Bright Future

It Begins

They say darkness has a way of creeping up on you. It caresses the nape of your neck, drawing it's fingers across your cheeks, until it's iron grip reaches your chin and slams your head into a bucket of ice cold water.

Phase 1 has begun, they call it a test of resilience. To see who has the desired pain threshold. Red hot needles; pin pricking your kneecap, dislocating shoulders and putting them back in place, and it all culminates in a room at the Manor. A dark and dank steel room 4x4 wide and eight feet tall. The screamers are always the first to go. But me, I'm one of the quiet ones and they're always watching us. Never been much of a screamer. Now that brings me back.

I've never screamed as much as I did one Fall afternoon. My older brother Ryan, locked me in a closest when I was eight, he told me it was a test of courage. I knew it was because he was tired of having to wash my sheets.

Unlucky for me, some red head he had googly eyes for from biology class came calling. He'd locked me in the closest while our parents were away for the weekend. In his logical view no one should be afraid of the dark, least of all a kid brother whose sheets he has to wash. But when a red head comes calling, a kid brother locked in a dark room isn't much of a concern. When he remembered me a couple hours later, he bought me the comic ice been wanting for over a week. Everything changed after that. No more 'fraid of the dark and that's when I started to become distant.

Hello darkness my old friend. The old track plays over and over again. It's been days since I first went in. I'm one of the few still able to stand on their own, when leaving the Manor, coming out. Besides me, are two others. We're chained from our necks to our feet, strapped to a table. The room is barely lit, one of the two fluorescent bulbs overhead buzzes powers on and off, skittering light like my unsure fate. I've lost track of how many days I've been in here. My hair is shoulder length now, which normally takes eight months, but it feels like much more time has passed.

The room looks like a police interrogation room. Cinder block walls painted a sickly gray and a two way mirror on one side to protect potential witnesses from the dregs of society. I smell smoke coming from the door. The lead research scientist favors a methanol from France. He wears thick owl-rimmed glasses and khakis that have sat too long in the sun. He sits across from us tapping the table, then back to his clipboard, his inpatientence clear, such vile work for such slender pianist fingers. He leans over to congratulate us. "Gentleman, congratulations you three will moving ahead into Phase 2." One of us moves to ask a question, the other 2 are smart enough not to ask. Nothing, but a smirk escapes his owl-rimmed glasses.

Tonight darkness waits for us no more. We've entered this hell. There'll be no one looking for us. It's up to us to start again or finish it.