By: Mia L. Hazlett
What did it mean to have control of my body? Was it actual physical control? Or was it the ability to do with my body what I wanted? I didn’t want to do what they were telling me to do. I was somehow fighting against the healing of my body. Being able to walk, although my only means of escape, could also prove my detriment. Reinjuring my ankles lingered in my thoughts, but I wrestled with lengthening my stay in hell.
They allowed me access to the stairs at the end of the dark hallways. Some sort of informal training for my controlled release. A door with a heavy padlock and chain guarded the top of the staircase. I’m sure it used a form of video as backup.
With only one door in the hallway, I seemed to hold the only reservation, but Hope had to be close. Although I hadn’t heard from her in days, there was the familiar sound of restraints against a wire cot. They must have restrained her and she couldn’t get to her wall. Or maybe her ankles had met the same fate mine had and she was now receiving visits from Syringe.
Footsteps arrived with my food. Apparently while dwelling so close to the last stop in hell, Thanksgiving had arrived. He brought two plates mounded with food I had forgotten existed.
“We need you to fatten up a bit, put your weight back on,” Maniacal appeared and spoke from the doorway. “The time is drawing near and we can’t have you fail, just because you’re hungry. Be a good girl and eat up.”
I savagely devoured all I could. I don’t think I used my hands as I felt my tongue brush against the plate at times. Before I could see the bottom of the second plate, my body rejected the first meal. My stomach had held nothing more than a red concoction and an occasional serving from Syringe.
I couldn’t control my vomiting, but I noticed my ribs had healed. There was no pain in the heaving as before. I can’t get well. I had to take control of my body and break it again.