Merciless

She lays in the box, broken and bleeding. She can feel them staring down at her, uncaring of her suffering. She can hear the scratching of their pens flying across clipboards, taking notes; she can hear their hard, merciless voices speaking in voices too low for her to discern their words, though she can guess with relative accuracy the topic of their hushed conversations.1

Her breathing is coming in short, labored gasps, her lungs fighting hard for air. The sterile white walls of her small box are all that she can see with her weak eyesight; they are all she ever sees. Her eyes ache from gazing at the scrubbed walls for too long; she closes them, relief seeping into her tired bones as she allows herself a glorious, much-needed rest.2

Her half-sleep is interrupted sharply by an intrusion in the form of one of the scientists that stand over her, observing; his cold, cruel voice bites into her like a knife.3

“Once more,” the voice says. The two words are enough to fill her with a dread so deep and penetrating that she experiences a desperate urge to kill herself, though she knows that they have purposefully made that easy escape impossible. She listens, wrapped in a cocoon of misery and despair, as a lid is placed over her box, sealing her in. She scarcely notices as all noise is cut off, leaving her blanketed in a soft cover of deep, unfathomable silence.4

She wishes that the quiet could last forever—she wants nothing more then to sink down into the depths of her mind to nestle in the dark and peace. But she knows, of course, that that would never, could never, occur. She knows, of course, that the inevitable pain will jolt her out of her blissful oblivion in a matter of moments. She braces herself as best she can.5

Despite her inadequate preparation, she is not ready for the white-hot, searing pain that jars her body and stops her senses cold in their tracks. It is unlike anything she has experienced before, it is worse than even their worst experiments. She does not realize she is screaming until her throat becomes hoarse; does not realize she is writhing and convulsing until she feels one of her fingers crack against the hard walls of her prison. A fresh spurt of pain erupts from that spot, followed quickly by a small fountain and river of deep red blood, but the throbbing in her hand does not register in her mind. She feels as though her mind is a million miles away, though still feeling the horrid pain that her body is experiencing; she feels light and feathery despite the pain. The hurt is far beyond crying—indeed, to shed a tear would seem to insult it, to demean it, and yet she feels her cheeks stinging as the salt from the tears streaming down her face seeps into the countless cuts and scratched on her face. Blood is mixed with them; it streams into her raven locks.6

At last, at long last, the pain begins to ebb, though she has the feeling the it began a while ago, she is only now beginning to feel relief’s comforting arms embracing her; like a long-dead star’s light reaching the indigo of the night sky long after its true self has ceased to shine. She does not know how long the torture lasted in reality; she has only her feelings, and to her, it seems as though she had been burning for centuries. 7

She is aware of the nauseating, metallic stench of blood permeating the air around her, as she is soaked in it: it taints her simple, grimy frock; its acrid aroma hangs in her hair; the once-spotless walls of the box are bathed in it, and she herself is laying in a shallow pool of it.8

A rush of cooler air rushes in on her; the lid has been removed from her box, and the scientists are peering at her. She does not have the strength to return their analyzing gaze, but keeps her head down, hoping they will not decide to run the test once more.9

The silence that ensues is deafening; she is praying with all her meager strength that they will be finished for the day and leave her in her own world of suffering.10

Then, one of them speaks. She manages to pull herself from the depths of her mind to hear what he says.11

“Success.”12

One word. Just one word; it is enough to overcome her with an overwhelming urge to dance. Perhaps, if she possessed more strength, she would have. As it is, she does not have the energy even to smile.13

Perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, they would kill her now. She is unfamiliar with their procedures in the aftermath of an experiment, as they had been carrying this one out for as long as she could remember. She thinks maybe, just maybe, they will dispose of her now that they are finished. Maybe, at last, she will be allowed some real, true, authentic peace and rest.14

The man’s next words are enough to send her back to the personal hell in which she had previously been submersed.15

“We will commence with our next experiment at dawn,” he announces.16

She is only dimly aware of the scientists exiting the room; extinguishing the lights, packing away their equipment, and, finally, locking the door to ensure she does not escape. They should know, of course, that they have weakened her so very much that there is no possible way that she could attempt an escape even if she possessed the resources to do so.17

She barely registers the peaceful quiet of the room that once held so much horror; she is wrapped in her personal shell of shock and horrible surprise; though it is really not legitimate of her to feel so. Somewhere deep inside her, she knows that she expected this all along.18

They could never let her go; she accepts that now. Dully, she chides herself for not catching on earlier. She should have deducted that she was forever their prisoner—she can remember nothing of her life before them; she can barely imagine a life unaffected by their cruel experiments.19

She allows herself to sink a little farther into the abyss of despair and pain into which she has been falling for quite a long time. Only when she feels the multitude of gashes that riddle her cheeks stinging again does she realize that she is crying. She makes a feeble attempt to stem the flow of tears, but fails, and lets them flow. She smell of salt mingles with those of blood and sweat, but she hardly notices the unpleasantness.20

She wonders, for a fleeting moment, why she cannot allow herself to simply continue on with the life she has led for years. She knows, of course, that she only tolerated the suffering because there had always been a light at the end of the darkness—death, sweet and merciful.21

Now, there is nothing. There is just the dark, the tears, the screams, the small white box, forever, until they murdered her unintentionally, or she simply broke down due to pure agony. There is no light, no hope at the end, not now.22

She curls up into a position that is relatively comfortable, wincing as her cramping muscles settle. The tears still flow freely, but it is as of their own accord—she scarcely notices that she is nearly completely soaked in her own blood and tears.23

With a painful understanding, she accepts that she cannot do anything about her current situation. She had never been one to entertain any hope beyond that her death would come, and she did not begin to do so now. Hope would do her no good.24

She closes her eyes in submission, resigning herself to fate. There will be time to contemplate what she will do next—all the time in the world. Now, she is too exhausted to think about anything besides the coming pain. Idly, she wonders whether the blood that covers her will even have a chance to dry before it is replaced with a fresh bath of the metallic substance.25

Her bones aching, her blood flowing from her, her cheeks stinging with the still-pouring tears, she allows herself to slip into a restless sleep, cursing her merciless masters with her last conscious breath.26