d need my
strength in order to survive it.
I know better now.
When I stopped eating
altogether, they simply forced that upon me in the same way they force
everything else—even resorting to more invasive methods to provide sustenance.
They always find a way, no matter what.
There’s nothing I can do to
stop this.
My entire body cringes at
the memory of what these people have done to me. I can recall one episode in
particular, as vividly as if it’s happening again now.
I can’t remember when it
first started—a few weeks ago maybe. It was another typical day. Another failed
experiment. Weak and inundated with the now familiar agony, I had finally
decided that I couldn’t take anymore.
Enough was enough.
Upon being brought back to
this room, I had dragged my nearly lifeless body into the corner beside the
door—the camera's one potential blind spot—and attempted to remove the last of
whatever life I had left within me. I remember the feel of my fingernails
scraping the inside of my throat, and the desperation as I tried to regurgitate
the little nourishment my body was still clinging to.
In spite of my best
efforts, there was no hiding from them, and it wasn’t long before the camera
caught sight of what I was doing. Within a matter of seconds, the orderlies
were back in the room. First, pinning me to the floor, then forcing a long tube
down into my stomach and pumping me full of whatever it took to keep me alive.
To keep me in a physical state where they could continue to run their
experiments.
I tried to scream, but I
couldn’t. I tried to reject it, but I couldn’t . Their hands held me down
as my body convulsed. In the end, I couldn’t fight it.
This method has now become
a daily occurrence.
My eyes flicker open and
closed, fighting sleep. The floor is cool against my cheek, and it would feel
good if I wasn’t in so much pain. There’s an obscene smell perfuming the air
that I know is coming from me, but I lack the energy to bathe. I haven’t done
so in a long time now. I guess because I don’t see the point.
I’m going to die anyway.
Eventually, I allow my eyes
to close, giving in to my body’s crippling fatigue. However, I soon hear a
familiar beeping, which rips me back into full consciousness. The sound seems
to
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