Fear

4 • Trypanophobia

I don't remember the rest of the journey; I don't even know where they took me. Even now, years later, I still have no idea.

When I woke up, it was nothing like I had imagined. I jolted upright, breathing erratically. I wasn't on the jet anymore. Squinting, I tried to make out my surroundings.

I appeared to be in a dimly-lit clinical room, filled with strange equipment. My mouth wasn't taped but my hands were tied up, along with my ankles.

I was lying on a cold, metal surgery table. My dress had been replaced with a black sweatshirt and jeans that were too big for me. The room was chilly, and the fabric did little to keep me warm.

The stale smell of dampness and rust filled the air, mixing with a faint smell of antiseptic. I shivered, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming fear creeping up inside me.

The dim lighting cast eerie shadows on the walls, highlighting the strange, ominous equipment surrounding me. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to process the horror of my situation.

I suddenly heard footsteps, loud, echoing, and coming closer from behind the door. Panic surged through me. I wriggled desperately, trying to loosen the ties that bound me, but it was useless.

My eyes widened as the large iron door creaked open, sending a chilling echo through the hallway beyond. A tall black man stepped into the room, wearing a mask and a grey formal suit. His presence was imposing, his eyes cold and emotionless above the mask.

The weirdo from the van, Dylan, followed him, closing the door with a resounding thud that made my heart skip a beat.

I glared at the masked man, noting the clipboard he held, which he rested on his arm before pulling a pen from his pocket. He cleared his throat, the sound amplified in the oppressive silence of the room, and then spoke.

"Name?"

I kept my mouth shut and stared at him in confusion as he gazed down at me over his mask. He looked unamused.

"You speak English, don't you?"
I nodded timidly and gulped.

"Name?"
Dylan spoke firmly behind him, warning me,
"Just answer the questions."
"Emily..." I whispered.

"Surname?"
"Parker."

"Age?"
"21."

My attention wavered slightly as I noticed Dylan moving behind the tall man to a counter. He rummaged through a cupboard, the metallic clinks and rustles adding to my growing unease. When he turned around, he caught my worried expression and smirked.

"Date of birth?"
"8th of October... 2002."
"Ok. Your number will be 0810023."

I was confused and scared.
"What does that mean? Why are you asking me all this? What's going on?" I tried to ask him, but he just ignored me and continued.

"Blood type?"
"O-negative... I think."

"Fears?"
There was the dreaded question. I didn't want to tell him. He repeated it. I shook my head, but Dylan ended up answering for me.

"Aichmophobia, Trypanophobia, and Haemophobia, Nate. How fun! I like the sound of this one! Just wait till the Boss starts on you!"
He cackled but was cut off by the other man.
"Shut up, Dylan. Let her answer them herself."
Dylan stuck his tongue out and flipped him off behind his back.

"Medications?"
"Citalopram and Sertraline."
He looked up at me, confused.
"Antidepressants," I clarified.

"Ok. I think I'm done here."
Relief washed over me, but then he walked over to the counter and placed down the clipboard. He seemed to be looking at something in Dylan's hand. I tensed up.
He turned to Dylan and said,
"Have James take her to D2 when you're done."

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[ Trypanophobia (trih-pan-o-foe-bee-uh): the overwhelming, extreme fear of medical procedures that involve needles. ]

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The man left the room, leaving me alone with the psychopath.
He grinned excitedly and skipped over to the counter.
"Now that that's out of the way, the fun can begin."
He clapped his hands as he spoke.
I was terrified.

My terror worsened when he turned around, holding a fucking syringe. My eyes widened, and fear set in, I tried to scream but it came out as a whimper.

"Oh shut up and let me enjoy this. It's about the most fun I've had all week."

I began to cry, tears pricking my eyes. I sobbed uncontrollably and I couldn't breathe, panic taking over my body.

"Fucks sake," he muttered under his breath.
I hated him. I hated what he was doing to me, and I hated that he knew what he was doing and took pleasure in watching me suffer.

"Fuck you!" I choked out, eyes blurry and breath erratic.

He glanced down at the syringe in his hand, examining its odd yellowish contents and long, thin needle with a devilish smile. He turned slowly to face me.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll make this quick."
Before I could react, he shoved his hand over my mouth, muffling the scream that followed. I thrashed about wildly, eyes shut tightly.

"Keep still!" He shouted. His hand dulled my sobs as I cried. As his grip tightened, he brought the syringe closer. I squirmed and thrashed, but his strength overpowered me. He held the needle with a steady hand, his grin widening with sadistic delight.

The needle pierced my skin, and a sharp pain shot through my arm. I felt the cool liquid enter my veins, spreading an icy sensation through my arm and into my body.

Almost immediately, a heavy drowsiness washed over me. My limbs grew weak, and my struggles became feeble. My vision blurred, and the room began to spin. The fear and panic that had consumed me moments ago were replaced by an overwhelming lethargy. My body felt leaden, unresponsive to my desperate commands to fight back.

Dylan's voice became a distant murmur as my consciousness slipped away. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He giggled. "Night-night, bitch!"

My eyelids grew heavier, my thoughts scattered, and my breathing slowed. The last thing I saw was his twisted grin and the eerie glint of the syringe before everything faded to black.

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