Needle In The Hay
Disc. None.
Author Notezz: This is an experiment/challenge/idea/work in progress playing on the idea of "A Clockwork Orange". If you don't know the story line, don't worry.
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'A Clockwork Orange' -- a creature capable of only good or evil. An appearance of a lovely organism bright with colour and juice, but only able to perform that of God or the Devil.
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It seems like moments, seconds, maybe even minutes since that day, a fortnight (however long that is) ago, when her thin, canvas bags were packed from Cell-Block C and sent at her side to the California State Hospital, Private Operation Suite. She had been made to lie in her bed for moments, for hours, and then was stuck with a vitamin inducing needle, told that she was malnourished and that this would help retrieve her back to full health.
She wasn't stupid. Maybe regretful suddenly when they brought her to large, private moving theatre, and strapped her to a chair in the front row, but not stupid. She had asked a nurse, not too long ago, "So, what's exactly gonna' go down?", and had been responded with a short smile of crooked, twisting, pale teeth, and "You'll be viewing some videos."
What a technique. Twelve fucking months to come up with some videos. These were going to cure her.
She had doubted, but presently that wasn't so. Strapped to a chair, eyes held clamped open by a rusting, rigid mechanical device, unable to blink, she began to regret wanting this. She began to regret volunteering, but spoke of nothing.
Two lights lowered, shadows disappeared and the screen slowly began to fill with patterns and shapes of beautiful, stretching colour.
First, two men, one sitting against a street side building, his beard unshaven, his eyes wild with alcohol and his clothes hanging limply off the lanky body. Then, the other man, walking so innocent up towards this other, and without giving much thought, kicking him in the stomach. And suddenly, beating him. Viciously, merciless, he retrieved a short, though wide piece of discarded plywood and sprung it across the defenceless face. Blood, sweet, colour, flowed from his face, from his nostrils, his lips, and Faith LeHane felt a slight rivering of adrenaline float across her veins. The man, thrilled by his own violence, continued to aggress, and cruelly retrieve. It was all beautiful, in a sense. Only when we put the acts up onto a television screen does it seem beautiful. The blood spilled, and suddenly, her stomach lurched. Her lips bubbled and bile rose in her throat. She was slowly getting sick.
What a new feeling, what a strange sensation when something she had thrived on so dearly for so long began to put her in violent revulsion. She gagged—
The film changed once the seated man had toppled over upon himself and lay motionless in a pile of his own blood, shit, alcohol, and tears.
War. Men walking step and step, pointing guns, yelling and throwing commands, thrusting up their arms, their underarms leaking viciously, their temples bulging. A flag raised, black and white with a twisted symbol. People cried in the streets, and were presently greeted with a quite blunt trigger-pull to the face.
--She gasped, blood and bile catching and mixing in the back of her throat. She couldn't breathe; her insides were as twisted and ruined as the endless reign of broken bodies being tossed to decay in the flooding rivers.
"I'm—I… I'm gonna' be sick."
The volume turned louder, the sweet, sultry sounds of Vivaldi. The Four Seasons # 2 in G Minor, Op 8, RV 315, "Summer" blasting through the speakers, thumping and near explosion in their stations above the screen.
"I'm going to be sick. I'm going to be sick. I--…" Her voice gave, her mouth watered in anticipation, though her stomach refused to empty itself.
"No… nonononononon, get me outta' here! Get me out! I'm gonna' be sick! GET ME OUT! OUT!"