--XXIII--

Speeding into me,

Like a bullet train,

It's the last thing I will see,

Speeding into me,

Like a bullet train,

It's the last thing I will see.

I wasn't looking for a lighthouse.

Even though it was a really dark bedroom.

from "Lighthouse"

--

Nightingale

Day #73

Subprocedure Fifteen

I vomited the foul mix of tranquilizers, Vystir, opiates and sedatives they forced into me- not by syringe this time, but by pulling me by the hair and neck, and then shoving my face into a basin of water, mixed with rubbing alcohol, phenacyl chloride, and cyclohexene, until I surrendered to consuming it.

The dead body of the boy in front of me seemed to speak to me; he seemed to say, "It's over for me, I'm at peace."

"There's ten of you left," said the man that wore a mask today and not a helmet- the same man that pushed me here through hallways and glass rooms that contained bodies. Bones and cadavers. The departed kids that seemed to mean absolutely nothing to these people. "I'm proud of you for making it so far."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

I had no head, no heart, no more meaning or significance; whatever words came out of my mouth at that point, was whatever part of my soul still bided; whatever spirit still remained of me.

"Water," I wheezed.

I turned my body slightly and vomited again, this time not even feeling the contraction of my stomach or throat, and comprehending only the pounding of the ice and the shattering of mountain-sized glaciers in my head. Tears ran down my half-naked body and onto the carmine marble floor.

The man took a key card from his pants pocket and pressed it against a panel on the wall. The dark, red door next to it unlocked with a click, and he turned the handle.

"Follow me," the man said.

The cast polymer sink in front of me was full of my blood, and still-bubbling chemicals. I heard the man and yet I didn't, because there was a scream in my head- one that attempted to release itself, constantly, but only managed to form itself into little running whimpers that accompanied my every inbreath and outbreath.

"Water-" I wheezed again, in between floods of pain that choked me, that twisted my muscles, twisted my bones and lungs.

In a moment of extreme affliction, I longed for the defiled bed sheets, I longed for the scripted, staged manipulation- the abuse I was constantly subjected to; I longed for the familiar powerlessness as other depraved beings took what they believed they needed to get. It was nothing, nothing compared to this. I was begging for it in my mind; anything, anything at all, anything but this.

An entire life cycle of nonexistence, disarray and darkness seemed to pass before I uttered my next word.

"Please."

The man took me in his arms and carried me into the room, which was dark and seemed to be lit only by some candles, and a lava lamp which stood on top of a dresser. The dresser was a fascinating thing; it glowed, it was the color of a very dark night sky, and it was patterned with what looked like tiny little stars- stars that blinked and glimmered and twinkled, just like real stars did. Beside the lava lamp was a small stack of books. One of them was a Bible.

I remember thinking, "Oh, he reads the Bible, too," until I realized it was mine.

The man returned from wherever he went with a wineglass of water. My hands were shaking too badly for me to hold it, to hold anything at all. The man held the vessel to my lips; it was all I could do, to even swallow.

I opened my eyes and saw this man seated on the bed, upper body poised to mine.

"You know what happens now," he whispered to me. "Don't you?"

I shut my eyes again.

Of course I knew. Men and women both, but mostly men- I had been through this, so many times, before. I didn't ever have to do anything. Apart from whatever I was told to do.

In some ways, it was already so easy.

But there are certain things that can take a lot of you, and never give back; you never ever get it back. They don't take a part of you or a piece of you. There is a safety that is offered to everyone in this universe, and that safety is gone forever, and so are you.

--

[[bonus note from the author:

the recording for lighthouse is not found in nonfiction ii, it is found in nonfiction i (marshmallow songs). both albums are accessible on spotify as well as other platforms.]]