reverberate in the background of my mind, and for a brief second, I wonder
if I’m simply imagining it. Then, I hear the door open, and I know that I’m
not.
This is real. It’s
happening again.
No! I want to scream.
Certainly, it hasn’t been a whole day already?
The hands that wrap around
me are rough and violent as they peel me off the sticky cement floor. They pull
me to my feet, grabbing onto me for support, since I’m no longer able to hold
myself up. In the beginning, they had to pin me down when they did this. They
don’t bother anymore.
They don’t have to.
I lift my eyes to meet
those of the orderly standing in front of me. His face is an expressionless
mask, his gaze equally as empty. I stare at him for a moment, silently
communicating my loathing for him—for this whole place. However, before I can
even attempt to speak, I feel the syringe pierce the skin on my neck.
It doesn’t knock me out.
I’m still conscious, albeit just barely. My body, on the other hand, is
completely limp.
It’s as if I’m paralyzed,
unable to move, fight, or run. Unable to do anything except feel pain. The one
thing they conveniently decided to keep intact.
They drag me through the
halls, leading me back to my place of torture. The fluorescent lights burn my
eyes, and I can feel my feet and toenails scraping against the floor. The
orderly doesn’t bother to lift me and spare me this one discomfort—even though
he could easily do so. Just goes to show what they think of me here.
Once again, I’m reminded of
Dr. Richter’s promise.
No harm will come to me?
If I had the strength, I’d
laugh.
I hardly even notice when
we enter the room, having spent the last few moments trying to tune everything
out. But when we pass through the doorway, it’s as if something buried inside
of me rises to the surface in response to my surroundings.
Fear takes over, bringing
me back to reality the instant I’m strapped down to the table.
It all happens just as it
did that first time. The IVs. The monitors. The group of doctors in white
coats. The metal halo situated around my head. Dr. Richter looks at me now with
a sick and inhuman detachment—devoid of any concern as to the harm his
experiments are causing me.
I can’t find the will or
the energy to cry, even though I’m broken on the inside, maybe because it feels
like giving in. Maybe because, in spite of how desperately I crave death, I
don’t want them to have the satisfaction of knowing they’ve won.
I don’t want him to
have that satisfaction.
“Proceed,” I hear Dr.
Richter say.
I know what’s coming next.
The slight discomfort he warned me of initially.
A shrill scream rips from
my lungs as pain consumes my body. The bolts flash through my head, strike
after strike exploding into my brain. I grind my teeth together in an effort to
overcome it, but the agony is unbearable. There’s no suppressing it. Just like
there’s no escaping the reality that this will eventually kill me.
But when? When will I be
spared this pain and finally be allowed to die? When will this stop?
Please, I beg my body. I don’t
care what you do. Just make it stop.
For a brief moment, the
strikes end. I slump to the side, gasping heavily and gagging up the minimal
contents of my stomach. Sweat drenches my skin, plastering the paper-thin gown
against my body. I blink, but my vision is obscured. All I can make out are
indistinct figures.
I notice a male voice
somewhere on my right side, but even that seems somewhat clouded.
“There’s been a neural
oscillation of her central nervous system.”
I don’t know what that
means. I don’t even care.
“Again,” Dr. Richter
commands.
No! I try to scream, but my
voice fails me.
All too quickly, the
lightning returns. It passes through the halo before shooting straight into me
in fast repetitive jolts, disabling me further. I shout out with each
excruciating stab.
End this! I plead with myself. End
this!
Another stab.
End
if I’m simply imagining it. Then, I hear the door open, and I know that I’m
not.
This is real. It’s
happening again.
No! I want to scream.
Certainly, it hasn’t been a whole day already?
The hands that wrap around
me are rough and violent as they peel me off the sticky cement floor. They pull
me to my feet, grabbing onto me for support, since I’m no longer able to hold
myself up. In the beginning, they had to pin me down when they did this. They
don’t bother anymore.
They don’t have to.
I lift my eyes to meet
those of the orderly standing in front of me. His face is an expressionless
mask, his gaze equally as empty. I stare at him for a moment, silently
communicating my loathing for him—for this whole place. However, before I can
even attempt to speak, I feel the syringe pierce the skin on my neck.
It doesn’t knock me out.
I’m still conscious, albeit just barely. My body, on the other hand, is
completely limp.
It’s as if I’m paralyzed,
unable to move, fight, or run. Unable to do anything except feel pain. The one
thing they conveniently decided to keep intact.
They drag me through the
halls, leading me back to my place of torture. The fluorescent lights burn my
eyes, and I can feel my feet and toenails scraping against the floor. The
orderly doesn’t bother to lift me and spare me this one discomfort—even though
he could easily do so. Just goes to show what they think of me here.
Once again, I’m reminded of
Dr. Richter’s promise.
No harm will come to me?
If I had the strength, I’d
laugh.
I hardly even notice when
we enter the room, having spent the last few moments trying to tune everything
out. But when we pass through the doorway, it’s as if something buried inside
of me rises to the surface in response to my surroundings.
Fear takes over, bringing
me back to reality the instant I’m strapped down to the table.
It all happens just as it
did that first time. The IVs. The monitors. The group of doctors in white
coats. The metal halo situated around my head. Dr. Richter looks at me now with
a sick and inhuman detachment—devoid of any concern as to the harm his
experiments are causing me.
I can’t find the will or
the energy to cry, even though I’m broken on the inside, maybe because it feels
like giving in. Maybe because, in spite of how desperately I crave death, I
don’t want them to have the satisfaction of knowing they’ve won.
I don’t want him to
have that satisfaction.
“Proceed,” I hear Dr.
Richter say.
I know what’s coming next.
The slight discomfort he warned me of initially.
A shrill scream rips from
my lungs as pain consumes my body. The bolts flash through my head, strike
after strike exploding into my brain. I grind my teeth together in an effort to
overcome it, but the agony is unbearable. There’s no suppressing it. Just like
there’s no escaping the reality that this will eventually kill me.
But when? When will I be
spared this pain and finally be allowed to die? When will this stop?
Please, I beg my body. I don’t
care what you do. Just make it stop.
For a brief moment, the
strikes end. I slump to the side, gasping heavily and gagging up the minimal
contents of my stomach. Sweat drenches my skin, plastering the paper-thin gown
against my body. I blink, but my vision is obscured. All I can make out are
indistinct figures.
I notice a male voice
somewhere on my right side, but even that seems somewhat clouded.
“There’s been a neural
oscillation of her central nervous system.”
I don’t know what that
means. I don’t even care.
“Again,” Dr. Richter
commands.
No! I try to scream, but my
voice fails me.
All too quickly, the
lightning returns. It passes through the halo before shooting straight into me
in fast repetitive jolts, disabling me further. I shout out with each
excruciating stab.
End this! I plead with myself. End
this!
Another stab.
End
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