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"NOPE." I turn and walk out of the room without giving it a second glance. "Oh, fuck nope. Not today, motherfuckers."
I trust Dr. El-Hashem with my life, but my trust for people tends to waver when they lead me to a literal torture chamber and instruct me to Strap on in. So, thus, understandably, as she directs me towards the sole chair in the room, I find myself beginning to wonder if blindly trusting a fucking government employee is the right thing to do.
Because the chair isn't just any old chair: it's hellish, it's horrifying, it's something you'd see in a dentist's office. Blood stains the tile a deep shade of cherry-popsicle red, and a table full of obvious torture devices (or, possibly, medical equipment) is pushed against the wall. Looking at it, I only wonder if it's some kind of creepy-ass sex torture chamber. Need me a freak like this.
Dr. El-Hashem grabs me by my shoulders, using her arm as a barricade to keep me from leaving. "Cain, remember that you'll be free to go as soon as you get this over with. It's going to happen no matter what. If you're compliant, it'll go a lot smoother, and you'll be able to leave a lot sooner. The longer you drag it out, the longer you have to stay here."
I sigh. "Is there anything else in it for me?"
"You're under eighteen, so they'll give you a lollipop once you wake up."
I step back into the room and pat Dr. El-Hashem on the shoulder. "You really get me."
She smiles softly. "I'm glad I could help."
I find my way over to the chair and somehow force myself to sit on it. I can feel the cold, harsh metal through the ugly fabric of my pajamas, but I know that that's not the only reason why I'm shivering. Dr. El-Hashem straps my ankles, wrists, and torso to the chair, and all of my hopes of escaping and living a long and prosperous life are crushed. The lights seem far too harsh, the air far too heavy. It feels like I'm going to be crushed under the weight of the world.
"We're going to put you under anesthesia, all right?" Dr. El-Hashem turns her statement into a question, as if I have a choice. "Just count backwards from ten, and everything'll be all right. I'll be right here with you the whole time."
I want to say No, I want to be awake while you perform surgery on my brain, but I don't get a chance, as she's already strapping a small blue mask to my head that fits around my mouth like a muzzle. I panic, frantically thrashing against my restraints, as if I could actually free myself. Getting my ability to speak taken away is like chopping off a chef's hands.
Ten, I think, but only out of spite.
"Shh, shh, shh, just breathe," Dr. El-Hashem instructs, rubbing her thumb over my hand as if to comfort me. "You're okay, I promise."
