Paralytic Studies., Anna [carter reed .txt] 📗

Lewis opened his eyes, staring up at the person who was ... poking... him awake. Doctor Eisen. He stood outside Lewis' cage, poking him with the end of a cane with a wicked grin playing across his lips.

"Wake up, kid! I have new studies to do on the condition you're in!" Doctor Eisen exclaimed excitedly, it was sick. Lewis rubbed his head, waiting for the doctor to unlock his cage.

After a moment of examining him he finally unlocked the cage and led him out. Lewis's arms were chained while a 'leash' was connected to the collar around his neck. Doctor Eisen was an older man, hunched over with a thick, white beard that was no longer than a pinky finger. He dressed in full white with sterile, latex gloves.

They walked down the corridor towards the testing lab, Lewis was tugged along, passing room after room of test subjects. Children ranging from ten to nineteen years old in rooms with large glassed windows; big enough for you to see the cages where they slept.

Lewis even had to pass the room where large plastic tubes, no bigger than an adult body, were built in. Those held babies, babies that had their umbilical chord still attached as they floated around in the water.

Each room was marked 'E1', 'E2', and so on. Each were numbered for the testing that were being done to the patients within the room and the number stood for which order they were in; Number one were fresh new little ones that were yet to be studied on. The last three numbers, ten to twelve, were the last amount of good test subjects that were alive and the tests were still working.

Thirteen and fourteen were the rooms that Doctor Eisen tried to avoid; they held the subjects that had died from the new antidotes that were given.

Lewis stared at the different looking kids who rested in their individual cages, some were raging inside and causing problems in which the doctor noted on a pad when testing behaviors to new antidotes that he created.

Finally, Lewis was led into a room, the walls were a sky blue while the floor was tiled; cold beneath his bare feet. The chains were taken off before he climbed up onto the table that sat in the middle of the room.

Behind the table, mounted on the walls, were large television screens that were connected to the computers; showing x-rays and other diagnostics that were changing or staying the same in the patient. To the right of the table sat a counter with a sink. In the cabinets both above and below the counter were needles, knives of many sizes, instruments for surgery, and other things he may need.

On the far left of the room were the machines, holding the antidotes, medicines, and 'poisons' he had. Poisons were only brought out if he had screwed up royaly on a patient and had to take away their suffering.

Lewis was strapped down to the table, first his arms then his legs. Doctor Eisen replaced his gloves with new ones as he grabbed a needle from the top cabinet, placing it on the counter. He grabbed the iodine bottle and placed it next to the needle.

Grabbing gauze pads, he walked over to Lewis and tore his shirt open. He fished through his coat pocket and pulled out his small marker; making an X on the place he wished to draw blood from. It was just above his heart.

"This won't hurt too much" Doctor Eisen stated, he put Iodine down over the X then grabbed the needle. Without a second thought he slid the needle into the X and drew blood. Lewis flinched slightly.

"Today we do surgery" Doctor Eisen said, smiling. He was ever the only one to smile but of course, he did love his surgeries.

Lewis got nervous, he had to keep himself calm or he'd enrage the doctor.

Doctor Eisen pulled out the necessary tools to perform his task, laying them out on a small table along side him to make it easier.

After putting in the Anesthetic, he started to cut open Lewis' head. The Anesthetic hadn't kicked in. Lewis wanted to scream at the immense pain he was in.

How do you describe such pain? Something along the lines of having a truck parked onto your genitals of a male? Having each of your teeth pulled out slowly while a porcupine hits your bum repeatedly; Over, and over, and over?

Lewis

I cried, tears streamed down my face, I didn't know what to do, what could I do? Scream at him? Call him names that I heard other kills call him? I knew what happened to them after they screamed such words. Horrible things.

I bit my lip, tasting the metallic flavor upon my tongue. I didn't care. It was the least amount of pain I was in. After some minutes the pain finally went away.

I wasn't entirely sure it was from the medicine he had given me, what was the name again? Anestesia? Anesthetic? Ahh yes, that's it. I heard him humming once with it in there. Don't ask me why.

Anyways, I didn't know whether it was because I was finally saved from that or because so much blood loss. All I knew, was I was being saved by something that wasn't the doctor.

I started seeing stars, feeling pressure in places I shouldn't but how was I to know? Looking back, I think I couldn't have told anyone what it was like. To this day, I really can't tell anyone what it was like to experience such things.

I try, sometimes, to people who desperately want to know. The ones who, beg. You know, plead basically on their knees with their little pouted lips.

I laid on the table, staring up, bright spots started to appear in random places but I just stared straight up. Thankful that there was no light there so I didn't have to look anywhere else. I didn't bother to try and strain to look up nor did I ever dare to move my head. Who knows what the insane man was up to.

I later found out he was trying to take the 'evil' out of my brain. I was born with a few problems, none that I was aware of. When I was two years old I faintly remember the doctors whisper to my mother, a word that seemed to contain complete sorrow.

I hadn't ever seen my mother cry, I hadn't ever seen her the slightest bit upset but that night... she cried for hours, curled up in her bed. I played the word out... cencer.

I was sick, I knew I was but there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I was little and didn't understand. My mother saw me and she just smiled, hiding the tears, planting a kiss upon my cheek.

I asked her what was wrong, in my little child voice but she just told me "It's all okay sweetheart, it's all okay" I contemplate it now, wondering if my mother was upset she had a sick child. I also have Schizophrenia, much like this doctor.

I didn't know what it meant for a long time but sometimes, the doctor comes to our cages and smiles. He won't speak to us nor to himself, he'll talk to... someone else but nobody will be there. He'll speak of what's wrong with us or why he has to do what he does.

Nobody asks, nobody questions. Some spit at him, bite him, fight, some will even sing sometimes. He acts normal and calm but after he 'operates'... we don't ever see the kid again.

He blames himself when they die.. who else can he blame? He's the demented figure that causes us these problems. No, he didn't make us be born this way but he did steal us away from our families, our parents, our mothers.

The ones who brought us into this world. I joined this place when I turned three, I was now seventeen years old. The night I was taken was the night after my third birthday. My mother tucked me into bed, gave me a soft smile, and kissed my forehead. She'd sing me a lullaby before leaving, she'd keep the door open a crack after she was gone so that I wouldn't be frightened.

Ironic, isn't it? That night, the man came from no where. You know them stories of the 'boogey-man', the 'monster in your closet' or 'Freddy Kruger'? I think I'd have rather come in contact with any, if not all, of them rather than this man.

He had a funny smell to him, one the sanitizers couldn't mask and I crinkled my nose when he passed my cage at any given time.

I haven't seen my mother since I was three, at many times I wondered if she ever thought of me. I couldn't remember her songs, her voice, the smell of her hair when she'd give me giant hugs, the way she'd smile when I'd fall and start to sniffle up; saying 'Aw honey, let momma kiss it better' And she'd do just that.

I was grateful for my mum but I was terrified I'd forget her completely. This was the only life I knew of. For all I know now, my mother is dead. The doctor loved to get that through to us that something happened to our parents, our families and friends, and he was the only one we had left. So we wouldn't try and run from him.

He'd 'take care of us' sick, no? I had fallen for it but in the back of my head, I still held some faith but every day I got operated on and my head was cut open or some other part of my body, so he could take a 'test sample'. The faith would crumple to dust.

I couldn't be blamed, I found that out quickly. Nobody blamed me nor would ever blame me.

I was content with that but as I laid on the table, breathing slowly, I blamed myself for being born this way.

The doctor talked again, he spoke not to me nor himself like normal, but to someone else in the room. It was just him and myself.

He saw people, heard voices, and spoke to them. Sometimes told stories, laughed, and talked like him and the voices were old friends. Knowing him, they were since childhood. I didn't know now what they were called but I would later find out that he was mentally insane; much like us. I didn't care, all I knew was at this time, with the pain finally out of my body, I wanted him dead.

I didn't know where it was coming from, these thoughts, and sometimes I believed that the doctor was doing so many tests on us that he could eventually read our minds. It scared me in the past but as I started to get logical thinking, I realized that wasn't the case. In my head, I have swore him out, told him to go kill himself, and now, I was thinking that I wanted to be the cause of his death.

He had killed so many of the fellow test subjects, it killed me when I saw the blood