Miles
I've been living here for a month. Is it a month, or does time simply stretch longer here? Each day feels like a year, every hour another minute of suffocating underwater, rocks tied to my feet and dragging me into the icy depths to freeze or drown. I can see it now, I think, the guiding light gently encouraging me into the white nothingness of death. I used to believe in heaven. Now I know there is nothing. Doc showed me that. He showed me the only real form of existence is pain. The light is getting closer. Is this where I end?
Will Doc dump my body, or secretly bury me? I hope he does the former. Just so my mother will know. She'll get her closure and won't have to worry where I am, which no doubt exacerbates her condition. Speeding up her gradual decline towards the end, forcing her to suffer each day. I used to think I knew why my mum was going through. I knew the physical ways cancer and chemotherapy rip a person apart. Now I know that I had no idea. I didn't know what real suffering was.
Until Doc showed me.
I have so much more respect for her now. The fact I had to wait on her hand and foot, that she was too weak to even naked her own sandwiches. I gasp, realising that I've been referring to her in the past tense this whole time. Am I really so distant now? Is her existence simply something I've forgotten about, or moved on from? I wonder how healthy this is, psychologically I mean.
"Wake up," I roll over, pretending to be asleep. I squeeze my eyes closed so tightly to block out everything. This horrid room, my now bony form that shrivels smaller with every passing day I am starved, and the Doctor, who watches it with cold indifference. "I know you're awake,"
Knowing there's no point in fighting it, I flip over, staring at Doc, brows furrowed into a tight frown. I'm not pretending for him anymore. "What is it?"
"Come downstairs. I'm going to try an experiment,"
I want to tell him that his experiments aren't really experiments. They're just sick acts he performs on me. He doesn't take into account the scientific method, and while occasionally he mumbles 'interesting' at my reactions to his torture, I don't think he really has any hypotheses. He does these things to me for pleasure.
We pass by the secluded surgical chamber, the one hidden within the walls. It was sterile when I arrived, but it doesn't look like he's cleaned it since then. My bloodstains stink the place out with putrid metallic reminders of my now scarred and disfigured condition. "We aren't going in there?" I ask, and am surprised how monotone my voice has become. I'm confused, but that emotion doesn't show. No emotion does anymore.
His sitting room looks the same as it always has, but the wonderful smell of cooking wafts around in the air. I stand obediently by the door as Doc sits on his couch, flipping through Mathematics - In Theory and Practice. On the coffee table in front of him are two plates stocked with chocolate cake and melty ice cream, and some sweet bread substance oozing with syrup. "Come on. You're hungry, aren't you?" He offers, not looking up from his book.
I never knew how much I've been salivating until now. The food looks delicious! And Doc is giving me some?! He hasn't fed me in a long time, my stomach growling and writhing in hunger pains that keep me awake at night. Doc barely eats either - I think he's anorexic.
With trembling hands I approach, sitting beside him, but as far along the couch as possible. "Come here," he demands softly, and I reluctantly shuffle over with mild disgust. He places his hand on my side, drawing me in for a stiff hug. "Any preferences on what we watch? I have cable,"
Since when does Doc have cable?!
"Um, no, not really,"
He puts on something called 'SPIRAL'. It's in French and Doc watches intently, laughing at some of the jokes I don't understand. He's completely engrossed in the show, so I stay quiet despite the swarm of questions raging in my mind. Why is he acting like this? Why is he feeding me?! I'm not grateful. I thought I was, for a second. But I'm not. I have a right to eat what I want, one that he's stripped from me without empathy.
"Can you use chopsticks?" Doc asks suddenly. I notice the packet of little sticks beside my plate. I've seen people use them to pick up sushi and other things, but I've never used them myself.
"No," I admit, begrudgingly. Some part of me feels inferior to Doc, the part that wants to impress him. The part that feels offended and...ashamed... when he can do something I can't.
"I'll show you," he pauses, staring into my eyes. "If you want,"
"Sure," I agree. I agree to everything he says, because I don't have a choice. This time however, it's different. I feel like somehow, he was genuinely asking me a question. Giving me an option. I don't like this uncertainty. This new behaviour of his. Why can't he just boss me around like usual? At least then I know where I stand.
He leans even closer to me from behind so I can feel the moist warmth spread over my neck, making the little hairs stand up. Our bodies are pressed together. His hand runs over mine, caressing my once smooth skin. He guides my fingers in a somewhat complicated way, like I'm holding a pencil and balancing another on the bridge of my thumb. It's like magic, like the flexibility exercised by circus contortionists. "Now press them together and try to pick up the dessert. Try the larger price first,"
I do, and it works! Carefully, and unsteadily, I raise it to my mouth and bite it before the remains fall from between my fingers. Doc smiles at me. Actually smiles; doesn't grin or smirk. And it's fucking terrifying. "Well done! Keep practicing, you'll get it eventually," he pats my back before standing up, clearing his own mostly eaten plate and sauntering into the kitchen.
I'm in his sitting room now. With his television and computer. I could break a window with a chair or almost anything heavy and escape. But I don't. I sit on his couch and watch SPIRAL, picking at my dessert with the chopsticks. I don't know how long he's been doing it, but a few episodes later, I look to my left and see him leaning against he doorframe watching me, smiling so proudly. So genuinely and innocently. Just watching and smiling.
"I'm so glad I can trust you now," he acknowledges, looking up at his ceiling. "Today's experiment is a success,"
I freeze. That's it. That's what I've been missing, the entire time. The entire day. It's all been one giant test! Feeding me, leaving me 'alone' with all of his things, unsupervised. He was seeing if I would try to escape or not! Furious and frustrated, I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains to reveal a wooden board nailed into the window. The plug socket is empty - his phones aren't even connected. I couldn't have escaped even if I'd tried.
Why is everything he does an experiment?!
YOU ARE READING
An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)
Horror"Doc?" "Yes?" "Teach me to love you," A young boy, his view of normality shredded to pieces by the bleakness of his life, is kidnapped and kept captive by an insane doctor for experimentation and pleasure. It isn't long before the doomed souls fo...
