An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)

Chapter 2 - Hang In There, Kitty Cat

Third Person 

Miles wakes up in the darkness, his eyes adjusting to the fleeting beams of light streaming in through ripped curtains. He looks around and it takes him a second to realise he isn't in his own bedroom. This bedroom is similar to his own, but even smaller, almost a closet. The air hangs thick from dust and so musty he gags slightly with each shaky breath. He is sitting on a bed which takes up almost the entire room. There's nothing else in the room except a small counter, upon which is a half-finished jigsaw puzzle he recognises the picture of, and knows he owns. The walls are bare except one, adorned with a poster printed in pastel colours. The poster depicts a cat hanging by one paw from a branch that reaches in from the side. It hangs on by one paw and above it are block capital letters encouraging him to 'Hang In There', although it might be encouraging the cat. It's the one thing in the room he doesn't recognise. 

In a somnambulistic daze he tries to reach up and rub the sweat from his face but his hands are bound behind his back with rough twine, abrasive and cutting through his wrists. He knows he should be more panicked than he is, but he cannot escape the grogginess from the drug- induced seep, his head pounding and throbbing with the pain, the pulsating behind his eyes. Is this hat his mother feels? His arms are accessorised with several scrapes and cuts from the struggle but they're numb and the blood blurs together. He can't tell which wound is which. Miles is scared but he's also numb to the danger of this situation. 

"Where am I?" he asks aloud, trying to concentrate in his muddled state. The last thing he remembers was the looming rainstorm - no, he remembers the pitter-patter of raindrops on the ground, a stinging in his feet and the roaring vitriol of thunder. 

Doc

I slam the door closed, type in the instructed number and hear the distant humming, watching the turnstile creep into motion. 

I am making two mug cakes in the microwave - why do I even own two mugs? It's messing with my autopilot - I'm so used to only making one of these. But now I suppose that I have to make two. It's just really weird, I haven't had an experiment in a while. The microwave pings and I hold the mugs in my shaking hands, excitement usurping within me as I deliberate have planned next. I can't wait for my new experiment to accept me. I hope he does soon, I don't like it when they're uncooperative. I look at the cupboard door, relishing the stillness and reliability of the patterned woodgrain. Chaos is awful, predictability is perfection. Hehe. I giggle to myself with glee. My little Miles will not be chained to his old, chaotic life of misery. No, such an awful existence that was. 

Displayed proudly on the cupboard door is my degree, the University of Cambridge PhD in Clinical Biochemistry. That's my trophy, the one thing that proves my worth, that sets me apart from all the other psychos - for I am not so insane I deny my own insanity. It's the one thing I've ever had, my intelligence. And so far that's working out pretty well for me. Hehe.

I look at my security monitor, one I designed myself, positioned in the corner of Miles' new bedroom. I made sure the bedroom is very much like his old one so it'd ease him into the transition faster. It's a little smaller but I can't help that, it's essentially my broom cupboard. The monitor streams to my laptop on the counter. I watch the grainy black-white-grey rendition move around on the screen, and I smirk more. Miles is awake. Time to implement Phase One.

I walk down through the house into the back room, one nobody would notice unless they knew it was there. The door is just a crevice in the wallpaper, hiding in plain sight. The keyhole I've hidden behind a rip in the end of the paper strip. Hehe, how clever you are doctor, doctor! I shove the key into its gaping slow - hehe, innuendo - and creak open the unfortunately poorly-oiled door. Miles is sitting upright on his little bed, squirming in his restraints. Adorable. Miles notices me, and I smile sweetly, holding the steaming mug cakes. He doesn't smile back, just watches me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. "Good morning my experiment,"

Miles seems to have an epiphany, a moment of realisation like he had forgotten something and finally gained clarity. He is remembering isn't he? That makes me smile. I must find a way to reduce the memory-erasing effects of that drug. Can't have my experiments forgetting me when I know so much about them. It's highly rude. Come to think of it, he's rude anyway - he hasn't even thanked me for recreating his old bedroom for him. Rude little boy. His knees are drawn tightly to his chest, his breathing laboured, his eyes forced open like saucers with red veins stretching across the whites. 

He's paralysed with fear. That hurts, it really does. I was hoping to begin my experiment, but I suppose not today. Not if he's so scared. I lean forward slightly and Miles shuffles back on his butt and sinks into the wall, pressing himself against it to get as far from me as possible. I don't want to frighten him, not badly, so I leave the mug at the end of his bed with a fork, getting a water bottle out my pocket and leaving that too. I observe his questioning look and realise what he means - gah, I'm so silly! I forgot to untie him. Poor thing, he must be in agony. I reach forward, grabbing him. He doesn't say anything but tenses and pulls against my grip. "I'm going to untie you, stupid,". He relaxes just a little bit, and I remove the string from his wrists rubbed raw. He stares at them. I pout his mug cake in his hands. "Eat. It's cookie dough flavour," I think. 

Miles watches me in suspicion, clamping his lips tightly shut. What's wr - oh. I understand. I place my own clean fork in his mug and take a bite, swallowing and showing him the proof. "Tah-Dah. Not poisonous. M'kay?" I try to smile at him but I don't think it comes out right. He just shudders slightly in fear, grimacing in response and staring at my mouth. I'm not getting anywhere, so in disappointment I get up. I make sure to lock the door behind me when I leave. 

I walk into my operating room. Its so nice, all sterile and perfect. Just like in a real hospital. There is an IV bag, a bed with crinkling sheets and restraints, and my favourite tools -  my scalpel sets. Ten sets of ten scalpels, all polished and gleaming under the overhead lights, beautiful. This used to be a wine cellar when I moved in, but I had in converted. The floor stripped back to a hollow pit covered in concrete slabs, everything sterilised to lab and theatre specifications. I look around, smiling as I checklist everything in my head, just making sure everything is in order. Sometimes the curtain touches the heater in a funny way and it freaks me out but pleasantly it's hanging right how I arranged it. 

Something feels amiss with me, though. Like something is crawling under my skin and tugging impatiently at every nerve. I look down and spot the problem, wincing in discomfort. My... inconvenience... is throbbing in response possibly to my relaxation at keeping order, possibly to the elation of meeting my experiment. Dammit, I have a mug cake that'll get cold fast, I don't have time for this. But alas, it sticks out evidently, making a noticeable tent in my pyjama pants

I snarl an order at it. Go down, dammit. I hate it when it does that. I pick up the nearest scalpel and begin running it across my skin, watching myself bleed in little droplets that offsets the entire rhythmic flow of my nervous system. My member becomes even more inconvenient, straining against the fabric of my boxers the longer and deeper I cut. Thankfully I don't have to wait too long before I feel a great release of pressure and annoyance. Semen flows down the insides of my jeans. I strip out the distracting jeans and kick them to one side - I'm sterilising this room later anyway. I eat the damn mug cake which is irritatingly lukewarm. "Great, thanks a lot asshole," I scoff to nobody in particular. But I refuse to let this sour my mood, grinning again, for I finally have my long-awaited experiment.