I woke up from what I assume to be a murky, drug induced sleep. My eyes began dashing themselves to and from before I can even get my bearings. As whatever put me to sleep wears off, my senses begin to return to me. I wriggle a bit, and hear a little pop. I'm stiff, most likely from being in an uncomfortable position for too long. I let out the slightest groan.
I'm surprised at the sound of my own voice; the sound of anything, really. My throat is scratchy, even in that small sound, my vocal chords ache. My nose fills with the sharp stench of acid, followed by peroxide, and....Blood? I sniff again, and my throat starts to burn even more.Both dry and wet, it hits me more than anything. Blood. There's no denying it. My eyes scan the room again, and I see chipped yellow paint. There is a faint hint of familiarity in the fact that it's exactly the same yellow that they use in the asylums. Maybe that's where I am?
I shudder a little, seeing that aside from the paint, the walls are splotched with what is either rust or the blood I smelled before. The room is windowless, to my dismay. The only exit is a sturdy door that is more than likely to be locked. Of course, I feel a wave of panic. Let me tell you that anxiety disorder is a beyatch. Paranoia is just as bad. I try to pull myself into a sitting position, it's futile, however. My wrists and ankles are restrained, I try once more, cracked and dry leather just bites into my skin.
"Third time's the charm...", I think to myself, and I try once more, yanking hard.
The leather looks to be in bad shape, but, sadly it holds. Tired and with dwindling hope, I fall back. It lands on what I think is an operating cot, my face hits the cold metal; my eyes land onto something else. I see a boy. He appears to be about thirteen fourteen, as he lolls his head to the side, blond hair falls off of his pale face. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, and they do the same things my green ones did a few moments before.
They flit around the room for a few minutes, and finally they land onto me. We exchange panicked glances, he stares at me a little longer, as if to say, "Who are you? Where the Hell are we?"
I shrug a bit, and do my best to give him a sympathetic smile, as if to say, "Your guess is as good as mine."
He tries to break his binding, they look similar to mine, in both wear and strength. But, maybe he's stronger, and can get out of them. No luck, I watch him try around twenty times, but, he can't get out of them. He falls back, exhausted and panting. He looks hopeless as well.
We look at each other again, and are startled by the sound of footsteps. I naturally freak out as I would around any other stranger, my breathing grows rapid, and my heart rate speeds up. I shake. The footsteps sound precise and measured. Maybe it's the police? I question in my head to no one particular, or, I think, Maybe it's someone who was here with us, and broke out.
While these are nice points of optimism, they do nothing to help my panic. All hope of that prospect is crushed anyway as I see someone step through the door; a doctor, wearing a surgical mask and a long white lab coat. Even though you can't see much of him, through the latex paper I can see a wide grin. A cold shiver ascends up my spine. I'm still in panic mode, but, I try my hardest not to heave or wheeze or whimper in front of this stranger. Instead, I force myself to look into his shrewd and sickly gleaming eyes.
Swiftly, the doctor moves to the boy next to me, and against my best efforts, my fear begins to rise higher and higher. Seemingly out of nowhere, he pulls out a scalpel. I watch it gleam under the dim and sharp lights in the room.
The doctor begins to lift up the boy's shirt. He folds it around the boy's neck neatly, and he begins carving in the boy's stomach with surgical precision. He doesn't cut deep enough to do much damage. Just to maim. It occurs to me that this 'doctor' wants to torture us, most likely until death. My eyes shift up to the boy's face. His pretty blue eyes are clenched shut in pain, his dark lashes have turned into tear filled spikes.
"Poor Kid." I think to myself.
I know I can't just sit here and do nothing! But, then I think, I'm in a position where I can't do anything. I take another look at the boy, his hair has been pushed off of his face, leaving him exposed. Admiration peers through me in spite of it all; the boy's mouth is clenched into a tight line, and all I can hear from him are faint grunts of effort. He refuses to give his executioner the satisfaction of his screams.
This goes on for what can't have been twenty minutes, yet feels like twenty centuries. With an obviously practiced flick of his wrist, the 'doctor' throws his bloodied tool into a rusty trash bin in the corner. Then, he pulls out a more jagged and menacing companion for the remainder of his job. He cuts into the boy with his saw-like weapon, giggling like a child with a new toy. Upon the first cut, the boy lets out a yelp of pain, sending the doctor into a larger laughing fit. I try to fight back the hysterics rising in the back of my throat. He sounds like a kicked dog; that boy.
The 'doctor' is artfully hacking away at his patient, and is enjoying every bit. The boy, now having gone past his breaking point is screaming like a madman. The tortured cacophony of his pain is no longer stand able, "STOP IT!", I hear myself cry.
I regret it instantly, knowing that won't help either of us. I've most likely just made it worse. The 'doctor' pauses to stare at me curiously, then, he flashes me one of those sick-bastard-smiles of his. I want to rip his face off.
"Please stop...", I say instead, fighting the malice out of my voice.
I think that maybe I can reason with him.
For a second, all that is left to fill the silence of the room is the boy's ragged, relieved breathing. Soon enough, that too is silenced. How it happens is a little muddy. I'm not sure if one of the other two people in the room told me not to look, or if I just didn't have the heart to at the moment, but somehow I found myself staring at the bleak, gray ceiling of the room.
Next I hear the sickening sound of spraying blood, and the eerie drip drip that comes afterward. The 'doctor' has finished his task, that I know to be true. I whimper, knowing the boy is gone. In the hopelessness of it all, I begin to cry.
I know what you're thinking, someone like me, cry? Whimper? Kind of a far off thought. But, think of this, you'll most likely do the same thing, if not worse, should you be put into a similar situation.
The panic shoots through me again, along with its companions: Misery, anger, and fear. I begin to wheeze as my chest tightens. My lungs cannot get enough air. The 'doctor' is already giggling like a little girl. I know that he is going to do next. He has discharged his first patient. Now he will go onto his next one.