Midnight for the Broken

by Michael Roux

  “Mr. Moon, this is Janice,” says Dr. Snow, as casually as if I were a neighbor or relative. “She has some papers for you to sign. Then we can begin.”

  “I'm not signing anything,” I tell him. “Talk to my lawyer.”

  Dr. Snow waves away my comment. “I have spoken with him. He has advised us not to begin any tests without your authorization. I know you're eager to see Jessica.”

  Mention of her name catches my attention. “She's here?” I ask.

  Janice hands me the clipboard. The paperwork is already completed and there are little plastic arrows taped where I’m supposed to sign. The forms look like the ones Mr. Jackson had me complete when registering for school. But that was school. He's not here, and whatever I sign could get me into more trouble. I review the forms. From what I can tell, they're authorizations for blood, fluids and tissue. There's a hold harmless agreement, which I laugh at, considering I'm in a wheelchair and wasn't when I arrived. I see a press release form. Use of my likeness and such. There’s a disclosure, which I read.

  All uses are limited and exclusive to the work by LCS Clinical Research.

  Below the print, Mr. Jackson has signed as my court appointed guardian.

  “My lawyer saw this?” I ask.

  “He wrote it.” Janice hands me a pen.

  “Then you don't need my signature.”

  Dr. Snow shakes his head. “We do for this,” he says. “You're saving lives, Mr. Moon. We can't begin until you sign. Janice is a notary.”

  Suddenly I'm hot again. “Whose lives? Yours?” I point to Janice and the nurse. “Theirs?” I hand the pen and the clipboard back to Janice. “You have your cure. You don't need me. I'm not signing anything. I'm not going to be your science experiment.”

  Dr. Snow's face turns red and a vein boils up on his forehead. “I was told you would cooperate,” he says to me, leaning close.

  “You obviously have bad information.”

  “Should I leave, sir?” The nurse puts down her supplies.

  “No, stay a moment,” Dr. Snow tells her. He takes a deep breath and then paces away from me. “We paid a lot of money to help you, Mr. Moon. Do you know that? We bought your freedom.” He turns to me, glaring, and then drops to his knees and grips my wrists, making them burn. “I brought my daughter with me today. Today only. If you don't cooperate, I won't bring her again.”

  I stare at him, aiming my hate. I want to see Jessica, but I also know that we'll never have a chance to have what we did again. If I see her, what would it be like? What would we say to each other? My life feels like it is over and I don't want her to see me this way.

  “I won't do it,” I announce to the room. My words tug at my heart, but I continue anyway. “Not like this, not under threat. You can wheel me back to that room and you can use any excuse you want to those who know I'm here, but I won't be turned into a freak.” As I speak, my voice strengthens with the courage I'm feeling. I'm the victim, but there's only so much they can do here without my permission.

  I push back from my wheelchair and try to stand to face the man in front of me. I tumble to the floor, but I don't care. The nurse scrambles to help me. I shove her away.

  “I don't know what you've done to me, but you're going to fix it. I won't sign anything, I won't authorize anything, and I don't want to see your daughter, sir, until I can walk again. When I can walk, and with written word that I can see Jessica, then I'll sign your stupid papers.” I grip the floor and crawl toward the door. “Until then, take me to my room.”

  “Are those you're conditions, Mr. Moon?”

  I pull myself to sit and reach for the handle. “Those are my conditions.”

  Chapter Ten: Defiance

  My legs work again the next time I wake. They're sore, but I feel the strength in them again. I roll out of bed and jump up and down, testing that I have all the power I knew before. I slap the ceiling with my palm and grin at the change. Normal. Well, as close as I can get.

  The door opens and Janice enters, followed by a guard. Without an invitation, I reach for the clipboard she's holding. She yelps and steps back but then calms as I examine the documents. There's a highlighted note added below the disclaimer.

  Visits from acquaintances will be authorized upon acceptance of these conditions, provided scheduling and administrative time constraints.

  It's not perfect, and I think I understand the loophole Dr. Snow has conveniently included, but I don't care. I can walk again and I'll get to see Jessica. They can take whatever blood they need. I got what I wanted. I hope Mr. Jackson can get me out of here soon.

  I thank Janice and smile mischievously at the guard as he leads me back to the same room as yesterday. The nurse is there. I hold out my arm and smile.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Do your worst.”

  The nurse smiles back at me. “I've never seen a volunteer talk like that to Dr. Snow. He's not one to make concessions, either.”

  I offer a smirk. “I'm not a volunteer.” The needle breaks my flesh and I smirk from its bite. “What did they do to my legs, anyway?”

  The nurse fills one long vial with blood from my arm and quickly replaces it with an empty one. “You were injected with Ambazine,” she answers. “It's a drug we created to isolate certain muscle groups and delay responses to the brain.”

  “It felt like I didn't have any strength.”

  “Your mind thought you didn't because it didn't get the message from your legs in time.” She fills a third vial and then prepares a small knife.

  “So now what happens?” I ask.

  “This is going to hurt.”

  She didn't lie. After pressing a cold round sensor to my chest, she cuts my shoulder open while I watch. No drugs, no warning, simply a cold knife into my flesh. The pain is too much. In a release of anger, fear and agony, I scream so loud that the metal cabinets in the room rattle. The nurse seems unfazed by my outburst, as if used to this reaction, and slowly continues her cut; it's a perfect square on my shoulder. I glare at her, wondering how many innocent people she's made suffer with such indifference. Then without another warning, she tears the flesh square away. I'm still yelling as she attaches a bandage to my shoulder with one hand and drops the bloody square of my skin into a silver canister.

  “We're done here,” she tells me, pulling the sensor from my chest. “You can go.”

  I glare at her, hating what she did, and try to stand. The room spins. I feel myself losing consciousness and grip the table. The guard presses me back to sit, but it's too late—I'm unconscious before I reach the chair.

  ~ O ~

  Voices alert me that I'm still alive. I hear women. I hear a man. I know the voice; it's Dr. Snow. He's telling someone about golf, or Colorado, or something. Light pours down on me, but something is blocking it, my eyelids. I force them open and then shut them as fast. The light is blinding. After a few tries, I'm able to open my eyes enough to see what's happening. Dr. Snow is standing over me, along with three nurses. I can't feel my body.

  “Doctor,” says one of the nurses, interrupting his story about a putter, “he's awake.”

  Dr. Snow stops talking and looks at me. He nods to someone I cannot see and my world goes black again.

  ~ O ~

  The next time I wake, I'm lying on a bed. My mind feels groggy, like it's stuffed with cotton. I can see, I can move, but everything seems distant and clouded. I reach over and touch the wall to be sure that it's real. The bricks are rough against my fingers. I trace the grooves between them, following the lines up and across and then down again. This place is my prison. I don't know what's happened or what's been done to me. My memories are like quick flashes of light.

  A nurse and a guard end my solitude and order me to follow. They lead me down the opposite end of the hall and past a security door. From there, we walk down a long lonely corridor and into a brightly lit room with tinted glass on every side. Another nurse is adjusting settings on a treadmill and a computer station at the center of the room.


  “Take off your gown,” the guard tells me.

  I stare at the windows, wondering who's on the other side and then remove the only shirt I've known in this place. The forced air sends shivers down my back. The nurse presses little round stickers all around my chest, shoulders, and back. Then she puts one on each thigh. She prods me toward the computer station and attaches wires to each of the stickers. The one on my left shoulder, where the flesh was cut away doesn't stick. I fumble with it, trying to put it back into place.

  “Don't touch that,” the nurse scolds. She flashes a glare at me before replacing the sticker and the wire. “I'm going to start you at five miles per hour,” she tells me. “The machine will control the speed from there.” She motions to the treadmill and I step onto the ramp.

  “How long do I run?” I ask.

  “Until you can't.”

  I've never used a treadmill before and the sensation startles me. I stumble on the track as I adjust to the speed. It's slower than a jog, but faster than a walk. Though the strength has returned to my legs, I still have a lingering fear that I'll suddenly collapse. I glance at the nurse, questioning her with my eyes, but she's watching a screen and pressing buttons. I stare ahead and try imagining that I'm somewhere else, away from this cold room and the hidden faces behind the glass. Away from the wires and the steel and air that hurts my skin.

  I close my eyes for a moment and quickly discover that's a bad idea. Everything in my mind spins. So I stare stoically at the window in front of me. Whoever is watching, whatever they're doing, I want them to know that I'm stronger than their tests. I'm as human as they are and they'll never get the best of me. When the track speeds up, I keep staring. This is more my speed; I'm in my element now. I'm the master of my own day. I'm running.

  I don't know how much time has passed, but the nurse in the room asks the guard for a chair. I'm still running. The machine rises and lowers, I'm guessing to simulated hills or something, but it doesn't bother me. I feel like I can do this forever.

  More time passes. Another nurse comes and replaces the first. They whisper for a minute or two, then the second nurse makes some adjustments on the screen. The track speeds up. I'm sprinting now, and starting to feel it. My lungs are sucking in all the air I can give them. The room doesn't feel cold anymore. My hands are red and I can see my veins under the Second Skin on my left arm—they’re bulging and pulsating. I keep running.

  Faster and faster. I didn't know a person could run so fast, for so long, but I'm doing it, still defying the condition that put me here. I start thinking about Dr. Snow and imagine him in front of me. I'm chasing him and I want to go faster. The legs feed the monster. The track honors my request. I'm hungry. I'm running. Faster. Faster.

  Smoke rises from under my feet, but I don't look down. I run. Something is burning. At my left, the nurse is keying information onto the screen. She keeps glancing at my feet and wrinkling her brow. The smell is nauseating. I stop focusing on my image of Dr. Snow and gaze around the room. I stare at the glass on my right, then straight ahead, then past the frantic nurse. I'm not stopping. I won't stop. They challenged me to this and I won't give in. An exhilarating feeling of satisfaction rises from deep inside of me and tingles cover me.

  I laugh. I smile. I yell. “I can do this all day!”

  “You have.”

  As the nurse's words reach me, there's a strange vibration below my feet. Then another. The third time, the belt rises and tosses me backward. I'm on the floor, ripped free from the wires and staring up at the guard, who's covering his mouth. I can't see the treadmill, or the nurse, or the windows. The door opens.

  “Go,” orders the guard.

  I try to stand, but lose my balance and fall back down. The Second Skin on my arm splits and blood splatters everywhere. The guard yells at me again. The floor feels like a rug that's being yanked from in front of me. The guard grabs my other arm and slides me into the hall, out of the smoke. There, another guard helps lift me to stand while a nurse runs from behind a door and stabs a needle into my shoulder. She presses a bandage onto my arm and I lose focus. The guards spin and fade to black.

  Chapter Eleven: Glass Birthday

  “How has your stay been?” asks Dr. Snow.

  I glare back at him, daring him to follow up his question so I can yell back an insult. When he doesn't, I retreat to my bed.

  Dr. Snow slides the chair from the corner and sits, facing me. It’s a familiar position now. “The world is changing,” he says.

  “I wouldn't know,” I retort.

  Despite his overtly friendly tone and calm demeanor, I don't like him. He's keeping me here, subjecting me to never-ending tests and physical humiliation. And he still hasn't kept his promise. I signed the agreement over a week ago.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head, “you wouldn't.” The chair creaks as he shifts. “You keep glaring at me like I'm the bad guy,” he says. “I'm trying to help. Do you understand that I'm trying?”

  I shake my head and slide over to face him. “Look at me,” I say. “Do I look like someone who's been helped?” I tug at my robe. “I don't have clothes, I'm never allowed to go anywhere, and I don't have any friends?” I lean forward and speak low so he'll pay attention to my words. “Tell me how this is any different from prison.”

  Dr. Snow never changes his gaze and doesn't answer. Then he stands and brushes off his long coat as if the air around me has contaminated him somehow. “I'm not asking you to like me, Mr. Moon.” He puts his hands at his waist. “But I am helping you. What are you going to do when this is all over, and the people here are all gone?”

  “Shower,” I snap back. “This place stinks.”

  Dr. Snow retreats to the door and yanks it open. “There's a young woman here today,” he says. “Someone I care about very much. She came to see you for your birthday. Tell me again what you said before. Tell me you don't have any friends.”

  The door slams shut, leaving me with the echo of his words. Jessica? My birthday? I don't believe it’s already March eighth. As I sit and decide whether or not to trust what I heard, I understand why Jessica tried so hard to keep me from her parents. I understand how she wasn't able to chat with me at times. I'm proud of the efforts she made and nod knowing how much she must have risked to go to that basketball game so long ago. She had been stronger than I realized.

  The door opens again. This time it's a guard. I stare at him, waiting. I’m trying to determine if this is some sort of trick. But the guard doesn’t move or change his hollow expression. I stand up and follow him down the hall and into a room I've never been to. It's colder than the others and it chills the open back of my gown.

  There's a cushioned chair, a steel table with paper cups half-filled with water. The bare walls frame a large window that extends from the floor to the ceiling. On the other side of the window is an empty, identical room. When I turn to question the guard, he disappears and closes the door behind him. I wait for the familiar electronic buzz that announces the door has been locked, but no sound comes. Why am I allowed to leave this room and not the others?

  I'm walking around the table, searching for a clue as to where I am when a similar door in the opposite room opens. Jessica enters.

  “Jessica!” I run to the window and pound on the glass. “Jessica.”

  She's ignoring me, or can't hear me; it's impossible to tell which. She studies her room and then sees me. She runs to the window. “Ryan.” There's no sound, but my name passes from her lips as she presses close to the glass.

  I call to her again, but the rooms are soundproof. No matter what I yell, she doesn't appear to hear me. And I can't hear her. It's as if the air has been sucked away as I try to mouth a hello and not force a sound. She's doing the same. We are close, so close, but we can only see each other. I want to hear her voice. I want to feel the touch of her skin. But I can't.

  I press one hand against the glass and Jessica does the same. Our hands mark the same spot and I'm inches from h
olding hers. I stretch my fingers wide and she repeats the motion.

  “Are you okay?” She asks with emphatic lip movement.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  There's instant sadness. She lowers her head and looks like she's fighting back tears. I shake my head again.

  “Don't,” I tell her, without speaking. But she doesn't see my mouth.

  I stare at her. Jessica curled her hair and the locks twist and wrap around her shoulders. She is wearing a long a green dress and tan sandals. She looks back up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. I touch them at the glass but they don't stop. I can't reach them.

  “It's okay,” I whisper.

  I'm fighting my own emotion now. I didn't expect it to be like this. I don't know what I had thought seeing her would be like, but the moment tears me apart. It's like being trapped in a bubble. Nothing I do or say seems to affect her. I'm forced to watch her through the glass, to witness her tears, to talk without being heard.

  She speaks, but I don't understand. I smile instead, hoping it was something nice, some word of encouragement, some message of hope.

  “You're beautiful,” I say. I grin to let her know that I mean it.

  She seems to understand and dips her face and turns to one side. She's shy. My first tear falls and I press my hand to the glass again. She touches it. I press with all my want and desire, willing the glass to vanish so I can hold the hand of the only person in the world who accepts what I am. We're worlds apart, but only inches away. More tears come and I don't fight them.

  “Jessica.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head to fight the pain that's overwhelmed me. It's worse than anything I've felt before. I feel my legs start to weaken. I look into her eyes again and plead for her to understand how much I miss her.