Black As The Pit From Pole To Pole

“Black As the Pit from Pole to Pole” By Shantih3x

“Sweetheart.” “Yes dear.” “How long are you going to be gone?” “I don’t know. I may be back walking or in a casket.” “I prefer you to come home walking.” “What if I don’t have legs?” “A wheelchair may suffice…” It’s dark and cold. I don’t know where I am. I know I feel something scratchy on my skin and something is going down my throat and coming out of my ass and equipment. The tube going down my throat must be from a tracheotomy because I couldn’t feel it on my jaw and tongue. I try to move my fingers to feel the bandages that were on my body. I feel no pressure. I try to lean up but I cannot get up. How is this possible? The only thing that was strapping me down was on my chest and abdomen. I move my shoulders to see if they are still there. I feel no movement or pressure on my jaw. The cold feeling between my legs made me more afraid of what has happen me. It hits me then: I have no limbs. I wanted to scream but the tube down my throat prevents me so. I feel tears coming down my face and knew that I couldn’t wipe them off my face. I have no limbs and no way to communicate with the world to tell them that I don’t know who I am. “How did this happen?” The woman’s eyes were widening in horror from hearing the news on her husband. Her child, a little boy, was in the living room drawing on the table with crayons. Her husband joked about how he would be either come back on his two feet, in a wheelchair, or in a casket. She was hoping that the phone ringing was the call that her husband was coming back alive and well. “Ma’am,” the man replied, a Hispanic accent evident, “Sergeant Martin was with his section when they IDE detonated on their vehicle. We are not sure if he is one of the survivors or is dead.” The gray-haired Hispanic on the other end of the video cast stopped himself from saying that he was the one the medics could not identify. Martin’s wife was about to shed tears from the news. Practicing how to tell someone they lost a loved one is one thing; telling them the bad news when it is real was different. General Miguel Argent Sierra, on the

contrary, knew for a fact that Sergeant Martin was still alive. His face keeps the neutral façade, his voice monotonous when he spoke the next sentence. “Mrs. Martin, I am sorry for your loss.” I wish I knew who I was. If I did, I could entertain myself by telling my life story to an audience that in non-existent. I only remember certain events and never the names of the people I see. Who were my parents? Who were my friends? Who was my family? Was I married? So many questions that I shall never know the answers to... “Son.” “Yes father?” “It about time for your eighteenth birthday?” The teenager shook his head yes. “Well, there are several things you should know already: You need to sign up to vote, sign up to serve for your country, get a girl, get married, and have a kid to look up at you.” The wars have become worse over the years; the laws passed by the Geneva Convention have been casters mode up for a few decades. There were urban legends and stories about how soldiers were tortured, murdered, and put up for show on the local broadcast in the earlier days but they were only seen in the only free place that exists. “Do I have to fight?” “Depends on what part of the military they thing your acceptable for. A soldier has less chance of living than a man sitting behind a computer.” “But I have troubles when it comes to computer and I don’t want to die.” The father frowned. “It’s the American burden all men have to take up.” I realized something when I woke up. I felt the cold air on my skin. Was I in a morgue? If I was, then why do I feel cloth under me instead of cold metal? What place was cold and had beds with cloth? The answer of hospital was a reoccurring thought in my mind. Do these people know who I am? If they did, then I wouldn’t be able to know. The only thing I hear is a continuous ring in my ears. It’s more annoying than anything I’ve ever heard. It sounds like one of the ringtones for an analogue phone. It wouldn’t stop and it is starting to drive me crazy. It and the abyss is the only thing that keeps me company. Then, it was only the abyss. Alone. I’m all alone in this abyss and it is the only thing that can see me. How long will it take me to go completely insane? “Seargant?” “Yes, Private?” “We’re about to take our rounds in ten minuets.” “Another day of patrolling the area, eh?” “Yeah.” How many days have it been since I became like this? Is there anyone wondering if I’m here or not? Through these days, I found out that I wasn’t without a jaw, a nose, a tongue. Through these days, I realized that my sense of touch was desperately compensating for my lost senses. The prick of a needle feels more painful than it should be while the sheets became comforting. I feel the wind of something opening or closing; I don’t know which. The only way I know who is what is how the wind of their movement feels on my skin. I wonder who these people

are. Do they know who I am or they don’t care? If no one cares, then why am I still alive? I’m nobody, I’m nothing. Why am I still alive? “Mariposa?” “Yes?” “Can you call Dr. Dawson?” the nurse asked. She was watching the deformed man who was tapping his head on the pillow. She looked and wondered if he was having a seizure or he was finally losing it. “He will be here in two minuets.” “Thank you.” “What is wrong with him?” “The nurse says he’s seizing,” the fidgeting scientist said to General Sierra over the video phone, “Johnny’s file says that he has no history of epilepsy in his family and she says that they are quite frequent.” “How frequent, Winston?” The doctor grimaced. “Once every five minuets unless he’s asleep.” “And how long have they been occurring?” “For a couple days, general.” There was a pregnant pause. “Mariposa?” “Yes, Doctor Ferris?” a synthesized androgynous voice asked. “Can you send the video of Room 257 on February 17, 2066?” A few seconds later, a video appeared on the bottom of the screen showing a scarred man without no limbs or a bottom jaw. Johnny was not moving. “Fast forward it to the point of when he started his seizures.” The film fast forwarded until it reached the time of 13:45:16. On the normal focus, no one could notice the small movements of the man’s head unless they paid attention to the subtle details. “Alright,” Dr. Ferris said, “Focus it sideways on his head.” The video zoomed in onto the man’s head. The seizures were nothing more than mere taps on the pillow. “I’m not sure what he is doing,” the General stated. “I have a feeling of what he is doing,” Dr. Ferris said, “Mariposa, give us a record of the sound. Translate the taps and pauses into Morse code.” The noise of the head tapping on the pillow was amplified and was changed to beeps. “They aren’t seizures,” General Sierra said, “Now; I don’t remember how good my translation of Morse code is but…” “I know what he’s saying,” Dr. Ferris replied, “He’s saying kill me.” “Why would he say that?” “Isolation can make one lonely, General, but I have a solution.” A smile appeared on the nervous doctor’s face. “Well, tell me what this solution is,” the general commanded. “Someone can talk to him to keep him company.” “I though you wanted this to be like Johnny Got His Gun, Winston.” “Except this Johnny is going to come back.” The old general pondered on his options for a few moments. “Alright,” he responded, “We’ll allow him to talk to… Uh… What was the psychologist’s name again?” “Dr. Ashleigh Dawson, sir,” Dr. Ferris replied laconically, “The one who started working here about five months ago.” The nervous doctor was wondering

about how well was his boss. “Also, he has been arguing with Doren again. I know that Dr. Dawson would drop the subject but Doren has a tendency of keeping grudges.” The stoic face was making it hard for Dr. Ferris to figure out what was wrong. “Make sure that these incidents only stay with bickering,” General Sierra ordered, “If anything happens, we get a new psychologist.” Doctor Ferris stared at the video conference screen with dislike. “Replacing a psychologist with a minor in robotics is hard to find,” he said calmly, “It’s much easier to replace a programmer than it is psychologist with his expertise.” “That’s an order, Doctor.” The video conference ended. The nervous doctor stood there and pondered. “Mariposa?” “Yes Doctor Ferris?” it asked. “Call General Sierra’s physician and inform him that he is showing signs of Alzheimer’s.” Silence; then, a response. “Yes, sir,” the AI replied. The call was never made. Am I dead or am I alive? The feeling of my heart beating makes me realize that I’m still alive. Do they know that I’m trying to make a mercy call? Does anyone know what the tapping means? I vaguely remember it being called Morse code? What is Morse code? I know what it is but who uses it? The wind of the door opening makes me realize that someone entered the room. Scratch that, a couple people entered the room. I recognized the nurse but who was person who was with her? The person was bigger than the nurse. Was it a man? Maybe someone who knows Morse code? I started to tap my head again with the same message. “See,” the nurse said, “Every time someone comes into the room, he starts tapping his head like that.” Ashleigh now believes the thin nurse. “Do you know why he is doing that?” he asked her. He wondered if these taps were the only way the man could speak to the outside world. “I don’t know,” she responded, “I thought he was seizing, Dr. Dawson.” “Doctor Ferris had it translated;” the auburn Brit said, “And Johnny’s feeling suicidal.” “How is he suicidal? He should have been brain dead after a year of no human contact other than touch.” “He’s been tapping the words ‘Kill me’ for two days.” The nurse had a perturbed look on her face. “Why won’t the listen to him and allow him to die?” Ashleigh did not respond to her automatically. “It’s the law of the land. If there is no one to get his point across, then he would be kept alive until he died. Also, no one knows if this place exists or if his relatives know that he’s still alive.” He took a chair, picked it up and placed it beside the isolated man. “One of my personal reasons why I don’t like government jobs; my chances of being killed increase and there’s a chance that they won’t inform anyone that I died.” “Just like the patient?” Quiet. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Just like the patient.”

There was something place on my skin of my chest. It felt like rubber and it was warm. It felt like a hand. Were they ready to put me to rest? I have not been able to cry for so long but I wanted to. I wanted to sob until I fell asleep. The fingers stared to tap. At first I did not realize what it was but it hit me: The person was telling me something through those taps. “Hello,” I translated the taps, “My name is Dr. Ashleigh Dawson and I’m the facility’s psychologist.” The person was talking to me. Was it the nurse? No, the hand was larger than the nurse’s. Why would a man have a girl’s name? I tapped my head in response. “I’m a British-born American,” he replied, “People always assume that I’m a lady because of it.” The taps stopped for a moment. “Why do you want to die, Johnny?” I responded with more head tapping. “You don’t know your actual name?” I nodded my head as best as I could. “Odd. That’s what everyone calls you and we don’t know who you are.” They don’t know who I am either. I have no identity at all. I continued to tap my head on the pillow. The response was automatic. “You want to die because you have no identity?” he asked. I nodded my head yes. “I should tell this to Doctor Ferris but we’ve been calling you Johnny for about a year.” A year! That’s how long I have been in this hell! A year… I thought it was five or ten years. This was disorienting. “Johnny’s suffering from retrograde amnesia,” Ashleigh told Dr. Ferris. He and the graying doctor were sitting in Dr. Ferris’ office. “Does he remember anything?” Dr. Ferris asked. “He says that he remembers certain events but when he thinks of them the faces are blurred and when someone says a name, it is like someone put the mute button to prevent him from hearing it.” Doctor Ferris was fully interested in this new piece of evidence. A soldier suffering from retrograde amnesia… “Does he show any signs of PTSD?” “He says that he has nightmares of things that he cannot remember. He’s also disoriented when it comes to time.” “That is not a surprise,” Dr. Ferris replied, “Someone isolated tends to either speed up or slow down time.” The auburn Brit continued to ponder on Johnny’s reactions. “Anything that I should mention to him?” he asked. “Does he respond to Johnny?” “Yes.” “Does he want a surname?” A light chuckle came from Ashleigh. “He wants to be called Johnny Morse.” “Why?” Ashleigh gave the fidgeting doctor a glare. “I had to explain to him that his tapping was Morse code for an hour. It would have been done quicker if he was able to talk. He says that he is fine with us calling him Johnny Morse.” The two were silent for a few moments. Doctor Ferris restarted the conversation once again. “We’re not allowed to tell him anything about what we’re doing to him. Orders from above say that we can’t tell him what is happening to him.” “Why?” the auburn Brit asked, “He deserves the right to be told what is happening to him. It’s one of the ways to prevent him from having a mental breakdown.”

“Johnny will find out in his own mysterious ways, Dr. Dawson. He only knows people from wind, vibrations, and touch.” “Why do we have to go to war?” a boy asked. “Because it’s America’s burden that all men have to take up or so my old man told me.” The little boy was about to cry. “I don’t want you to go,” he cried, “What if you don’t come back?” “I will come back,” the man replied, “I promise.” The kid’s face lit up with hope. “Promise?” “I pinky promise.” I remember a little kid about five-years-old with ash brown hair and brown eyes. He looks so familiar but I don’t know who he is. There is a woman with the same colored eyes but blond hair who was holding him. They treated me kindly as if they were familiar with me. Why can’t I remember them? Maybe if I remember who they were, I would have a reason to live. Will they be there when I finally open my eyes or do I have to wait an eternity to know who they were? “Stay in your room,” a woman asked. “Why?” “You’re father is drunk again,” she replied. He closed the door. The shouting was a mere mummer because of the walls. He walks over to a shelf and pulls out a CD. They were old but it was good enough. He walked towards the CD player, puts the disk in, and chooses a song to start on. The blocking of shouting was complete. The song continued until he started to mutter the lyrics. “All in all it was just a brick in the wall. “All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.” Those lines ring through my head over and over again. Who wrote them? Where did they come from? Those lines must hold some symbolism but somehow they calm me. What was the song? Where did I hear it? “Hey Pink!” a teenager shouted. “What is it?” “Did you hear?” “Hear about what?” “They’re recruiting juniors into the army on a volunteering basis!” Pink frowned. “What are you so bummed about?” “Aren’t you afraid of dying without knowing what you could’ve accomplished?” Pink asked. “Could’ve,” the boy replied, “I’ll be doing what I wanted to do for a long time.” “Not me.” “Eh?” “I wanted to be a musician.” “A rockerboy? Dude, they take a man in uniform more serious than a guy in rags.” “Either way,” Pink stated in melancholy, “We’ll end up in tuxedos for our funerals.” “Who gave you the nickname of Pink?” the psychologist asked me. I explained it to him and asked him where these lines that repeat in my head come from.

“I don’t know where they come from, either,” he responded, “I could look them up for you.” I asked him why I couldn’t talk. I was always thought that it was the tube used to feed me that prevented me from speaking. He was silent for several moments and he continued to tap once more. “Sorry if this is to blunt for you,” he said, “But you have no jaw.” I have no jaw. I have no jaw. No wonder I couldn’t speak or feel for my teeth in the beginning. I’ve could have told you that if I had a damn jaw! “However, there are people who are helping you to fix the things you have lost. I was originally here to keep speculating on your emotions when you wake up.” I asked him what did he speculate. “I speculated that you would have gone completely mad before the surgeries would be finished,” he replied, “No human contact would have made you completely psychotic.” I tapped my head once again. “Yes, that has changed since I have started to talk to you. You’ll come through this as a changed man but you will know the changes.” I felt satisfied. I know that I will see the world once again even though it may take a long time… “How is the other projects going, General?” The screen on the receiving end of General Sierra was blank. The voice was edited. “Project Typhoid Mary is running with success,” General Sierra replied, “The specimens with bat genetics are still alive.” “What about Project Johnny?” the person asked. “Smooth,” he responded, “The information we’re gaining will help us make better use for combative cybernetics.” He was quiet for a few moments. “Sir, any new projects that I should know about?” “There are a couple of biohackers who have been trying to create an effective hemorrhagic,” the person responded, “So far, their efforts have been progressing.” General Sierra ran his hand through his gray hair. “We will win this war, sir,” he said, “Even if it cost a few good men and the trust of our fellow peers.” The voice on the other end chuckled. “They’ll consider us heroes, General,” the voice replied, “They’ll consider all of us heroes.” “I cannot believe that they’ve considered this the future,” the teen said before laughing, “There are no flying cars and there are no androids.” The other teen sitting beside him sighed. “But the problems in the movie are evident today,” his friend replied, “A lot of the upper class have been moving to those colonies and space stations.” “You ponder too much, man,” the teen replied, “And it’s making me depressed. C’mon. Let’s go watch Morgendämmerung...” The friend frowned. He really could not understand why it was considered a classic. “You can remember this movie and wonder why you did not like it,” Ashleigh asked me. His, the nurse, and his superior’s presence was the most common of them all after two years. He has always answered my questions to the best of his abilities while he asked questions about my well-being. These movies and books have been a thing of oddball conversation for the both of us. He said that the popularity of the book were high in my parents generation. Did my parents have these names? Do I have one of those names? I felt comfortable with the psychologist calling me Johnny and sometimes Mr. Morse.

“I don’t know why people liked it,” he replied, “You would be surprised at the amount of people that have been killed by those who took the book seriously. It was classified as Maierism. To me, fanaticism is fanaticism.” I wish I could tell him that I couldn’t get the joke, but I don’t have a larynx or a tongue. Are they waiting to fix that after fixing my hearing? I don’t know but I feel the hair on my cheek. I started to tap my head once more to tell him. “Yeah,” he replied, “They’ll get it cut soon.” The door opened once more and I felt the vibrations of nervous steps. It was Dr. Ferris. Ashleigh got up and stood there. There wasn’t much movement and I wonder what they were doing. Ashleigh sat down again. “You’re going to need to be anesthetized,” he explained, “You’re about to go into surgery again.” I tapped a question with my head on the pillow. “No, this isn’t the surgery to fix your ear drums.” Damn. I really want to hear what those damn conversations. “Johnny still does not remember who he was,” Ashleigh said, “But...” Doctor Ferris gave him an odd look. “But what?” he asked laconically. The older man looked more tired than usual. “He’s remembering some of his personal opinions. Apparently, he has a dislike for a series called Zwielicht.” Doctor Ferris paused in hesitancy and turned around. “Anyone who has a decent amount of synapses realizes that it was annoying,” the doctor replied with cold subtlety, “I would not be surprised if it was still required reading in schools. It’s rare to see someone with enough estrogen in their system in the scientific field these days.” “So?” “Do not talk about it here,” Dr. Ferris ordered, “It makes me feel more idiotic by the moment.” The nervous doctor got up and walked out of the room. Ashleigh followed suit a few moments after. He walked through the door and bumped into someone. “Hey,” he said, “Watch it!” He got a good look at who he bumped into. He was in one of the popular styles of citizen dress with pale skin and ragged, light brown hair. The auburn Brit realized who it was. “You watch it,” he muttered angrily, “You damn Brit.” “Doren,” the Brit replied, “I’m not in the mood for arguing and that was a complete accident.” “Accident my ass,” he muttered before he walked away. The psychologist was wondering what has made the programmer riled. I feel like I’ve gained weight. The cold metal touched the sides of my chest. The arms felt thinner than expected. I try to move them but they won’t. I feel them, but they can’t move. What’s wrong with them? “He’s showing signs of panic,” the technician said to Dr. Ferris. They were watching Johnny and his vitals from a different room. Did Johnny realize that those arms were only the skeleton that was the first step? “Give him sedatives and keep him calm until I enter the room,” the graying doctor ordered before leaving the room.

I feel calmer than I should about this. Why did they do to me? Earlier I was panicking about my arms and slowly I stopped. I’m not surprised at the fact that they doped my ass because I was having a neurotic fit. They tend to do that when I’m panicking and even worse I’m becoming dependent on it. I panic, they give me what they give me, and I feel numb. It is the same process over and over again. I haven’t told Ashleigh this and I’m not sure if he suspects it or not. Yet, I continue to wonder if those pieces of metal are my actual arms. Would that make people consider me a monster? Will they consider me the freak result of a mad science project? Will the world still consider me human when they see the chips and wires? “How long have these attacks have been occurring?” Ashleigh asked. The stats over the past few weeks show that Johnny was being given more sedatives than usual. This was a cause for concern for the psychologist. Even worse, it was when he was under orders for psychoanalysis from his fight a couple weeks back. It turned out that Gray was a repeat offender for such things but the top one was sexual harassment. “Once every several hours,” the nurse replied, “They were becoming more frequent during the last couple of days.” “Well, why are you giving him sedatives?” The auburn Brit sensed something was not right on why. He looked at the video and seen the skeletal frame. It seemed that these attacks only happened after operations and now they are occurring after them. A random thought turned into an idea. “Who in the hell here is making Johnny into an addict?” Ashleigh asked as calmly as he could. In one of his hands he held a portable screen with files and charts. The other held the old style copies of the digital data. In front of him were several nurses, a couple doctors, and even Dr. Ferris. They were all silent while they looked at the angry psychologist. “Answer me, please.” Doctor Ferris walked up to the front of the group. “Let’s go to my office,” he said with that usual nervous tone. They walked through the neutral-colored corridors of Mariposa before reaching Doctor Ferris’ office. He closed the door quietly before going to his desk. He sat down, typed for a few moments, and then stopped. “There,” he said, “Now Mariposa won’t hear our conversation.” Ashleigh looked at the doctor. “Why were you giving them the orders to drug him?” Ashleigh asked, “He’s already a basket case! We don’t need him to be an addict!” The old doctor frowned. “We have to give it to him during before, during, and after these operations,” he replied calmly, “Or else he will suffer from psychotic episodes.” “Psychotic episodes,” the Brit scoffed, “He’ll be suffering from them because you’re pumping sedative in him without lowering or decreasing the amount over time. Also, didn’t you state earlier that someone like him could experience time slower or faster?” The other doctor smiled calmly before sighing. “There’s also another reason why we are giving them to Johnny,” he replied, “Now, I cannot explain it, but maybe Dr. Terrance can. However, I suggest you to do it while you’re on monthly vacation.”

“Now, this is the first time I seen you on the outside,” a dark-haired man said to Ashleigh. They were sitting across each other in an open café. The top was bleached from staying in the sun and acid rain frequently. “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. A waitress in her late teens with pink hair came up to the table the two are sitting around. “A bottle of coke for Josh and I’m guessing you want tea,” she said in the typical frivolous manner. A sour look on the auburn Brit’s face alerted his colleague. “I think he’ll have a coke, too,” Joshua said abruptly. The cheerful waitress left and went inside. “I’m guessing you get this type of treatment everywhere.” He smiled, hazel eyes closed, and he started to do a mock wave of a flag. Ashleigh sighed. “Yes,” he replied begrudgingly, “I get it no matter where I go. I swear that they all take that UN deal so seriously and I became American before that incident started.” “Don’t let it get to you,” his dark-haired cohort said, “I should be a third generation junkie.” The two joined together in forced merriment before sighing. The whirring of police sirens could be heard. A child in ragged clothing came running out of the alleyway as fast as he could. Kids a few years older stood up in the café area and started to shout the obscenities of the day. The kid ran through traffic, barely dodging the cars that passed him. The cheered when they hear an audible hit and a whelp of pain. The older men tried to keep quiet even with the appalling scene. Ashleigh stood up to see what had happened to the younger boy. He found the kid on the other side of the road holding his elbow in pain before he ran into the alleyway. The auburn Brit sat down once more. “I can’t believe what I seen,” he stated, “It’s so harrowing.” The calm facades came back when the waitress arrived with a bottle of coke and a cup of tea. Ashleigh sighed after their pink-haired blunder went away. They kept silent for a few before continuing to talk. “What does the nanites have to do with the amount of sedatives they give Johnny?” “Well, I’m not suppose to tell you this but the reason why he has to be sedated but_” “There’s one thing that worries me, Dr. Ferris,” the auburn Brit told him, “He could be controlled by a computer or someone with a vendetta.” The older doctor laughed lightly at the suggestion. “We’re in Faraday Cage and on the day he awakes, this place will become closed circuit as an extra measure. No one knows the date because we do not exist.” Ringing came from the telephone on the desk. “Now, excuse me, I have to talk to our funders.” Ashleigh walked out of the room quietly. When the door closed, Dr. Ferris answered the phone. “Yes, this is Doctor Winston Ferris,” he said. “We need to have a talk about who you fired,” the man replied on the other end. The nervous doctor shook his head. General Sierra was still on his hide. Programmers were easier to replace than psychologists. “So, how’s the wife, sergeant?” the man asked him. This was the same thing asked every time he received a letter from his wife. He chuckled as he fumbled through the snail mail.

“She’s been fine,” he replied, “The same with my kid.” They had seen unimaginable horrors of war and crimes against humanity. They have been done under the orders of the men who gave them. He hoped that this war would be over soon. He wanted to see his son grow up and maybe become a fine man. He wanted to embrace his wife once more, even if he came home in a wheelchair. They were riding together in the patrol vehicle with a couple others. He thought of the many times he seen his fellows brought in women from the streets and somehow, he had this old sense of chivalry that could only be found in old writings. The desert air was not kind to his lungs. Every time he came onto the field, it was like something kicked his ribcage. The grunts tend to call him Sergeant Wheezer because of it. Maybe it was because of the air back home or was it from something else. Whatever it was, it was a nice reminder that he was not Superman. “Well, Sergeant,” his friend asked, “How long until you’ll be outta_” “His heartbeat’s spiking!” “Oh shit! He’s regaining consciousness!” one of the technicians stated as calmly as he could. The man’s limbs started to shake. His mouth opened but the scream did not come out. His eyes were open in shock, yet the pupils did not dilate. The anesthesiologist was administering the sedative that was keeping him unable to move. The movements slowed, and then stopped. No one expect Johnny to wake up in the middle of surgery. “His body should be sedated,” one of the surgeons shouted, “Why isn’t he sedated?” “He is sedated!” the anesthesiologist snappishly replied, “It’s the nanites. They’re reacting to his subconscious. Maybe it’s reacting to a nightmare or something!” Doctor Ferris sighed heavily under the mask he wore. He had a feeling that he needed to check something. “Alright,” Ashleigh tapped onto my arm. I had experienced all sorts of changes. Many things that I have had lost were back again. It was a strange feeling because I knew I had these before, yet, I had to get used to them once more. I thought I was going psychotic when I started to smell again. I could smell nothing but ammonia and sometimes people. I have practiced trying to speak, but I don’t know if they can hear what I’m saying. I could feel my lips moving; yet, I tried to hum and I couldn’t hear the sound. Either Ashley or Ferris told or ask me things in Morris. I replied back to them in Morris. The familiar black was slowly changing when I started seeing lighter spots. It would go black for a moment before coming back with more colors. I started seeing the outlines of shapes until those same blackouts made them a lot clearer. I was able to see who and what were around me for several years. A fidgeting old man was the first thing that I seen. Was this guys Ashleigh? The man was shaking his head and pointed to the left. My head turned around and seen an auburn-haired man before my sight blacked out. Wind, then something warm, wet, and thumping before my hand slid out. The warmth started to ebb as I started to smell something sweet and coppery. “Well, Sergeant,” his friend asked, “How long until you’ll be outta_” The conversation was interrupted by an explosion rocking the vehicle they were riding in. The flaming carriage flipped several times before coming to a halt. One of the people flew out of the window during the tumbles and continued skimming the rocky floor in the worst of ragdoll physics.

What was left when he finished his course was a broken and charred man the medics deemed DOA. No one gave a double check for a one-use jet inject cartridge labeled Aurora that was left behind along with the remains of the dead crew. I felt something coming upwards, the bitter taste reaching my tongue. I wanted to bend over and let the contents out but something is preventing me from doing so. What was going on? I wanted to see and hear what is happening! It feels like I’m doing this yet I’m not in control of myself! I started to hear something, low at first but it grew louder. “_was started to begin with?” I began to get up against my will. “Some of the best people worked on this man and for what: Making him human! Like I said, those government types become iffy when their goals are hindered by distracted scientist like you.” What government project was he talking about? Am I nothing but an experiment in the name of science? The sound cut off once more and I was left to hear nothing. Was this the only reason why they helped me? None of them were there to help be become human again, only to make me into a weapon. Something warm was running down my face as my body moved. I hit something else and I couldn’t tell what it was. Something felt like the sheets before it flew away. I was still moving and felt panic rushing in the air. I continued to move against my will when I continued to feel skin, blood, and cloth being penetrated or ripped to shreds. I felt vibrations every time I felt something warm and wet. What noise were they making? Am I the last thing they would ever see in world? Are all these people going to die because of me? The warmth on my face turned completely cold as I stopped crying. I wanted to plea and shout someone to kill me because I didn’t deserve to live. I’m nothing more than a weapon and that’s seems to be my only purpose as I continue with my rampage! General Sierra continued to sit at his desk while watching the video. Something had controlled the man to tear much of the scientist limb to limb as it were nothing but paper. The scene was quite gut-wrenching, yet, it showed how well those scientists built Johnny never knowing they were the pieces that would be used to kill them. The phone rang for a short time before picking it up. “The test came back and Johnny has gotten clean marks,” he said, “Tell Mr. Gray to bring back Johnny to rest.” “That’s what I’m calling about, Miguel,” the man replied, “Johnny hasn’t stopped and he’s heading through the tunnel.” “WHAT!?” I feel so tired, dirty, and unable to vomit because I’m still being controlled. Smooth floor changed to gritty and the temperature changed as I continued to run unaware to where I will be dropped off to die. I continued to move for a long time before I dropped somewhere wet and horrid-smelling. Finally, I was able to get rid of what was plaguing me for who know how long and it left an awful taste in my mouth. Maybe I should have continued to plea for death all those years ago Maybe then, none of this would have ever happened.

Author’s Afterword See, I told you my lethargy would make me release less frequently. I will tell you that this isn’t the finished piece (I feel more irritated at my ending for this one. It doesn’t feel right).

Total word count for the story is 6,396 (without the afterword, the title, and the author’s name).