The pipes, twisting and turning, eloping and engaging, sang pumped steam and water through the sewage passageway. It reeked of a grotesque matter that could sting the eye and leave the lungs retching. The years have not been kind to this underground's architecture, left to age and rot in the dark, meant for strict foot traffic at best through its envelope. The bricks, perfectly aligned decades ago, now riddled in trash, and some unidentifiable reddish gunk, chipping as the years continued to pass. Boxed crates, forgotten or ignored, supplied along the dead-end tunnels. The darkness encased the surfaces and corners of what the lights could not touch. The warm kiss of the hanging light bulbs granted little comfort to the sewer's only current occupant.
Said occupant, who, condemned under conditions beyond his control, trotted and swayed along the tunnels shadows, hugging against the wall with his cheek grazing the harsh surface of its deteriorating exterior. There was a sharp focus to his eyes, weary but attentive, delirious but aware. His movements were propelled by purpose rather than aimless stupidity; it wouldn't take a great amount of that for his goal to come to end. And while starving hunger lingered at the back of his mind, eating at his sanity with tiny nibbles and a nagging sensation, the young man pressed on as if such ailments had not affected him at all. The whispers of the steam, and the toying 'raps' and 'taps' of the vibrating pipes from above and around the tunnel arches fettered at the man's attention, tearing his head to its source until he figured it was nothing fatal.
His hands slid along the bricks, digging his dirtied fingers into the cracks while gripping a piece of scrap paper in the other. In the ripped piece of trash was a poorly scrawled drawing of what the adolescent could make of the sewer's labyrinth. Getting lost would effectively cost him the time wasted getting this far in his journey.
Coming across a tight drain—fit for his type of physique, no concern—the young man had to check his scrap before reassuring that he was still following the consistent path of the stream, for wherever the sewer water exits must lead to an end.
Overpowering his apprehension with a reassuring light; long ago disregarding his own worn cheap clothing, and the boy fell on all fours to continue the path. The smell degenerated, and the putrid sludge of the sewer water thickened, so the man crinkled his fine nose and scrunched his eyes a few times to rid of the burning tears. Already having complicated breaths for oxygen, he croaked and hacked as he crawled into complete darkness. Now and then he would reach out—it didn't matter what so long as it could help guide him.
To any normal person, the claustrophobia and pitch black would have driven them mad by now. He didn't know how long he was in there for.
Oh, how the young man wished he could define himself as normal. Such cruel thoughts to be clouding his emotions at this time, to even tamper at him so. And if someone from the outside could have seen him now, know what has been done to him, and the place he was trying to escape from—what would his or her thoughts be?
Coughing back the bile trying to crawl up his stomach, tongue slack and heavy under clenched teeth, the young man took a moment pause for composure, and finished a straight path into another part of the sewers. He exited quickly after checking that it was safe, again. He wanted to get out of that little drain, but any lack of caution will lead to his downfall and the consequences to surely follow his treason against the dominion over his life—the young man could only shudder at the mere realization at its matter-of-fact.
He doesn't want to die here. Not in a place like this.
More precisely, he did not fear death itself, but the circumstances of his death.
He wanted to die with dignity. A death without pain, illusions, or under false holy words used to confuse and ward the ignorant. But if left at the hands of his managers, the poor soul knew his body would be ruined by otherworldly perverse desires.
Those people. If he could even call these people 'humans', then the experiments and abuse they have wrought onto his person would finally declare their victory over his. A sudden surge of euphoria overwhelmed him, and again the man stopped to control his state of mind before advancing forward.
Not now, the young man ordered himself vehemently. Move forward. Don't think. Move forward.
You have to get out of this terrible place.
The man reviewed his scrap, stuffing it in his prison suit before sliding through two wooden supports blocking his path. A few distinguishable features dancing along the walls, and the faint sound of a rushed discharge of water confirmed the young adult's conclusion that he was nearing the final exit.
Removing himself from his previous vulgar thoughts, the man figured it was caused by the continued accomplishment of making it to the mouth of this dilapidated garbage drain. The absence of obstacles hindered the adolescent's arrogance, and felt the touch of luck on his shoulder, its afflictions coercing his body to start for a desperate sprint of the last two kilometers, kicking the water as he did, to an enlarged drainage deposit. The youth inspected the drainage carefully, feeling along its cylindrical sides for any obscurities or lethal foreign objects. Soft, slender fingers slid along rough brick, finding a few bumps and cracks with each slide.
There breathed a whiff of tree sap, the recognizable smell of wet grass, and other tellurian fragrances indulging the poor man's senses, tickling his skin wave after wave, alien to the corporeal constitution that has left the man a virgin to nature's effects. And so, too overwhelmed by freedom's goading invitation to care for what lied ahead, the young man blindly leaped down the deposit, sliding smoothly with the currents. The flowing waste was ice-cold upon contact, the sludge collecting between the cracks and crevices of the rotting bricks provided the needed slick friction. The young man had to spread his arms out carefully to slow down from the increased speed in case he came in contact with something sharp or anything else that could hurt him once he fell out.
There was a burst of light, then another, and then—with a rapidity between gravity and friction—the young man was flung out the sewer pipe into a heap of garbage, trash, and a large pool of waste.
Swaying side to side in the murky waters, the man weakened into an aimless wobbled daze as the cold air smacked at his exposed flesh without warning, flushed and sprayed by the rain from above. It was dark, very dark. The young man could barely see his hands in front of his face. With somewhat difficulty, he would crane his head up towards the late midnight sky, defying fate itself and the fetters that tied him to it. He wanted to laugh, to scream, or any matter of expression for his supremacy against his defilers—because at last, he was free.
The youth took in the surrounding gingerly, drinking in the sight, yet compelled to a hand of disappointment.
He had been brought in his prison as an early teen, stolen from the chance of a normal childhood. Everything from the outside now was either read from modified books, crude conversations, or even from the television set in the recreational room.
He forgot so much before he came to the place he was left to rot in.
What he saw now was deathly dull and grey. The trees around the premises were as if bewitched by the lands as it reeked of death. The muddied dirt expired a murky discolor, like it was toxic. He pitied the scenery more than he pitied himself for his faulty hope.
Wobbling his first steps as a free man, the young escapee drifted along the wastes, teetering carefully towards the dead bushes and trees reaching for the building's side. Along the brush shadows, he took in his surroundings in the heavy rain. From afar, towards the western area of the facility—his once home—he could make out the fences that boarded the majority Recreation Area and the prison itself.
The brooding man scoffed, his muscles started trembling under the downpour. There was a fog beginning to birth over the sinful soils. The young inmate shook violently, but dragged his tattered self along the cluster of shrubs.
Just a little farther.
The youth was nearing the dead forest, jumping shadow to shadow with a forced dexterity, ignoring the provocation of death as the trees swayed and groaned against the rapid escalation of the rain.
That burst of light from the sky lit the area like a blink of an eye again, then came the expected roar of the thunderous clouds, crackling menacingly for an unforeseen omen, followed by the horrifying wails of the sirens—coming from the fenced security posts.
That mechanical whine screaming in the distance made the man's blood run hot and for a moment allowed his fear to snatch him from his body. He ripped his sight to the distant muffled yelling, and knowing what would happen if those faint figures were to catch him—the boy turned and sprinted before he allowed himself to finish.
His boyish chocolate-brown locks whipped and clung to his sweating thick defined brows. His weary golden-amber eyes, once filled with warmth and life now tragically hardened and guarded, dashed in every peripheral radius, searched for an opening through the forest. He tore viciously through the branches and mossy foliage, all surreptitious organization gone as he reeled under the crash of the storm and his confidence washed away with the rain.
Oh god, no. The young man clamored, unable to think how they could have figured out he escaped so early. He had thought out every precaution, biding his time patiently until he knew he was ready.
Did someone rat me out? As he fled into the swallowing darkness, the assumption became less concerning to other crucial matters at this moment.
He chattered and bit down his bottom lip. The poor man, coated in layers of gunk and mud, did not feel the stabs of the tree branches—or feel his feet, even. He started to sob.
What little he made out in the darkness blurred through the hot tears stinging at his eyes. He scratched at his eyes, hobbling over a fallen dead log.
As he ran with desperate madness, something too dark and too late to see cut into flesh just above his eye. The boy yowled and reached out for his damaged brow before he realized the slip of the mud, and his heels sucked into the waters. He buckled, twisting like a broken doll by the abrupt stall, and slipped into a steep ravine. His back met sharp rocks and sticks—the force of the impact nearly knocked him out—mangling his hair with broken twigs and grass, sliding into yet another deposit.
Taken aback, the poor man slumped into the ravine as the rain water crashed onto him like a cruel joke for a shower. He laid there in a daze, a cold slap of delirium overriding the fire burning in his brain.
The young man felt his legs go numb under the mud, his bones rattled inside stressed muscles and tendons, and pressure against his chest as he was left to choke back air. There was a ringing in his ear that he could not make out that time, a buzzing noise whispering softly in the back of his head. He tasted dirt on his dry tongue, and his throat felt like they tore from the inside out.
He couldn't move, and he didn't know how far he made it this time.
Loud incoherent human noises mixed in with the rain. Rather than admit that it was he who was crying, his snot and dribble dripping down his broken cheeks, the boy started to violently hiss and curse up at whatever deity or god himself for forsaking him.
The wind moaned from up the hill and the darkness took him wholly. A sharp pain started rising up the male's left arm and he was surprised at his own comforting detachment.
As the rain pounded the earth, there was a swift exhilaration of separation between mind and body, a melancholic process that, at first, could be a start of a concussion. Did he hit his head when he fell? The poor boy couldn't remember. The pain numbed him not to care.
Slowly, adrift along a somber timeline, casting with each clip of past and present, the boy's senses mingled with a stronger moment, combating like the day was happening right now.
A short pause of all surroundings, and then, quiet. When the boy controlled his mind to grip this new reality, he saw himself sitting on a couch. It was expensive black leather, complimentary furniture to the rest of the interior design of the living room he used to reside in his childhood days.
He was wearing his required school uniform. His green tie pulled tight around his throat, the black coat encasing him with its unimaginable weight, freshly polished shoes clicked together as they hung swaying back and forth.
Everything was quiet and unmolested by all conformities and expectations. Nothing required a perfect tribute, or the expected mannerisms that can land you with high graces.
And the young man—now his eight-year age, for the moment—with the tugging realization for guidance, came to the gradual understanding that it was the peaceful solitude that made this memory strong and transparent.
His parents left him alone for once that day. He came home immediately after school; taking in what little freedom he had away from their company, and retreated to the living room to begin his studies. It was a schedule he absorbed robotically. He studied, ate, practiced, and then slept.
That was his childhood before. No freedom. No independent thoughts.
But what made this day particularly accessible in the stream was the absence of his parents. They left him for the night for a pressing meeting, leaving him to his own devises. The boy hadn't cared, having abandoned sympathy for his own exclusion of their absent affections, sitting on that very couch, alone in their large house, with a cup of milk at his side, meditating his breaths as he savored each minute of silence. And before his parents returned to continue their grooming of their beloved son, the young boy would casually pretend he was the last person in his own little world where nobody could do him any harm or fake concern.
Resurfacing to his body with the crash of lightning and the dark night's embrace, and the man was interrupted by an ache in his chest while his body limped in an extreme amount of pain. What did I do to deserve this? The man spat out dirt, and continued to stare to nowhere as his senses continued to conflict and distort.
He must have laid there for far too long because screams and chitters of the rain became less audible compared to distinct human noises nearing at the edge of the hillside. It was only when he felt a flashlight beam flickering over his face, did the escapee open his eyes to a broad man. The blue uniform and security tag embroidering his breast intensified his horror.
"This is Harper, south of western. I've tracked down inmate zero, five, three, four."
The young man stared at the security male with wide eyes in the mud, expectant for a fight. Body language says it all. The skill to see this was afforded to him ironically, and it was something he adapted too quickly for comfort.
As expected, the larger man moved toward him like he was already set to cause physical harm, regardless of cooperation. But the inmate was not going to give him that—or any of these monsters. And just as the man lifted his arm to snatch the dirtied inmate, he was attacked by a splash of grime to the face. He lurched back and roared like an animal as the boy tried to get out of the mud and away from him.
"Y-y-you little—agh! There's dirt. Dirt in my eyes!" The guard started scratching at his eyes, falling to the floor in a heap. "When I have you—I'll—augh!"
But the boy hadn't the time to spare his minutes on the crooked men, bracing his arm against his ribs as he tried to scale down the hill to what he hoped led to its end. The downhill appeared scalable, but now wasn't the time to inspect its angles. The security man was still digging his eyes out—from what he could hear—but eventually his shouts will lead the rest of the patrol, and the younger man didn't want to be here when they arrived.
He stuck a foot along the soft soil slope, and that was the farthest body part that made it after a new pair of arms wrestled around his waist and yanked him back.
Those same hands roamed above his belly until they interlocked into a secure hold. The poor man left the ground with a panicked gasp as his sight transcended from the trees to the sky, pelting his face with harsher beads of rain. The sky flashed with a pounding scream that shook the earth, or was it his body that shook upon impact to the ground?
He found himself wrestled and pressed against the mud while he was stunned. He squirmed against his new attacker immediately after his senses were regained. And when the man—another blue shirt in the midst of the struggle—tried to cover his mouth and dig past his teeth, his efforts proved fatal when that protruding forefinger was mercilessly bitten into. The boy tasted iron copper on his tongue. He must have broken into skin, biting harder with an inhuman snarl that mingled with the other man's cries of pain.
Just when he thought he had the upper hand, his resistance summoned a volley of backhands and punches that nearly left him catatonic. There was more pain than the younger man thought he could even take anymore. The assault didn't stop, and with each blow came a barrage of sweet threats and shouts.
"You disgusting animal!" the hovering man shouted, ignoring his victim's howls of pain. "I'll beat your brains in!"
Arms reached out protectively, having done so many times in the years of being held in an asylum for most of his life. More punches assaulted above the shoulders. The rain grew stronger with two flashes.
"You piece of crap!"
Greasy hair slicked with blood from a new cut on his temple.
"Got nothing to say?"
Chapped lips busted and bled. His right cheek and left eye swelled and started to discolor.
"Talk! You animal!"
How could he? He never spoke a word since his institutionalized fate, and consequently, the treatment was justly directed to all staff personnel as well. He had been driven mute after coming here, yet this was little concern for the doctors and orderlies who—on paper—"dedicated their hours for the successful treatment of their patient". The poor boy could laugh in the man's face, but given his current position, he choked blood and drooled instead, smothered in the mud.
His attacker yielded his fist for another round—in that split second the battered escapee noticed a sharp branch from the corner of his good eye. With what little drive he had left in his arms, he reached out for the branch while the brutish security guard was too occupied with his threatening, pushing with all his strength, and drove the branch into the man's thigh.
The older man screamed and bit his own tongue as his victim freed his legs and kicked him off. The man didn't come back up, and the other man was yards away still tending to his eyes.
Rising at last for a third time, the battered boy stifled to touch at his own face—caught off guard by the clacking of mechanized equipment and guns being cocked. The boy had to rub out the last of the sticky mud and blood from his bruised face to see that he was completely surrounded by armed personnel.
He turned his neck, counting their numbers. Their faces blurred with the rain and fog, stirring warmth beneath the torn, muddy garments that were his clothes. His ears rang, static arousing the darkness quelled deep within his subconscious.
"Surrender peacefully, or we will use excessive force. Be smart, boy!"
That voice. The young man could hear the tone underline with malice, but tamed by orders.
Coming to terms with his recapture, the boy obligated the idea that these men could really do him the favor of shooting him right here and now. All it took was a push, a threat, an attack on one of their men that could send them all discharging their guns on his mangled body.
But these people weren't as stupid as the boy had hoped.
Everyone present here knew just how valuable he was to their project—their therapy.
He didn't want to continue though.
He did not want to go back inside that machine. Never again.
But what can I do? It's over.
"Put your hands in the air, and do not move!"
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. The inmate did as he was told, head hung in defeat, shaking under his jumpsuit, lost under the pain as his arms were forced behind his back and handcuffed. He was pushed forward in their guided direction, escorted with armed guns and leveled with harsh brutality in gratitude for all he committed this night.
The sky continued to cry. And so did the man.
It was over. All those hours, all that biding, all in vain. There will be no mistakes this time. These people will make sure of it. The boy knew that this was probably his last chance for freedom. It was so close though; he nearly tasted it before it was taken away just like that. He wasn't strong or influential enough to make these people let him go. What could he say to them that could change their minds? Do those kind of words form naturally in these times, or just in movies? Because right now, the man couldn't even muster out a whimper with his busted lip.
He was an inmate, a prisoner held against his will, left to die in this hell and be subjected to one experiment after another. What did it matter what he wanted compared to these people. Was he even sane anymore? How can you tell if you're sane or not? He tried to answer this all awhile being dragged up the hill's natural path—to a familiar set of gates.
The young man winced as he felt his feet being cut by stone and cement as he was ruthlessly forced along. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back, at the brink of being dislocated. He could plead, but would they listen? They never did before. More to the point, who cared if he could move his arms or walk for that matter. Then it scared him how easily this imagination can come to reality, because these people could cut off his feet if they wanted to—for fun.
"We are just outside the premises." Muffled static, then a receiving click. The boy braved a glance to the man to his left. The security patrol didn't seem to care. "Oh. . . no he didn't. He did attack two personnel, however. Nothing fatal. Both will need to be checked—yes, sir."
Another click, and then a beep.
"Was that Barnes?"
"Nope. Murkoff Head himself."
"New one?"
"12:00, and pissed of his high horse."
The young boy yelped in surprise when a fistful of his hair was yanked back. He felt a sneer next to his face. He winced as he struggled to hear the other guard whisper, "Boy, are you in for it this time . . ."
The battered escapee felt his soul shatter with his uncontrollable trembling. Stricken with a tumultuous attitude, he whimpered whole-heartily as he was pulled towards the very building he worked so hard to escape from. The grips on his arms tightened with an unyielding strength, feeling a tug of resistance, alerting their captive that they had no intention of setting him free.
There were lights coming from some of the windows. They didn't hours before, not until the security sirens were set off. Everyone was asleep while he was escaping. Carried across the entrances' short flight of stairs, a plaque encrusted with fake gold texting flickering under the outside light caught his attention. His eyes widened and clenched tightly. The shear sight of that grimy plaque killed his last ounce of hope.
Mount Massive Asylum
An asylum for what? The forgotten? Surely not for the insane. Not originally.
The broken boy felt a blanket of warmth cast over him as he was pushed through the doors into the Administrative section. There were people in suits and white coats, staring at him with eagerness, waiting for him. The young man shivered, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Interactions with those sorts of people never boded well for his wellbeing, albeit humanely in appearance.
At last inside, where it was secured and away from the rain, the guards dispatched their target to the floor with a rough toss. He slipped on the marble floor, his face burning with an intense pain. He was afraid to touch his face, and right now too preoccupied collecting himself for what he knew will lead to a cruel fate beyond the imaginations of the devil himself.
"This is him, Mr. Blaire."
A pair of black shoes crossed his line of perception before the young man even thought to rise from the marble floor. They were a nice pair, freshly polished and obviously expensive. The young man could spit on them if he wanted to. And he really wanted to. Instead he looked up towards the owner—up to a man in a dark blue suit. He cheated a crooked smile; even his eyes were smiling under a glinting shadow, black as his slicken-back hair. And when he spoke, it dissimulated an underlying hiss behind velvet apathy.
"Patient zero, five, three, four."
It wasn't a question. There was no need for him to speak. There never has been.
The man—Mr. Blair—produced a folder from within his finely tailored coat, flipping through the papers with an unnatural detachment. When a certain page caught his interest, those sharp brows creased as he rubbed his chin in wonder.
"Well, well, well," their twisted conversation began. It was right to the point, but what started the fuel to the fire was the serious thickness layering the atmosphere. "Registered 1998. Not one of our youngest, but you've shown qualities that have since made you a very important person in our department. Let's see—hardly a record, albeit not outside here of course. Quite the troublemaker, aren't cha? But who cares about that. What else?"
The guy knew his way around the workings for the flair for dramatics. And when he finally had his small fun time, he crouched down at eye-level with the man at his feet, showing him the papers in the folder, with a thick finger held over a specific piece of numbers.
"You're due for a day in the pod tomorrow, says here."
The young man looked at those numbers with a heavy expression, forcing down the bile in his stomach. Focusing on the man in front of him, ignoring the idled guards and smiling doctors off to the side, he was none too disinclined to start speaking now.
"Now why would you do this? Skipping happy hour, for what? Do you think there's something out there for you? Hm? Did you think that all of this would go away if you just up and left? Wow! You crack me up, kid. Really!"
The man-in-suit looked like he was just about to do that, laugh right in front of all of these people, with that same creepy smile. Rather, he snatched the torn patient by his jaw and pulled him closer to his face.
"You little rat. This is where you belong. Even someone like you should know that by now."
Like a spoiled child throwing away a boring toy, the man did the same by tossing the poor boy back to the floor. He rose again, fixing himself before granting the patient an impatient glance.
"You're an investment we won't waste. You've opened doors for all the work our company worked towards. So instead of acting like another lunatic we have locked up here, how about we go back to the way things were before. I heard you were quite the obedient lab rat for the past few weeks, weren't you? You were such a good boy. And we appreciated it. We rewarded you, didn't we? Isolation from the other patients. Good food—well, better than the crap those other wackos eat.
Without time to process, the abused male came crashing back down to the floor, face-first with a sickening crack. Not realizing what happened, he tried to pick his face back up, stopped by a foot planted over his head. He cried out and whined.
"We don't want our shining star pupil to change, do we?"
With what little mobility he was granted, the younger man tried to make his case, but another warning squish kept him still.
"No. I don't think we do. So we're gonna do this together—a little bonding experiment. Because I'm not the kind of person to ignore good merits when I see them, I'm going to give you a chance to apologize for the trouble you caused?"
The boy couldn't believe what he just heard. Granted this wasn't the most humiliating thing that's been done to him, but who's to say the guy could change his mind.
"Make up your mind quick. We don't need you conscious for what we have in store for you."
He flinched to that. That last bit of sentence really crawled up his spine like spoiled juice down your throat. The idea of never waking up was always the strongest fear of them all. And there were times the young man thought that was really going to happen on more than one occasion.
Pressing his hands on either side of his face, trying to keep himself balance while fighting off the dulling pulls of unconsciousness, the small man made to yield his pride. He was so tired as his body shook uncontrollably under his wet prison suit. His teeth chattered, and he couldn't feel anything in his lips, but somehow found the strength to formulate the words.
"Come on, kid. Clock's ticking."
He pressed his faced deeper into the floor even after the terrible man took his foot away, deeper into the ground where he can be swallowed and buried forever.
"S-s. . ." He could cry, but his eyes were red and swollen. Crying hurt his face, and his head was on the verge of splitting in two. He tried to remember how to speak. "Ughm. . .Sh-s-sorry," was the rasping cough this Mr. Blair would receive. It was difficult to listen to his own voice. It didn't sound right, almost deathly and unnatural that lacked energy. He tried to breath, ignoring the salty sting in his eyes. "P-please?"
"And he speaks!" That boisterous cheer nearly gave the ailing patient a heart attack. "I knew it! Andrew, you owe me forty! And you—" A good nudge of a shoe to the chin was the only thing keeping the young man from falling into a blissful unconsciousness right there on the floor. "—Are going in that pod tomorrow. But we can't have you looking like that. So pathetic to even look at. You're new primary doctor has been assigned so this is a good chance for you two to meet." He drew a wicked grin, showing off pearly whites. They looked like shark teeth. "And don't be starting trouble with him now. The man is a very good friend of mine. And he will let me know if you've been up to your old tricks again, okay?"
The boy nodded frantically to appease the man, hoping that this public humiliation was over and he can be put away in his cell.
"Good boy. Now be the proud example, and let Lawrence and Thompson take you in, hm?"
Another nod, and the young boy's arms were held behind his back yet again, brought back up with the rest of the audience, yet he hardly made the faintest sound.
Before walking out of the Administrative district with his company in tow, down to the basement, where he will surely follow, Mr. Blair turned around one last time to the young man and threw over his shoulder:
"Oh, and welcome back home, Miles Upshur."
A wracked, broken sob was the according reaction.
That was a fun one to write, and I'm glad I finally found time through my schedule to continue writing again. This is both refreshing and an enjoyable hobby I take pleasure in. This story will continue of course. I have a nice red journal filled with numerous prompts and ideas on these characters, all of whom I enjoy and am fascinated with. As always, I do appreciate constructive notes to my writing as its helpful to my overall design.
Please review (It's comforting to hear from fans and mutual story lovers)
Thank you!