Sunday, 10 November 2013


I don't know what's happening. Something obscene is going on here, and I need to figure out what.

I resolved in the night to give 83 his treatment. The research has a noble goal, even if the methods are questionable. I shouldn't let my repulsion at what they do here hamper their pursuit of a way to combat the mal. I arrived at 83's cell intending to do what I'd been asked. I took the blowtorch and entered his cell.

83 was in what seemed to be his standard position, sitting slumped on the floor by the back wall. If anything, his skin appeared thicker, with even more cracks splitting its surface. I moved toward him to shackle his arms, and he raised his head.

I froze. I'd never seen 83 move in such a purposeful manner. I began to doubt what I'd seen. I stepped forward. 83 lifted his arms, the skin splitting and oozing pus, and held his hands up to me, a clear, unambiguous gesture. I left his cell.

I'd been told 83 was badly brain damaged. That's not what I saw today, and I can't get out of my mind that yesterday was the first day he didn't receive his injection. I wonder if the injections are why he seems brain damaged. I don't want to think about what that means.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.