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Fuck.
I look down as far as I can, which isn't very far given that I'm currently tied down like a rabid animal. What I do see confirms my suspicions, though. My wrists are tied with thick leather restraints to the armrests of a wooden chair, and I spot another leather restraint around my middle, at least six inches wide and cinching me in place.
Fucking fantastic.
I hate this place, particularly this very room and this very chair. Dr. Boucher put me in the damn sensory deprivation chamber again because of course, he would come at me with my worst nightmare. Hydrotherapy didn't do a damn thing to me, and neither did the drugs, but he sure seems to like to make me scream inside this room. Probably because it's the only time he can get a reaction out of me, maybe even a couple of honest words if I'm feeling particularly broken by the end of my time in here.
I look downward again, mostly with my eyeballs given the leather restraint tight around my skull. I try to move my feet, jerking them forward, but as expected, they're also tied, bound at the ankles to the chair. I know for a fact that the chair is bolted to the floor too, and no matter how much I wiggle or try to get free, I won't succeed. I've never been able to escape, not once during the sixteen—no, I think it's seventeen now—times he's caged me in here. I used to scream and throw a fit, trying to break the damn thing, but I know better than that now. He knows better too because there's no give in the restraints today. They're extra tight.
I stopped trying to escape six or seven visits ago. I don't know how long I tried to escape during my final attempt—there's not exactly a clock on the wall—but I know it was a long damn time. I was out of breath, my wrists rubbed raw by the leather, and my ankles bleeding by the time I stopped fighting.
I don't even bother this time. Maybe I will later when the room starts to get to me, and I lose whatever little shred is left of my sanity, but not right now.
I concentrate my energy to knock out whichever lucky bastard unties me from this fucking chair.
Is this the beginning or the end?
Have I already been in here and paid the price of my disobedience, or is this new today?
Damn disassociation makes it so I never know if I'm at the end of a match or if the first bell just rang.
I flex my hands around the wooden planks of the armrest, my fingers gripping the hard, thick wood. My shirt's been removed. For that matter, so have my pants, and I'm in one of those crappy hospital gowns that opens at the back with a tiny little tie that doesn't ever stay put.
It makes me sick to think about a bunch of people crowding around me and holding me down to strip me of my clothes and put me in this gown. It's probably good that I don't remember it. Maybe it's a small blessing in a place where God never answers your prayers.
I hope I gave them a hell of a fight, though, and by the looks of it, I think I did. There's blood splattered on the dark carpeted floor in front of me. It freckles the tops of my bare knees and the tops of my hands and forearms. I must have gotten in a good couple of punches at least. The pain shooting across my sternum and stabbing into my chest confirms it. They don't follow Hammurabi's Code in the hole. It's the Butcher's rules now, and that means you pay double for what you put out into the world. My chest feels like someone took a baseball bat to my ribs, and my collarbone's probably broken. Everything hurts, each wheezed inhale and every raspy exhale. Just sitting here is almost excruciating, but that's one thing my father taught me at least, how to deal with the pain.
I look around the room, though I don't actually know why I bother. Nothing has changed, not that I can tell. It's the same hell that has always been here. There's the thick black foam on the ceiling and on the walls and thick carpet beneath my feet. It blocks the world out and traps you in your own thoughts. At first, I thought it was a joke. I laughed when the doc turned off the light and closed the door, but it stopped being funny soon after. There's nothing normal about a room being so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat roaring between your ears.
Butcher must've waited to turn off the lights this time, no doubt wanting me to lose my shit and spill all my secrets as soon as I woke up. Everyone knows you don't talk to the Butcher, though. Anything you say can and will be used against you here. There are no laws in the Asylum, just verdicts and undue punishments.
I guess today the bad doc plans on picking at the one thread still holding me together. Maybe the next time when I disassociate, I won't come back. Maybe that's what he wants. If you can't cure them, make it so no one can, right?
The longer I stay in the chamber, the louder my breath becomes, as it always does in here. I hear thetha-thump, tha-thumpof my own heart along with thewooshof my breath. They gain traction with each passing second, going faster and faster, until it's all I can hear. It's only me in here, but the noise is already nearly unbearable.
I hate this fucking room.
I concentrate on the feeling of the chair beneath me. It's cold against my bare back and ass. Would it kill the fucker to put a cushion on it?
The leather restraints are cold too against my bare ankles, wrists, and forehead. The one around my middle isn't much better. It chills me through the thin fabric of the gown, delivering cold knives to my chest.
I sit there a moment longer, listening to the whistle of my breath and the beat of my heart before I open my mouth and scream as loud as I can. I'd rather get this over with. I want them to know I'm awake, although I hate screaming in this room. The walls absorb the sound instantly, and it plays tricks with your mind. Did you really say something if you aren't certain you heard it? Somewhere, Butcher is watching the camera that records from the corner of the room nearest the door, and he sees me moving and must know I'm awake.
I look around the room again, trying to occupy myself, though I still find not much has changed. There is a chunk of foam missing on the only door to the chamber. Somebody must've gotten it good during a fight, and looking at the broken piece makes me smile. Someone fucked up one of Butcher's favorite treatment methods. Good for them.
The longer I sit, the louder my heart beats in the cavity of my chest. I don't know how long I'm there, waiting for the doctor to arrive, but I can feel it vibrating inside my brain now. I hate when the head doc locks me up with my thoughts and waits to see if I can break myself.
Sometimes, I do and disassociate.
Most of the time, I don't.
It could be minutes later. It could be seconds. Hell, it could be a fucking hour for all I know, but the door opens, and there's the butchering doc in the flesh. He walks inside the room, his white lab coat starched and pristine. Unfortunately, that means I didn't get a good hit in on him, not this time at least.
Whatever. I'm certain there will be more chances.
Dr. Boucher's got a face that reminds me of death with razor-sharp cheekbones, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and paper-thin lips. He could be fifty years old or a hundred, but personally, I'm guessing he's old enough to have met Noah and taken a ride on the boat.
"You're awake, Mr. Soros," he tells me as he steps closer. "Glad to see it."
