Rapacity

Odd Curiosities

Chapter 1

Under certain dire circumstances, one finds one's self pondering whether the very likelihood of a genuine escape exists. I reached this stage in my degenerative development a long while ago. I find it an odd curiosity now, that I could ever have been so resolute in my silent and, sometimes, outward pleas for death. Now, I seek comfort in this dank cage that has kept me captive, a rabbit with no fields to stretch its weakening hind legs, for Gods know how long. Trapped in my own mind, I slowly devour my own soul, and, in an effort to gain back what I have lost, I trip over myself and fall into a lonely abyss.

Twenty years I'd been here when I lost all hope and stopped counting.

Twenty years I'd been confined to these four thick, dripping concrete walls, taken out only when they'd wanted to dissect my dying mind further.

I don't know where I am, or how long I've been here, only that I no longer feel the cold that, so long ago, pierced my bones and gnawed at my extremities.

I feel only the darkness encroach on my self-awareness, which began to slip away countless minutes, days, years ago.

I no longer need sleep.

I sleep only to shut out the cacophonous screams of the new ones.

It is in moments like these, moments where my mind has time to wander, time to wander into dark rooms holding even darker realities, inside the recesses of an ever darkening world, that I find myself slipping through the cracks of my own sanity. Times like these, when I have eternities to ponder the importance of opportunistic ideals, for if we didn't have those, gods know we'd have nothing worth talking about, discussing until our brains bleed with the importance of this idea or that.

Like flies, we gravitate toward ripe content, in our search for concrete proof that we are (prove ourselves) the highest of intellectual thinkers, even after we push our fascination to the point where the fruit rots and creates dark spots on our blackening skulls.

I am just a sad example of one such inquiry, one that has been wrung out for almost all of its worth.

When morning comes, I will receive my first book. 23 minutes after that, when I have read it completely, they will either bring me another, or rip me from what is now my only comfort.

They will most likely drag me to the big white room that smells of chemicals that, long ago, I learned to name. I shrink at the thought of what they could be used for.

The most acrid of the smells is the bleach; it stings my nose every time I get strapped to the gurney, reminding me of the ones who weren't lucky enough to ever see their cells again.

They will inject me with fluids that make me convulse for hours, or, if I'm (especially fortunate today), they will operate, splitting my scalp and toying with my brain. The pain is now only a dull ache, probably courtesy of one such operation.

I wait for morning to come, feeling the seconds, minutes, hours that I remain confined in this tiny box that is a living purgatory.

Only when I am bored, do I occasionally eavesdrop on the guards.

Their dialect is a deviation of English; the only difference is that it is abbreviated quite a bit.

I've learned to decipher their speech). I would assume the shortening of the language is the military's way of maintaining efficiency in everything they do(In all matters).

I received my book around ten minutes ago. I've almost finished it, but it is particularly dry reading today. Most of the military tactics mentioned are just reiterations of the (methodologies) of the last eighteen books I've read. I can't help but theorize that they want me to know all of this because they are preparing to use me for something; why else would they allow me the privilege of this distasteful, yet sanity-maintaining literature?