Author: Connor
Fitzgerald
12th
Grade
Educator: Ginger Louden
Lisbon
Water drips slowly from my dark
veil. I gasp for air, even though I know there is no point; the Supers will
just push my blood-rushed head back into the pool. Was that the fifth time or
the sixth? I don’t remember anymore, but really, it is better not to remember.
That just makes the pain worse. When I finally stop kicking against the chains
that hold my feet above my head, the Supers let me drop. One picks me up by my
hair, thankfully it didn’t come out this time. He drags me out of the room, my
feet sliding on the cold, now wet floor.
(TICK)
I
stumble and come crashing down onto my shoulder with a grunt. I hope that it’s
just another bruise. A deep, bellowing roar of a laugh from the Super drowns
out my cries of pain. Instead of picking me up again, he chooses to kick me the
rest of the way down the hall to my cell. Luckily, it only took a few good
punts to get me there. I think I only broke a couple ribs too. My face smacks
into the rough, stone wall, the one with the moss growing at its base. I don’t
move from the soft plant for what I assume is hours after I hear the cell door
click shut and the Super walk away, his heavy, measured steps rhythmically
fading into nothing. Another day finished with the drumbeat that dictates my
miserable life.
I
look down through the hole of my veil to see my calloused feet, which are a
pale pink except for the purple black bruises from the chains. When the Supers
took over society they decided that Deadheads were not worthy to look upon
their greatness. They covered our heads with the black, bag-like veils to
ensure this never happened. Mine had a hole ripped in the bottom from one of
countless torture sessions, allowing me to at least see something. Although all
I ever see is my emaciated body in its bone-white straightjacket cover.
(TICK)
I
overheard the Doctor say to another Super that my Tourette’s is another sign of
Deadhead weakness. That it shows that my body can’t even control itself. That
if only I was born a Super, I would be spared that pain. He does not know pain.
All I feel is pain. Pain from daily torture, from constant hunger, from knowing
I will never again feel the warmth of the sun. Oh, how I miss the sun. The
Supers took over when I was still just a kid. I remember playing outside when
Mother told me to come in. She seemed worried about something. The TV had some
weird show with a man in a gold mask who just never stopped talking. The next
day a group of Supers came into our house and forced a veil onto everyone’s
head: my parents’, my brothers’ and sisters’, my own.
(TICK)
That
was long enough ago that I have forgotten their faces. I have forgotten
everything but the warmth of the sun and that day.
That
accused rhythm shatters my dreams, forcing me away from the peace of sleep.
“Get
up, you dirty scum!” growled the Super guard. “It’s Doctor Day!” I can
practically hear the malicious smile on his face. The Doctor is the worst of
the worst. He is one of the greatest minds to ever grace the planet earth;
unfortunately, he is also insane. His incredible knowledge allows him to
torture Deadheads in every way imaginable.
“R224,
the Twitching Terror,” the maniacal Doctor laughs, “Welcome back. Would you
like one or two?” He likes to make his “patients” think they have an option for
less pain.
(TICK)
“There
you go again twitching. If you’re going to respond like that you get one and
two. Lucky you!”
One
involved me being strapped to a frigid, metal table and prodded in the foot
with a hot iron. Nerves in the foot lead directly to the brain, making the pain
direct and excruciating. After two stabs with the blinding white-hot rod,
(TICK)
I
begin to
(TICK)
Twitch
uncontrollably.
(TICK)
(TICK)
(TICK)
The
edges of my vision are starting to fade into a dark void, creeping slowly
inward.
(TICK)
(TICK)
(TICK)
(TICK)
Everything
is black.
The
darkness fades into my stone cell. There is pain crawling around the base of my
spine, but surprisingly not the bottom of my feet. I rock onto my knees to
stand, but I see something shine from under the bottom of my dark veil. Then I
feel the cool touch of metal around the backs of my ankles. I’m chained to the
floor! The Supers only chain violent Deadheads. Maybe this is some new kind of
torture from the Doctor, although this is lacking his usual “flair”. I don’t
have much time to question before the guard’s percussive steps ring down the
hall. They are different this time. Instead of his usual even measured steps,
he walks with a THUD, shliiiik, THUD, shliiiik, THUD, shliiiik. The wind from
the cell door flies into my face. A deep, nasally pant accompanies the creaking
door swinging. THUD, shliiiik. I feel his hot, rot-filled breath on my face
through my veil.
“The
Doctor is going to run some tests on you, freak,” he spits ragefully into the
veil. He unchains my feet from the floor and proceeds in roughly dragging me on
my back from the frigid chain.
(TICK)
“STOP
THAT!” he screams when I twitch. I want to tell him I can't control that, but
everyone knows not to talk back to the Supers. Talking back means more pain. I
try to hold back my Tourette’s as best I can.
I
can tell when we get to the Doctor’s room because I feel a sharp tug on the
shackles around my feet and the ground suddenly leave from beneath me. I slam
face-first onto, what I assume, is a metal table.
(TICK)
“I
told you to stop that!” the guard belts out again.
“That’s
alright. It shows that he is still a Deadhead. Last time may have been a
complete accident. Just to be safe though, I am going to test the Twitching
Terror’s brain. Chain him down!” What happened last time? I remember blacking
out and waking up later, but nothing else. The guard ties the chain underneath
the table, leaving my arms at an awkward angle and cutting the circulation off
in my hands.
(TICK)
I
feel him tense for a second after I twitch and then go back to tightening the
chains. Whatever is up with him, my personal tremors are rather frightening to
the big man, like a mouse in front of an elephant.
(TICK)
I
hear the Doctor lay his tools on a table next to mine. Plastic gloves slap his
wrists and power equipment revs quietly.
(TICK)
(TICK)
The
manic Doctor pulls up the back of my veil and shaves a strip into my mangy
hair. The razor sends chills down my body.
(TICK)
(TICK)
(TICK)
An
ice-cold drill bit touches the top of my now half bald head.
(TICK)
(TICK)
(TICK)
Everything
is black.
This
time the darkness breaks with blinding color stabbing my eyes. I am standing
atop a brute of a man, my right foot pinning his vein filled neck to the floor.
He is unconscious, as are the several other people littering the brick
corridor. My straightjacket sleeves dangle loosely at my sides, the arms inside
stretching out in a way they haven’t for years. Out of instinct I run down the
hall, my steps now echoing through them. The walls seem to blur into fuzz along
with my bounding strides’ thuds. They become a resounding buzz, and I their
bee. Turning back for a second, I see three men moving as though they were
encased in thick honey; slow, incredibly slow.
I
whip around a sharp corner, flying up onto the wall to make the turn. I am
about halfway down the hallway before my bare feet touch the ground again. Around
the same time two new giants break the stillness of the corridor in front of
me. They too are swimming in honey. I pivot around to go the other way and the
first three guards file in, closing my other escape route. I stop completely,
stuck between the groups. Which can I handle better: a short sword or a dagger,
short sword or dagger, sword or dagger?
(TICK)
Instinct
suddenly grips my body, forcing me to race toward the blade of the dagger. My
vision focuses tightly on the left side of the neck of the left hand guard. I
barrel toward him, only breaking stride when I am within a step of his massive
body, and that break was up. Flying upward, my right hand catches the front of
his neck, and I swing around into the other guard. I kick him where the head
and spine connect, knocking him forward, at the same time as his partner lands
on his back. The balls of my feet hit the ground softly, and I take off down
the hall. I turn on impulse: right and right and left and right and left. Eventually
a set of garage doors impedes my path, the metal behemoths the final monsters
in my way. I shoot at them going full speed, tuck my shoulder, and break
through the steel barrier. I don’t stop though. I run until I pass the chain
fence, until I pass the tree grove, until I enter the woods. Stopping means
getting caught and getting caught means more pain. I won’t go back to pain!
(TICK)
I
feel the ground change to a slick, wet mist beneath feet. Finally sliding to a
stop, I reach the other side of a wide river. My reflection subtly peers over
the edge of the bank. In it my eyes shine back at me, one the dark green of the
soft moss bed, the other the harsh grey of my cold stone prison. Constant
reminders of where I came from, the pain and longing for freedom. Then I feel
it: the warmth that I’ve longed to feel again. Oh, how I've missed it's
feeling, the sun!
(TICK)
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