One is never the same once they have been tampered with—tortured, raped by machinery of the worst sort, milked of their dignity for the so-called ‘betterment of mankind’—never the same, ever, once Nathaniel Essex has gotten to them. Once a respected man of science, now a deranged psychopath bent on creating an army of the ‘ultimate soldiers’. Marauders he calls them, or they call themselves, monstrosities, true freaks of nature. Some were once innocent men and women, others were as deranged and violent as when he found or made them, each was likely promised something, or “I owe him my life,” perhaps, they were simply under his wicked spell.1
One such soul, a once perfectly normal man, began to buckle under stress and to take on characteristics that no human being should have, and he went to the good doctor for help, only to find himself devoid of all humanity—an animal in the most literal sense, deprived of all but coherent thought and speech. So long had he endured Essex’s tortures…so very long…too long with the sickening smell of an overly sterile environment, too long with the cold, calculating voice whispering in his ear.2
“I will make you more than you once were,” were the words that he spoke the most.3
“I will make you more…”4
“I will make you so much more…”5
----6
Another long night in this pit of despair had come to an end; another day began, and he could hardly open his eyes. When he did, they were met with the sudden rush of an unfamiliar liquid, and try as he might to blink it away; it stayed, burning his eyes until they grew used to it. He moved to turn his head and found that it could only go so far—he had an oxygen mask on—why?7
His hands, simply floating at his sides (so he thought), balled tightly into fists, but at a price. He cried out when claws pierced the dampened, and so, much more vulnerable flesh. He moved to bring his hand to his face, but found that they were bound where they were. He moved to lift a foot and found that they suffered the same fate—bound to the floor of the tank. Time and time again, he struggled to free himself, but nothing worked.8
He shut his eyes once more and remembered—wondered why he had come to this madman in the first place.9
----10
Life…11
Life was beginning to crowd him…12
Life had begun slowly, agonizingly, strangling him…13
Day after day, night after night, he would find himself aching from head to toe. His job basically consisted of school, heavy lifting, listening to the complaints of those around him, and threatening to be fired on a regular basis. He could feel it with every word they said to him. (“Why are you even here?” “Stupid kid…can’t get anything right…” “One more slip-up and you’re fired!”) Frankly, no one liked him. His home life was the only half-way stable thing about him, and even that was becoming unusual.14
Stress…15
After arriving home at odd hours, he found himself calling in sick quite often, up to the point where they did go ahead and fire him—he had taken too much time off, and that time was not his own.16
His body was racked with pain now, and not from the job that he had just been fired from. This was a different pain; this was debilitating pain. With every move he made it seemed to double and redouble, and he never had the pleasure of simply passing out from it—it just continued until it felt like stopping.17
He felt, during these times, like something out of a werewolf movie—like there was something ready to burst out of his skin, but this was not the case. His skin survived, but he felt quite sorry for the shirts that he very nearly had to rip off before they strangled him, and grateful for hand-me-down pants that never fit in the first place. (“Those are too long.” “They’re too baggy!” “You’ll trip on the job, buddy…”) He was suddenly able to fill them in with ease.18
It finally ended with him lying on his back, covered in sweat and panting. His pale blue eyes, staring dead at the dark ceiling, had somehow become more vivid and catlike, but he never bothered looking in a mirror to see—not yet, at least. Everything from height to muscle mass had increased, and his senses…19
His senses ran rampant…20
Every little sound was torture. Every scent within range blended to create some sickly perfume, but he did not have the energy to gag. When his vision cleared, it was quite a bit sharper—even in the dark things shone in dazzling colors that would usually be shades of black and gray.21
He drew a breath through his mouth and cringed. The smells stuck there now, and he had no choice but to call on all his energy to run to the bathroom and immediately empty his stomach. The smells were gone now…but so was his dinner, wonderful.22
He moved to the sink now, hardly bothering to look in the mirror as he rinsed his mouth out and splashed water on his face, pausing for a moment. His short hair had grown several inches longer and he could now feel the itchy sensation of a beard growing. Mumbling, he looked up and reached for the mirror to open his medicine cabinet and paused for quite a long while, staring at himself.23
“Must be going mad…”24
He moved, so did his reflection. He moved again—reflection followed. He opened his mouth—reflection mimicked in perfect time. His hands moved to the open mouth, so did the reflections, and he screamed at the sight of fangs—the reflection also released a scream, a silent one.25
“What the hell happened to me?!”26
He stumbled into the wall behind him, still staring at the mirror, wide-eyed. This was not ‘one of those changes every boy goes through.’ This was fucking freaky is what this was. This was not something a person could hide, but he could hardly drop everything to run anyway—he had only enough money to fill up his stomach and his tank and help with bills and that was it, nothing more…27
…but then again…28
He grinned slowly. No one could complain if he were to re-apply for his old job or something. No one could complain about him not belonging in a place like that. (“Go work out or something. You’re too scrawny.”) From scrawny to well-muscled was a rather big change. Not to mention the sudden height difference and even the fact that his newer shirts would not fit now—they just had no chance of recognizing him is all…29
…nothing could go wrong…30
----31
…but everything went wrong…32
He was here now, where he had been for months, listening to that cold voice speaking to him through glass and liquid, watching those burning red eyes focus on him every so often, watching the fanged grin that spread upon the pale Sinister’s face as he plotted…33
…he always plotted, didn’t he?34
“Already so much more…you are already so much more than you once were…”35
Author notes
A character I came up with some time this winter. Pretty much nameless for the moment, but perhaps we'll find out who he is later, hm?
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Comments
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This is nice, very creepy
I love how it's a little vague, so you're not sure exactly what's happening or why. For some reason that always makes a story more frightening. It's also very intriguing, and leaves the reader wanting more. Good job and good luck.
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