by M. A. Phipps
It holds me in place. I can now only see Dr. Richter out of my peripheral vision, and I try to watch what he’s doing as much as I’m able to. He seems to be entering information into the computer. After tapping a few buttons, a panel in the countertop to his right begins to open.
A large hole appears in the glass-like surface, and from this hole, a handful of small silver objects ascend—not that unlike the metal bowl from before. They rise into the air as a soft but brilliant glow illuminates around them. The light grows brighter as they begin to move, orbiting around each other like tiny planets.
Dr. Richter nods his head. “Introduce the inhibitor.” His eyes lock on the female attendant beside me.
I glance at the woman holding the syringe. Suddenly, I’m not sure I made the right choice, after all. She pushes the needle into one of the tubes in my hand, and a light blue liquid flows into my vein. The sensation is strange—cold like ice and leaving behind a bitter chill. Yet, it’s also hot like fire, burning its way through every molecule in my body.
The feeling is horrible, and I want to scream out, but I’m distracted by the expression on Dr. Richter’s face. The wild hunger in his eyes only further fuels my fear.
“Thirty seconds until the inhibitor will enter the subject’s brain,” a man announces from across the room.
I try to look around, but I can’t move my head. The panic sets in when an automated female voice pierces through the air, echoing in the backdrop.
Counting down.
“Twenty-five seconds remaining,” the voice says.
My breaths speed up, and I’m abruptly overcome by an intense feeling of regret. It takes everything I have to remind myself that this would’ve happened either way. Even if I hadn’t agreed to it, Dr. Richter would’ve run these tests—these experiments. In the end, I never really had a choice.
“Twenty seconds remaining.”
My heart is racing. I can feel it. I can hear it.
“Ten seconds remaining.”
I don’t want this. I’m scared.
“Five seconds remaining.”
I look over at Dr. Richter, ready to beg him to abort. But he isn’t looking at me, and I can’t find my voice.
“Four . . . .”
I watch as he presses a single button, and the floating objects stop moving—almost as if time has frozen around them.
“Three . . . .”
The silver objects pulse outward now, glowing even brighter.
“Two . . . .”
I clench my eyes shut.
“One . . . .”
When the countdown hits zero, I cry out. My eyes snap open, but everything around me is white, blinding me.
It’s as if a thousand lightning bolts have all struck me at once, hitting me in the same isolated place in my head. I gasp for air, trying to breathe through the pain and hoping it’s over.
My vision clears just enough to see Dr. Richter. I follow his gaze, only to find that the silver objects are moving once again.
Now they’re still.
Pulsing.
And—
“Again,” Dr. Richter says.
I scream out when they hit me. My body goes limp, despite the fact I’m held down.
“Her heart rate is dropping.” The woman’s voice is foggy. Distant.
“Continue until there’s a response,” he bites back.
No more . . . . No more . . . .
But I can’t speak. My voice is gone. I’m too weak.
Over and over again, the lightning hits. It always strikes in the same place, tearing through my head like a wave of fire. I scream until I can’t scream any longer, and then I just lie still, silently wishing for it all to end. The pain is too much. I 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 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, grabbin
g 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 this!
I release a strangled scream, but it’s almost instantly silenced by the rapid change in my surroundings. Without warning, I’m ripped away from the laboratory and into the depths of my own mind, where I find myself back amidst the scene of destruction from before.
It’s exactly the same. The harsh wind. The murky air. The debris. I turn in place, astounded by the realistic nature of what I now know is actually a vision.
I immediately realize, although begrudgingly, that Dr. Richter’s experiments seem to have worked. He wanted me to relive my episode, and here I am.
But what now? What can he possibly take away from all of this?
My eyes scan the length of the horizon, but something feels off compared to the last time I was here. Different. I can feel the variation in the air around me, almost as if—
My body goes rigid, frozen with apprehension when I become conscious of the fact that I’m not alone. Slowly, I turn around, reluctant to see what this vision has in store for me and what it’s undoubtedly been leading me to.
A stranger stares back at me. A man in his mid-twenties, if I had to venture a guess. He has blond hair and hazel eyes. However, the warmth of his gaze is tinged with sadness. Dirt is streaked across his cheeks, and his clothes are just as filthy.
I stare back at him, alarmed by his presence, and even more so by the weapon enclosed in his right hand. But he’s not pointing the gun at me. Suddenly, his eyes fill with tears, confusing me further. His lips begin to move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
“We can’t get a clear picture, Doctor.”
“You have my authorization to use the alternative method we spoke of earlier. Do whatever you feel is necessary. I want that picture.”
Despite the continuing vision around me, I can still hear what’s happening back at the DSD. Just like I can feel what they’re doing to my body.
I shriek when the hot needles pierce my eyes, inserting straight into my pupils at a slow and hellish pace. For a few seconds, the scene around me is skewed, as if the entire world is covered in static.
“There! Stop! We have a clear image now!”
Everything goes still. The agony cuts off, replaced instead with an insane level of clarity. If the vision was distinct before, what I see now is the epitome of detail. But none of that matters. Not once I hear his voice.
“I’m sorry, Wynter,” the man whispers. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks.
“End the session.” Dr. Richter’s voice booms around me, echoing through the vision with an unexpected anger behind it.
Strangely, I don’t care. How can I with what I’ve just seen?
My eyes water excessively when the needles are abruptly removed. The excruciating nature of it all is enough to make me black out. For many long moments, I’m encompassed by darkness and aware of little else other than the pain. I only come to when I feel a sharp sting across the surface of my cheek.
“How do you know him?” Dr. Richter barks at me. His voice is muted but harsh. Hostile even.
I wince. My eyes open fully as the force of his slap pulls me back into consciousness.
A weary breath passes through my lips. “What?” I ask.
“The facial recognition server has brought up a match.” A female voice enters my ears from across the room. “The man in question is Ezra Laramie, age twenty-six. Blood type: A positive. Suspected member of PHOENIX.”
PHOENIX?
I have trouble processing this information, finding it hard to believe I could ever be associated with one of them. After all, I’ve always played by the rules. I’ve always followed the letter of the law.
Dr. Richter lunges forward and grabs me by the collar of my gown, pulling me upright with an aggressive tug.
“How do you know him?” he asks again, yelling this time.
“I don’t!” I snap back. My voice sounds weak and raspy.
He seems to consider me for a moment, staring at me with those cold and penetrating eyes. Eventually, he lets go of me and takes a step back.
“You will,” he promises. He turns his head slightly, directing his next words to the others in the room. “Take the subject back to her quarters.” His eyes never once leave mine.
The same orderlies from before seem to appear out of thin air. Their hands fumble with the restraints, but in less than a minute, they’re loweri
ng my limp body from the metal table.
Once again, I’m showed no compassion or mercy. They drag me from the room like a lifeless doll. Not a person, but an object—garbage to be disposed of now that I’ve done what they wanted.
The sweat dribbles from my skin, and I can feel myself falling into the welcome depths of unconsciousness. However, in the last few moments before I succumb to my weakened state, my eyes focus only on Dr. Richter. His reaction before was startling, but not quite as much as the way he’s acting now. The rage coursing through his body is evident in his frantic movements, as well as in the threatening tone of his voice.
“Contact the authorities,” he growls. “I want a red alert sent out on the fugitive.”
I don’t understand. What’s caused this reaction in him? Why does he want the man I saw arrested?
Is it because he’s a known member of PHOENIX?
Or is it something else?
I lift my head, struggling to release a single strained word. “Why?” I whisper.
He doesn’t hear me, and within seconds, I’m surrounded by darkness.
I GRUNT WHEN MY BODY hits the hard floor, the impact propelling me back into consciousness. The air tears from my lungs with a strangled gasp, and black spots dance in front of my eyes.
My fingers clutch at my throat as I try to breathe. The whole time, I’m all too aware of the orderlies around me. I hear the pitfall of their heavy footsteps as they return to the doorway, just as I hear the locking mechanism clicking back into place behind them, trapping me once again in my drab prison.
My arms shudder beneath me as I weakly lift myself off the floor. I collapse again within seconds, an abrupt stabbing in my temples crippling me in the same way as those manufactured magnetic pulses.
With each stab, I’m assaulted by an image. By a piece of the familiar vision as it works its way into every facet of my thoughts. Finally, I’m hit with the last stab. I wince as my body convulses against the floor.
Hazel eyes stare back at me, and the silence is filled with those same three words.
“I’m sorry, Wynter.”
I press my cheek against the cold concrete and take a few deep breaths. Thankfully, my lungs seem to have opened up again, and the pain running through my temples is beginning to recede.