Work Text:
Concrete walls. Concrete floor. Tiny window under concrete ceiling. Thin, coarse blanket. The smell of sweat and vomit. How long have I been locked here? Good question. Three days? Four? Fuck me if I know.
I measure time with meals. That is, if what they give me can even be called food — runny soup with tiny pieces of vegetables, sometimes a little meat. They’ve tied my hands so now they have to feed me. I’ve bitten one of the soldiers’ finger, and now they put a metal device in my mouth before every feeding. It hurts but I don't regret biting that bastard.
I use my brain and with complicated calculations I come to the conclusion that I sit in solitary the fourth day. Four days spent in a straitjacket have one advantage: my arms are so numb I don’t feel anything, including pain.
In the corner there’s a bowl with water. Thanks to the clemency of those fucking shitheads I can crawl to the bowl and drink like a dog when I get thirsty. Benefactors, for fuck’s sake.
I lean my forehead against the wall. It’s wonderfully cold. Or maybe I just have a fever. My head hurts as if someone was driving a nail into my brain through the eye. I hope I won’t vomit the second time, I’m already weak enough.
God. What went wrong? Life was supposed to be so beautiful. I was to be a star. To go to a good college, ski in Switzerland and stuff myself full of waffles around pretty girls and boys. And instead, I ended up here. Tied like a bundle of hay, in a solitary smelling like vomit, in some shithole in West Virginia. But of two evils, I do prefer the solitary to the lab.
I must have dozed off, since I’m woken up by a screech of the hinges. Is it the feeding time already? Have I slept so long…? No, it’s too early.
I turn to the door. The man standing there isn’t a soldier and doesn’t hold a tray with a bowl of soup.
“Good morning, little prince!” professor Gartman calls.
My irises reflexively implode with fear to the size of a flea's dick.
“Have you cooled down a bit? Can we go back to work?”
I would very much like to answer him but the memory of paralysing pain makes me unable to move, let alone formulate any sensible thought. God, I am going to vomit…
Gartman beckons for two PSFs. One of them jerks at my straitjacket and forces me to get up. My legs are so wobbly I can barely stand. The soldier catches my hair with his free hand and tugs my head backwards. I’m too weak to fight when the other one muzzles me.
They walk me out of the cell. Gartman pats my shoulder. “Will you be a good boy now? You won’t cause me any more problems, right?”
Sleazy old perv. I want to tell him where he can put his hand and this dripping with sweetness tone of his. Unfortunately, through the muzzle I cannot either communicate it to him or wish him to choke on his own vom.
They drag me down the hall to the lab and I’m unable to do anything. The only thing I can do is hang in their arms like a flat and yell my head off through the muzzle,
“I believe in justice
I believe in vengeance
I believe in getting the bastard
Getting the bastard
Getting the bastard”
I hope professor Gartman recognises the words of New Model Army’s song and knows that they’re dedicated especially for him.