Hey all. Please remember to read Ch 8!

Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.


The walls are white again. I know this room; I've cleaned it a thousand times if I've done it once.

I'm short again, the view towards the bed is nearly parallel with my line of sight. And there she is, sleeping again. It's not good for her, all this sleep…

I remember going over and pulling the shade. Bright light fills the tiny room, and she wakes up. "Mom?" I hear myself say, in that too-high voice.

"What is it, Spencer?"

"It's the middle of the afternoon." I remember this incident. It was closer to five o'clock—she'd been sleeping all day.

"I've been reading." I remember the books, dozens of them, lying about on her bed.

"The doctor says you have to get out of bed. That you need exercise." I remember wanting to pull her out of bed and make her walk around the block or something—just so she leaves this room. She hasn't left it since Tuesday, and I think that was a Friday…

"Well, that's because his idea of good literature is 'Our Bodies, Ourselves,' she counters.

Now, I know that's not true. I've spoken with her doctor on literature once or twice, and he does read more than that. However…

"Well, he's your doctor!"

"He's a Neanderthal." As if that settles the matter. And it does. I mean, I was eleven years old. I might have been intellectually capable, but I'm still a kid who can't make her do anything.

I remember thinking if she wants to stay there, let her. I'll worry about dinner later.

"Where are you going?"

I tell her I'm going next door, just to go outside for awhile. I remember the neighbor—one of the few people who didn't torment me though childhood.

"Come here. Let me read to you."

I hesitated. I really want to go outside…but then I see the look on her face. The one that reminds me of what Mom was like before all this.

How could I say 'no' to that?

I remember her letting me pick the book—Proust, I think it was. She was happy with it. She started to read…something about smell…

Wait…where's she going? The walls are closing in…

And then I'm back. The bright white walls evaporate, leaving me with dark brown ones full of fish smell and despair. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I look over towards 'whoever' is with me now, and 'they're' sitting in front of the computer, doing something.

Garcia would know. She'd know what 'they' were doing. I wish I could ask her…

My eyes start to close. No, I think to myself. I can't fall asleep. I might never wake up.

But is that such a bad thing? I ask myself.

Enough of that. Mom needs you. The others need you. Taking the easy way out solves nothing, Spencer.

But it'll be over, I counter. The pain, the torment—it'll all be over…

Weakling.

I find myself staring into my lap. Is there another way out of this?

Just then there's some kind of buzzer going off. It's faint, just loud enough to be heard.

I can hear him screaming. Something's wrong…

"They're trying to silence my message!" he says, looking at me as if I'm the reason why.

Oh, Christ. No. No no no no no…

"I can't control what they do…I'm not with them, I'm with you!" I reply, hoping beyond all hope he believes me.

"Really?" He presses a button and instantly the little lean-to is filled with images of Gideon, talking to me through the camera.

Oh, God. No. No, I didn't…I couldn't…

"I have no idea what he's talking about…" I say, praying that this one time he believes me.

"You're a liar!"

I'm sure my face is telling him he's right. And he is. I know full well what Gideon was trying to say.

He's coming closer. My eyes are searching for that damned stick again…

He notices something, and then pulls my arm out. There, for all the world to see, are the track marks that 'Tobias' left. They weren't my doing, I want to shout. Look at me—how could I possibly do that to myself in my condition?!

"You're pitiful! Just like my son…"

I'm beginning to understand why the real Tobias probably turned to drugs. It's no wonder to me that this is what he became, though I am amazed that he's been able to function this long.

And before I know it, I'm crying again. This time I don't care if he sees me or not. I am pitiful—bound, abused, drugged, tortured at the whim of a madman. I just want it to stop…

"Confess."

Oh, no—not this again. "No."

The punch connects. I'm surprised my head wasn't knocked off.

"Confess."

"I haven't done anything!" I cry out.

Another blow, again to the head. "Confess," he insists.

I manage to shake my head, a fraction of an inch. "Tobias, help me," I call out, hoping I can bring that 'entity' forth and end the violent abuse.

"He can't help you—he's weak," the man with the stick proclaims. "Confess."

"No," I answer, the word coming out as a strangled squeak. I know he turned on the camera before he began beating me. Is someone watching?

Suddenly the chair topples over, my head striking the worn wooden floor. My legs are splayed out over the sides, like a rag doll carelessly tossed in a corner. It's getting harder to breathe. My chest is constricting, my breaths are getting shorter, my head keeps hitting the floor like a paddle ball…

"That's the devil vacating your body," the man says.

The last thing I can think of—other than wondering when I'm going to run out of air—is this: Is someone out there watching me die?