Warnings: This chapter contains content that may be offensive such as torture and violence.
Disclaimer: I do not own Roswell or any other character, location, or whatever mentioned in the works of Melinda Metz or created by Jason Katims, FOX, WB, and UPN.
Author's Note: There may be lines and scenes taken from "The White Room" (Season 1, Episode 20).
Chapter 3 – The Living Conditions Hitler Would Enforce:
Adolf Hitler – was an Austrian-born German politician for the Nazi Party, who believed in the superiority of the Aryan race over all other races. He blamed the Jews for Austria's crisis and declared them enemies of the Aryan race. He believed that Jesus Christ, an Aryan, fought against the Hews. Hitler used Christianity as his central motivation for his anti-Semitism.
Max shivered against the cold. There was no heat in his room, in his cell, in his jail. There was no chair, no bed, no blanket, no pillow. Only a small drain hole in the corner of his cell—that was his bathroom. He didn't even have a proper toilet.
The FBI weren't that kind enough to make him feel comfortable. They wanted him to suffer, they wanted him to break. They wanted him to feel trapped, to feel inhuman, and to feel unworthy of being comfortable.
How could humans like this exist? No matter how much he pleaded, cried, screamed—they did their jobs, acting like they couldn't even hear him. They had no compassion for him. They were cold just like his cell.
He wrapped his arms around himself and curled into a ball. His clothes did not keep him warm. In fact, he could probably take them off and wouldn't even feel the difference if he had them on.
Max tried using his powers several times, but the men in white... they injected him with a serum. A serum that suppressed the neurotransmitters in his cerebral cortex. It rendered him weak, powerless, and dizzy.
He licked his cracked lips with his rough tongue. God, he was so hungry, so thirsty. He couldn't even remember if he had been fed since he was thrown into this hell hole.
Trying to pick himself off the floor, he only dropped back down with a groan. Instead, he rolled onto his back, grunting at the bright light in his eyes.
It was lights on all the time, all day.
Day.
Lights on.
Night.
Lights on.
Lights always on.
Max didn't even know what day it was anymore.
- - - -
When Max awoke, he swore. It was as if someone had heard his most inner pleas. There was a tray of food before him. Food that was steaming. He scrambled to it like a mad man only to stop himself.
What if it was drugged? Filled with more of the serumt hat was blocking his powers? Perhaps it was poisoned. He knew Agent Pierce was the type of man sick enough to enjoy watching him eat himself to death.
But his stomach growled like never before. He couldn't even remember when he had been this hungry. He wasn't even hungry the night he was found in the desert as a little boy. God, he had taken so many things for granted.
Fighting against himself, Max knew he couldn't.
He was so hungry.
He took the tray and pulled it near him.
Glop. It was pig's food. All mushy and gray-colored. There wasn't even an eating utensil. No spoon, no fork, no napkin, no drink. He was being forced to eat with his fingers, like an animal.
He gritted his teeth, picked up the tray, and threw it against the wall.
"NO!" he screamed.
Within ten minutes, the magical doors opened and the men in white marched in. Max backed into the corner of the walls, growling.
"NO!" he continued to yell. "NO, NO, NO!"
The technicians grabbed his arms, throwing Max to the ground but he gave them a fight. He punched one of them and kicked the other. But there was only so much fight left in his weak body before he lost his balance when one of them jumped onto his back and shoved him to the ground.
"Ahhhhh!!" he screamed when he felt one them inject something on the back of his neck. "You ba-bastards," he panted out just before he lost consciousness.
- - - -
"You've been a bad boy, Mr. Evans," said Agent Pierce as he watched Max blink hazily back to life.
Max wanted to speak. He wanted to ask what happened, but then he violently began to choke. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!
"Calm down, Max," Pierce said, rolling his eyes.
When Max didn't stop and continued to make choking sounds, the agent screamed, "CALM DOWN!"
Max bared his teeth in pain, feeling tears slide out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. He bit down on the plastic tube that had been shoved down his throat while he was unconscious.
Pierce lightly slapped Max's cheek. "I go out of my way to make sure you're fed, to make sure you won't die, and you throw it back in my face? Well, maybe next time you'll eat what's given to you. Maybe you'll learn to obey!"
He fought against the white men, against the binds, but he had no strength to do anything damaging.
The machine hummed and began to pump the gray slush into the tube down his throat and into his stomach.
He could only muffle his cry around the tube.
- - - -
Time didn't exist in this room. There was no window, no clock, nothing. Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like weeks, and weeks felt like months. The lights were always on with a faint humming. The FBI couldn't even close the lights when night came around. They tortured him this way, not letting him have the pleasure of knowing how much time had passed since he had been taken.
His normal sleep routine was thrown off. He slept, still able to see the lights through his eyelids. This would cause any man to be delirious, to go crazy, but Max fell into the routine. He got used to the lights, the buzzing, the cold air. He got used to the hard floor. He made do.
The only thing he was really aware of was how greasy his hair was, how oily his body felt, how he even began to smell. His whole body itched, covered with a thin film of grease that made him feel very disgusted with himself. He was very scruffy around the face. If this continued, he would soon be sporting a full beard.
Yes, Max Evans was filthy. Absolutely filthy.
But there was no shower in here. Just that damn drain hole for him to do his business. God, when was it the last time he showered? On the outside, he had showered every damn day. It wasn't a chore or something pleasurable—it was just a necessity, one that he never gave much thought to, until this moment.
Now that his scalp itched, now that his fingernails looked blackened, now that he began to smell like he had just crawled out of a sewer, Max realized just how important showering was.
"You've picked up a smell, Mr. Evans," said an amused Pierce through the speakers.
"Fuck you," he growled as he sat up, leaning against a wall.
"Would you like a shower?"
Max glared and clenched his jaw. He would, but would he ever admit it? No way.
"I said, would you like a shower?" repeated Pierce.
"Why do you care what I want? If you did, you would LET ME OUT OF HERE!"
"You know I can't do that, Max."
"Then you could at least give me a blanket, a pillow, or maybe even a proper toilet!" he yelled.
"A shower it is then," said Pierce.
Max cursed. "Do you even listen to a damn word I say?"
Silence.
Then the doors opened. But these weren't the same doors that the men in white used to feed him. These were different. Were all the walls doors? Max had tried to beat down the walls, but nothing. He only bruised both of his shoulders when flesh collided with walls that did not move.
The technicians walked in, carrying a large hose.
"What are you going to do with that?" asked Max as he backed into a corner. "What are you going to—"
One of the men turned on the hose, letting loose a large spray. The pressure of the water pushed him into the corner of the walls and kept him there. The stream of water had the same strength a fire hose had, and it hurt.
"STOP!" he shouted. He tried to block the water with his powers, but he had none. He simply had his hands but they were useless. He closed his eyes and tried to fight against the water, but it was too strong. His body would be bruised by the time this ended.
The man carrying the hose soaked him down and once Max was fully wet, more men came in with scrubs in their hands. They held him down, ignored his yells, tore off his clothes and scrubbed him raw until his skin turned red, until his skin had developed red patches all over.
He could only scream, but they didn't care. They couldn't hear him. They held him down like he wasn't even struggling. They looked at him as if he was a monster. Their cold gloved-hands touched him, and he was repulsed.
From behind the walls, Agent Pierce laughed at the sight.
"This will teach you to eat when you've been given food, to shower when given the chance, to obey when told to do something," he spoke.
To be continued.