I wake up in the same small and dingy room that I have for the last, I don't know how many, months. I lost count of how many exactly. Rubbing my sleep filled eyes, I sit up on the urine stained mattress that gives me only a couple of inches of safety from the cold and disgusting stone floor. The morning sun blinds me as it shines from the tiny barred window that resides in the top corner of my room, too far up for me to reach let alone see out of.
I feel the same desire to change that I do every day, to remove the filthy grey nightgown he forces me to wear, to feel the warmth of a hot shower as I remove what feels like a lifetime of grime from my frail, undernourished body. But I can't. I don't remember the last time I showered or was clean or ate a proper meal. A time when I couldn't see my ribs jutting out under my pale, almost translucent skin, is a distant memory.
Just as I think about the hunger in the pit of my stomach I hear pounding footsteps outside of the metal floor at the corner of my room. It's rarely opened. The footsteps stop in front of my door and the hatch at the bottom of it, not even the full width of the door itself or taller than ten centimetres, is slid open and a filthy plastic tray scrapes across the floor towards me. Breakfast.
When the hatch slides closed once again I crawl towards the tray to inspect it. Pale yellow sludge I assume is supposed to be scrambled eggs and stale, dark bread. The same as every morning. I push the tray away. He probably drugs the food since I don't take them peacefully at the usual time each day.
He'll be back soon, he always is, to see if I've eaten and then take me out to play.
I crawl back to the mattress and pick at the faded embellishment of letters while I wait. There are only a few left; some have been missing for as long as I can remember. I can't figure what it used to say, only that there were two words to begin with.
The theories play in my mind constantly, trying to remember any details that could reveal where I'm being kept. But whenever I try to think of before all I feel is an emptiness and I all I see is a black pit with no end. But I hear things; laughter, singing. Somehow though, no matter how hard I try to hold onto those sounds, they always turn to loud angry voices and screams, terrible screeches that never stop. The pain and suffering that drives them haunts me for hours on end. So I try to not remember and just pick away at the thick stitching until he comes for me.
The voices in the back of my head start to pipe up, screaming and shouting, it is as if they are coming through the walls they are so loud and vivid. They overpower my thoughts and forcing my hands over my ears rarely works. I can't make them stop, not ever. I don't remember when they weren't there, in the back of my head. But I also don't remember a time when I wasn't here. I can't be the first person he's taken. The first thing he did when I got here was number me like some kind of animal; it is on my nightgown and my door, my personal brand, AA021269. Which means there must have been more than me, more for him, or else he wouldn't bother?
I don't even know who he is. I've screamed at my door till I was hoarse "Who's there? Who are you? Why am I here?" But I never got an answer.
Time passes slowly here, but sometimes I barely notice it passing at all until his footsteps come thundering back towards my door. Between breakfast and lunch is playtime. I hear the squeak of wheels with his steps, which only ever means one thing; time for me to be strapped to a cold metal cart and rolled to an even darker room than the one I'm already in. He bangs the door two times, each sound echoing through the room. I stand and go to the back wall and wait for him to enter. I must do this every time; I still have the scars from when I didn't comply. He slowly opens the door and enters my room. I don't know how he grows his hair back so quickly or why he dyes it so often. And I feel like his dull blue scrubs are there only for his benefit, to make him feel better about what he does to me.
He beckons me and I slowly step forward. He pulls the cart towards us and lays me down, the harsh coldness biting through my thin layer of clothing. He uses padded leather cuffs to secure my ankles and wrists before rolling me out the door. Everytime I exit my room the screams in my head grow louder, I don't know why, it is as if they realise where I am going or that they think the metal wheels are coming for them.
He rolls me down a long dark corridor, the buzzing electrical lights burning my eyes as they pass above me. When we reach the end of the corridor he pushes me through a set of peeling double doors into the room I hate most. The room where he says that I'm just ill, that I'm sick and he's going to make me better; always in different voices. The room where my body is pushed to its limits and my mind is tortured to the brink of insanity.
He halts me in the middle of the room and turns on the machines, lighting up an assortment of colours along the walls and all bleeping as he prepares everything. He checks my bindings again, his cold, clammy hands brushing my skin forcing the hairs on the back on my neck to stand on end. Then he runs his hands up, along my arm and past my breasts to my neck, where he secures yet another leather strap along my throat to ensure my stillness.
He turns back to the machine and when he is ready he brings over a rubber mouth guard to stop me biting off my tongue, forcing it between my teeth, the bitter taste filling my mouth as I begin to struggle. I know it is useless, that fighting against the buckles does nothing, but the illusion of bravery, of not having given up, I like to think it keeps me somewhat sane.
He hushes me, asks me to relax, tells me that it will be over soon and I won't be sick anymore.
But every time I leave this room I feel like a part of myself is missing, as if each session destroys a little of me from the inside out. More of my mind goes dark and I lose the laughter for days, scared I'll never get it back. One day I'm sure I won't, it will go blank like the rest of my memories, fade from existence. That will be the day I fully give up, even though I already want to.
The things he does to me here, I can't imagine what kind of mind he must have to be able to put me through them.
He turns back to face me, the two pieces of metal he holds glint in the electric lighting, the cloth on the ends ragged and old. He brings the two electrical probes to either side of my forehead, my body straining and screaming in anticipation. No matter how many times he calls himself a doctor he is still just some freak who likes to zap me daily and pretend he's helping me.
The rods touch my head and my body is racked with thousands of agonizing volts, the currents travelling through my nerves, shocking them to the point of no return. It feels as if it will never end, as if I will be stuck in this constant agony for the rest of time. Maybe my heart would give out after some time. It would be better than what actually happens. He will take me back to my room, dump me on the mattress and the cycle will start again. It never ends.
He removes the rods and my body falls flat to the table with sheer exhaustion, my breathing is strained and shaky, my ears ringing, my body numb. And as I begin to lose consciousness, slipping further and further into darkness a single word breaks through the high pitched ringing in my head, crying for attention but I can't quite grasp its meaning. I reach for it with my mind, willing myself to take hold of it, to understand it. But it is as lost to me as I am to the world.
Arkham.
