Me & Her

Me

Hands, hands are gripping me.

They might as well be claws, tearing up my skin so they can insert their needles. All of those needles. Some send me spiralling off to sleep, but the others poke fire down my spine.

Spots are dancing like macabre cave paintings in what's left of my vision.

I did not give my consent, not for this. No one would.

I keep asking them where my Mum is, why she isn't here.

No answer. Just slivers of whispers, songs of screams. My own screams.

A man dressed in white. His coat hardens overtime, turns to steel. I remember him. Smooth hands, smoother voice. As if he has no jagged edges, none to hurt me. But he does. Ironically, he's the one that hurts me the most.

The days – if they are days – blur together in my head. No sunlight, no windows. If I leave the room, I leave strapped to a gurney. I can feel the straps now, digging like ticks into my skin.

I might deserve this, I might a criminal. I can't. I can't be.

Voices, voices leer around me. It's hard to tell if they're real or if they're in my head. If those voices are her voices, urging me to escape.

I can't escape. I know I can't. There's no point even trying. But I can do nothing. I can lie like a corpse on the bed of a prisoner, encased in rough polyester. I can keep quiet, even when the soft man with his soft fingers plunges that syringe into my neck.

A shiver racks me – or does it rack the gurney?

We're rolling through a set of double doors, the corridor hazy. And then it isn't. The white-washed ceiling and walls solidify, as he strides past. We lock eyes for a fraction of a second, but it is years before he looks away.

I'd know that white-blonde hair anywhere, and those piercing green eyes.

Through the burning, the pain, I try to picture his face. Dr. Light was there, he saw me. I remember now.

He saw me. He saw everything. Took notes.

He watched as I was pulled and prodded, and he did nothing.

I'm almost relieved as the blackness takes hold.