Page 28 of Brainwashed

“Turning up to ninety,” someone says, their voice echoing.

No, no no no no… Please, no.

Zap!

Jesus fucking Christ.

This is by far the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced in my whole life. I feel each shock dulling my baser instincts and senses, my fight-or-flight. I can feel my brain shutting down.

Johansson gets it up to one hundred and twenty volts, and after two more shocks, I’m gurgling nonsense with my entire body lying limp in the chair. Even if I weren’t strapped down, it would make no difference. I don’t even remember how to move at this point.

After that, they clean me up, put my glasses back on and release me from the chair. Templeton straps me up in a straitjacket while I lie limp like a rag doll.

They all leave, and I think I fall asleep, but I can’t even be sure. I hear words whispering in an Irish accent while I come in and out of consciousness over the next two days.

Two full daysI can barely remember.

I know that they’ve given me food and water, but I can’t recall eating or drinking it.

Just as I’m finally feeling a bit like myself again, they return formoreelectroshock therapy.

It’s even worse the second time. I’ve become a zombie for another two days after that. When I finally come to, I’m groggy and confused. And nauseous. So much so that I immediately turn and throw up on the floor next to where I’m lying.

My lungs are tight, and my whole body is heavy like hundreds of pounds of wet cement.

Taking in a deep breath, I remove my glasses and rub my eyes. Everything is blurry, even when I put them back on. It takes a while for my vision to come back into focus, but when it does, I find myself on the floor of a different kind of cell.

A padded one.

Struggling to my feet, I wander to the door and look out the window. I don’t see anyone. Just flickers of fluorescents that light up the corridor. I cough a few times, wrestling against the tightness of my straitjacket before I crumble to my knees.

I end up sitting and just staring at nothing for hours. I’m so confused, but when I hear the sounds of footsteps, my nerves come bounding back with force. I can’t even lie… I’m scared. What could be next?More electricity??How much more do they need to do to me? Are they even finding out anything, or is this just some sick game?

Keys unlock my cell, and Dr. Johansson walks in. “Good morning, Mr. Darcey. How are we feeling?”

“Like shit,” I croak. He nods along, not even paying attention to me.

“I see you were sick,” he references my vomit. “I’ll send someone in to clean that.”

“Great,” I mutter sarcastically as he steps over and takes me by the arm, lifting me to my feet.

At that moment, a guard shows up just outside the door of the cell. I vaguely recognize him. I think he usually works in general population.

“Let’s go, #89,” the guard grumbles. “Chop chop.”

I’d like to ask where we’re going, but I don’t. Instead, I simply allow the guard to remove my straitjacket and cuff my hands in front, then shackle my ankles and walk me out of the cell, up the long corridor, glancing back once at Johansson, who I guess isn’t coming with us.

We walk for a while, out of the winding identical hallways of the East Wing and through the big doors that lead to solitary. We follow the maze that is Alabaster Penitentiary until we reach a staircase. My surprise is written on my face while we climb the steps slowly, minding my shackles. I didn’t even know there were stairs in this prison. Usually everything is just these weird descending ramp-like hallways that bring you lower. It’s very strange. Whoever designed this place either had a sense of humor, or was a raving madman.

I’m going with the latter.

At the top of the steps, I see a window and I nearly fall down.

“Oh my God…” I gasp, my eyes lighting up at the sight of sun and trees, sand and ocean. It’s breathtaking.

“Focus, #89. No dilly-dallying.” The guard shoves me, and we keep walking until we reach a door.

He knocks on it and someone inside says, “Come in.”