Soul Suites

by Hulden Morse

Having not undergone a trial the day before, the woman knew that she would most likely be tortured by the doctor the following day. They had kept roughly three days in between each trial, three days of anticipation, and now Ariana hoped it would come sooner. She dreaded the agony they put her through, but she longed for the chance that she would not wake up. What a momentous victory that would be over the efforts of the workers within the building.

  That morning, after awaking to the sudden light in her room and reaching out to a hopefully understanding God, she eagerly imagined the guards entering her room at any moment, taking her to the lower floor of the building, and murdering her beyond the possibility of resurrection. It was possible. This could be the end. And it gave her hope.

  After what felt like a full day of waiting—but what truly amounted to less than an hour—the door to Ariana’s room opened and a guard walked in to retrieve her, while another guard waited in the doorway.

  Jesus. My prayers have been answered, she thought. Thank you, God. Thank you.

  She was led away from her small residence with a lightness in her step. The guards periodically glanced at her in reserved concern as if they were waiting for the unhinged woman to snap at any moment and unleash her harmless yet undoubtedly scrappy violence against the two large men. No such scenario occurred. Ariana remained in an untypically good mood while she was guided down a staircase toward the trial rooms.

  However, instead of proceeding forward after reaching the bottom of the stairs, the guards led the woman in the opposite direction, taking her to a part of the building she had never been to or even knew existed. Her elation subsided as uncertainty took over once more. Were there more trial rooms in that direction? Was she going to be subjected to a different kind of torture? Maybe her time there was done and she was being released or executed for good. She welcomed any of those scenarios as her most beloved fantasies, yet as they continued down that hallway, the familiar bad feelings within her gut began to chant a warning that something was very wrong. It was not time to undergo another trial, and this was not the usual site of torture. Her legs began to strain in response to these doubts, futilely hoping that their owner could simply turn around and walk the other way.

  Ariana was led into a room very different from the ones in which she had been strapped to a foreboding metal table. In this particular space, there was a bed on wheels, similar to one that would be found in a hospital, complete with a plastic mattress upon it, a pillow, and several bleached white blankets. There were multiple large lamps protruding from the ceiling that could be moved around the room, and many machines stood on standby, of which Ariana could not fathom their purpose.

  Three individuals in scrubs and gowns were standing in the room. One of them was fiddling with a machine that held a plethora of small vials with clear liquids in them beneath a large monitor that displayed no readings. Another person was standing in front of a metal tray that had several sealed bags filled with items wrapped in a green material. The third person was sitting on a stool in the corner, waiting for something to happen or something to do. This third individual leapt up as soon as she noticed Ariana had entered the room, and she hurried to the patient’s side.

  “What is this?” Ariana said worriedly.

  “No worries, Miss,” the scrubbed person said. “We’re not here to hurt you. We promise.”

  Ariana was then instructed to remove her clothing and put on a hospital gown. Having lost her shame long ago, she obeyed the command and stripped down to her underwear. The nurse-like figure helped her into the gown and then assisted her onto the bed. Ariana was then covered in blankets and asked if she was warm enough.

  “Um, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. You tell us if you want another blanket.”

  The individual that was working with the vials of liquid stepped into Ariana’s view and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hello, Ariana. I will be your anesthesiologist today. Do you know what that is?”

  “Uh, I think so. You make me go to sleep.”

  “That’s right, ma’am,” the man said warmly.

  “Forever?”

  “Oh. No, no. Do not worry. We are not doing that.”

  “But I want to. Please kill me.”

  The man in the scrubs gave her an odd look and then said, “Why would you want that?”

  “I’m done. I wanna die. I wanna go to Heaven. I’ve been there. It’s beautiful.”

  “Well, I wish I could send you there today. But that is not what we have scheduled. What’s going to happen is I’m going to put this needle in you. It may sting, but only for a second.”

  Ariana recalled all the times she had stabbed herself with a needle in various places around her body. She was not frightened of a little prick but was curious where that person would try to put a needle in her overused veins.

  “Have you used intravenous drugs before? I mean, have you shot up in the past?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Alright. Thank you for being honest. I’m not here to judge, only to help. Now, I need a good vein to put this needle in so I can give you drugs that will make you go to sleep. Where have you shot up in the past?”

  Ariana pointed at a spot on her leg, her foot, and in her hand.

  “Okay. I’m going to see what veins I can use and I hope we don’t have to get creative.”

  The man felt around the subject’s arms and then her hands, finding a spot on her right hand that would be sufficient for a continuous drip. He warned her about the stick, and then expertly drove the needle into her skin. The woman didn’t flinch, a typical trait of IV drug users.

  As he started a drip of fluids, the woman began to ask him questions.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Just a really quick procedure. Please don’t worry. You won’t feel any pain.”

  “But uh, um… what is, um…” She could feel herself fading. It felt so good.

  “The doctor will be in very soon. Do not worry.”

  “I… wow. Gosh that’s, um, nice. Oh my.”

  The woman started to lose consciousness as the technician injected her line with a quick-acting anesthetic. The last thing Ariana saw was Dr. Raymond walking into the room and staring intensely into her eyes.

  The technician standing in front of the metal tray had just unraveled a bag of sterile tools, gloves, and gowns. She saw the doctor walk in, his hands having been scrubbed clean, and she held out the gown for him to step into. A surgical mask was then placed on his face, and he donned long gloves.

  “We confirm this is the right person?” Dr. Raymond asked, looking at the now unconscious subject.

  “Yes, sir,” said the technician that had helped Ariana into her hospital gown. “Double-checked her chart. After every trial she has reported seeing a light and an angelic figure.”

  “Alright. Let’s prepare the surgical area. And turn on my music.”

  The technician switched on an MP3 player attached to some speakers and loud polka began dancing off the walls. The sounds of a tuba and accordion took over the room as everyone laughed hysterically. Even the doctor cracked a smile at the juvenile joke directed at him.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said with a chuckle.

  The Trial Technician laughed and shut off the music.

  “Sorry, boss,” he said. “We couldn’t help it. You’ve been stressed lately and thought you needed some upbeat music.”

  “Well done, Jacobs. You made me laugh. Not many people can do that. Now put on some real music.”

  The man happily followed directions and switched the track to something more appropriate. The sounds of Tchaikovsky glistened through the speakers, quietly filling the room with the string-filled aroma.

  “Toccata and Fugue. That’s more like it.”

  The doctor appreciated his team and continually tried to show his
approval of them, but it was times like that when he truly realized how much of a family they had become. He knew the working conditions were tough on them, given that they could not share their careers with family or friends or even each other outside of the building. But in a way it also made the facility a safe zone where people could be themselves and take pride in their jobs. It fed a desire to be there, to be working, and that was what created such a congenial atmosphere for everyone.

  After a sterile drape was placed over the subject, with a small hole cut out revealing the now disinfected surgical area, Dr. Raymond was given a stool on which to sit where he positioned himself perfectly above Ariana’s head. His assistant for the procedure handed the doctor a scalpel. The doctor took two deep breaths, his ritual before every surgery, and made the first incision.

  Chapter 37

  “Why are you doing this?” Charles asked, his head buried in his hands. He could hardly look at the man in front of him, a man that called himself a doctor. The subject’s tray of food sat untouched on the desk while Dr. Raymond eagerly devoured a plate of tacos.

  “It is called research. This is all for discovery. The world needs to know.”

  “But you’re hurting people. Killing them!”

  “Ah, they do not have families,” the doctor said with a nonchalant wave of the hand. “No one is missing them.”

  “Some of them do have families! And either way, that shouldn’t matter. You’re still killing innocent people!”

  “They are already dead, Mr. Pearson.”

  “They’re pleading for mercy. They have feelings.”

  “They are homeless. I am helping them contribute to society.”

  “Do you torture all the homeless people you find? Men and Women? Children? Those that are mentally disabled?”

  “I do not feel the need to discriminate in my research. That would be immoral and could potentially skew the data. You see, everyone is equal in my eyes. Just like you, I see the potential in every person, no matter their gender or age or ethnicity or mental capacity. I am merely taking homeless people, individuals that have chosen to skate through life without giving back to society, and put their minds and bodies to good use. If you do not understand the widespread benefits of my actions, then that is your problem.”

  “You can’t do this! I can’t sit around while you torture people!”

  “And yet you are still here talking to me.” Dr. Raymond put down his taco and gave Charles a serious look, one that challenged the man to voluntarily remove himself from the office. He waited patiently as the subject glared at him, mulling over his options.

  “I was forced to come here,” he said after a few seconds of silent tension. “I was told that I didn’t have a choice.”

  “The door is right there, Pearson,” the doctor said, pointing to the entrance of his office. “No one else is in here. No one is stopping you from getting up and leaving.”

  Charles looked at the sandwich he had been given for lunch. It was a hearty serving with thick slices of tomato, fresh lettuce, a couple layers of ham, and sliced cheese. It was starting to look more and more appetizing as he listened to his companion contentedly munch on his own food, though he could not bring himself to put the offerings of that corrupt facility into his body. It felt wrong, as if he were conforming to their ways and accepting its purpose. Charles wanted to be independent of them, a bigger person than the doctor was making him out to be, even if that meant he would have to go hungry.

  But it looked so good. He could smell the orange slices that were next to him and glanced at the choice in tea bags he had been given. His instincts were growing stronger, something that he recognized as the beginning of the end.

  “I just need to know why you’re doing this,” Charles said. “This facility, these people, how does it all work? I’m not in medicine, but I know there are regulations. How can this be funded? How do people not know about this? Do you all live here or something?”

  The doctor smiled at his guest and said, “That is a lot of questions, my good sir. I am afraid I will need some info from you first.”

  Aware of how those conversations were working, Charles obliged and asked, “What do you want to hear?”

  “You have briefly mentioned those that ran the orphanage. How did they treat you?”

  “Terribly. I was neglected. I was abused. It was rough.”

  “What kind of abuse are we talking about?”

  “Um, verbal and physical,” he said, afraid of the direction Dr. Raymond’s questioning was leading him.

  “Tell me about it. Were you beaten?”

  “Yes. With a belt.”

  “And what else?”

  “Sometimes a switch.”

  “No, Pearson,” the doctor said as he shook his head.

  “If you want me to say it, then just ask me,” Charles said angrily. “Quit beating around the fucking bush.”

  “Tell me about your first time. It was the man that ran the orphanage, I am assuming. Or did he allow others to come in?”

  “No. It was just him. Mr. Molteers. He-he liked to work with us boys.”

  The subject paused, and Dr. Raymond patiently waited for him to continue. The words of the exploited man hung in the air as if they were trapped in a web, floating there for listeners to carefully inspect and ingest for their own sadistic interests.

  “Um, well, I remember he called me into his office. I didn’t know what for. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong so I thought maybe he would ask me about something someone else did. And, um, he brought me in and put me on a stool. He then told me that I needed to be searched. For contraband. So he made me take off all my clothes. Everything.”

  The doctor leaned in close, fascinated by the story, though his eyes were soft with sympathy for the traumatic memories of a child.

  “He then started stroking my back,” Charles continued, staring into the hard carpet of the office. “He told me that if I was quiet, then I would not get beaten. I was too scared to scream anyways. I heard him unzip his pants, and I closed my eyes. I… I didn’t want to see it. But I-I-I could feel it. It… um, it—”

  “Alright, Pearson,” Dr. Raymond said quickly. “That’s enough. Sorry to have let you go on that long. I think you’ve earned yourself some answers.”

  Charles did not lift his head to look at the man in front of him. He felt naked, vulnerable, as if he had been transported into the past and lifted onto that stool by Mr. Molteers. His hair was matted with sweat, and his jaw began to ache. There was a burning in his eyes, a stinging pain that could not be wiped away, though it was nothing compared to the searing images that had been branded into his mind.

  Frightened, he opened his eyes and saw the large desk in front of him, followed by the concerned face of the doctor. Charles had traded one terrifying scenario for another. It was as if he had stubbed his toe on a table leg and consequently hit his fist against the wall in order to drive his attention elsewhere and alleviate pain from the foot. The pain was still there, in both locations, though the mind averaged it out, making the experience slightly more manageable.

  “You want to talk some more, Pearson?” Dr. Raymond asked. “Or do you want to call it a day.”

  “Give me answers, Doc.”

  “Alright. To answer one of your many questions, we receive private funding. A lot of it.”

  “Where do you get the money?”

  “From those that believe in our cause. Which many do. And my staff drive to work just like everyone else. They are dedicated to their job and are well compensated for it. However, we did have to move locations once because of an undedicated individual. But that person was properly punished for their crimes and no one else dares to step out of line.”

  “So, this is your career? You chose to do this?”

  “Yeah. Kind of. I did not dream of doing this. I used to work in a
clinic. That was always what I wanted to do. But things change, shit happens, and now I’m running this experiment. Though I truly believe in its importance.”

  “I just don’t understand how you can get so many people to do something so horrible. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “People will do anything if they believe in it. Think of the things we do for our country. For our religion. For our family. We would give our own lives for something that isn’t even tangible, like a god. So why wouldn’t someone sacrifice another person’s life for something that is very real, like wealth? People will do anything for money, even if that means watching seventy-six humans get tortured day after day and promising not to say anything.”

  “You have seventy-six fucking people here?” Charles said, aghast.

  “Approximately. It changes every day. People die and are disposed of, then we get shipments of new subjects. But that is an accurate average.”

  “Shipments? Where are these people coming from?”

  “Oh, Pearson,” the doctor said sinisterly. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  Chapter 38

  Mr. Munich held himself just as his mother had showed him many years ago. He sat on the floor in a fetal position, with his arms wrapped around his legs and his head tucked into his knees, softly humming a song from his childhood. Whenever he was scared or upset, the man’s mother would tell him to fold himself into that position, close his eyes, and pretend that he was a turtle, allowing all the bad things to bounce right off his protective shell. Mr. Munich had used that technique ever since he was a boy to bring himself through some brutally rough patches.

  Resting on his bed, Jake tried to ignore the lonesome humming of his roommate. The older man was tired after his trial and wanted to relax before dinner was served, though he often had to cope with whatever state his friend was struggling through before he was given the chance to devote some time to his personal, uninterrupted thoughts.

  Curled up into a ball, leaning against the wall, Mr. Munich was a pathetic sight. He had lost all control over his life and dreaded the notion of having to suffer through another day in that facility. He had desperately searched the room for some way to end it all, something that would ideally be quick and painless as possible, though no ideas presented themselves to him. That made the situation even worse. The man didn’t even have the ability to take his own life if he so desired. Any free choice had been claimed by the doctor and his technicians, leaving Mr. Munich with unfulfilled urges and a completely negligible sense of self-worth.