MIND CONTROL
CHAPTER TEN
Starsky instinctively raised his arm, shielding eyes from the bright light that filtered into the room from the hallway as the door was opened. He heard a soft clink as the tray with his supper was sat on the floor and the door swung shut. Carefully, Starsky felt his way across the room as far as the chain would allow. He had to stretch out to reach the tray and pull it closer. He scooted back to the safety of a corner of the room and used his sense of touch and smell to identify the food on the floor in front of him. A sandwich on stale bread, a small container of lumpy mashed potatoes, and a tin cup of lukewarm watered down coffee. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since he had awakened to the darkness of his own private hell. With no sense of time, Starsky didn't know if it had actually been weeks or just a few days.
He was only allowed one meal a day and without any silverware to use, he was forced to eat with his fingers. The sandwich consisted of a thin slice of baloney that tasted almost as stale as the bread. The potatoes were cold and unseasoned, tasting more like paste than food. Still, he forced himself to eat the meager offering, knowing that he needed the food to keep up his strength. The servings he was given were small, barely enough to take the edge off his hunger. And the one cup of watered down coffee he was allowed, one in the morning and one in the evening, did little to quench his constant thirst.
Since he was no longer on an IV or had a catheter, he was also denied contact with the nurse. Even though she never spoke as she went about her routine tasks, she had been his only source of human contact in the first few days of his captivity. Since Colby had shown him the news coverage of his own alleged death and funeral, leaving him alone to wake up in a cold, darkened room, he hadn't seen or talked to anyone. The loneliness was almost intolerable. Even the sound of his own voice no longer offered much comfort.
Starsky knew he couldn't take much more of this treatment. Already weakened when his ordeal began, he had grown steadily weaker from the lack of exercise and inadequate food. Most of his time was spent in a stupor, not quite awake but not asleep either. He had an almost constant headache, his mind was sluggish and slow to respond. He wondered if they were giving him drugs in his food or drinks but he needed the nourishment to survive. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Hutch again. He wanted his old life back.
He yelped in surprise when the overhead light in the room suddenly came on, blinding him with its brightness. Whimpering, he drew his knees up against his chest and buried his face in his hands to avoid the unexpected glare. He heard the door to his prison open and several sets of footsteps coming into the room but he refused to look up. He heard the sound of something being moved into the room and a soft rattling sound that he couldn't immediately identify. He flinched when he felt someone's hand touch his ankle and tried, without much success, to pull away. After a moment, the touch was removed and then the footsteps left the room, the door closing behind them.
Starsky remained sitting against the wall with his face hidden in his hands for several long minutes, afraid to move. The only readily identifiable emotion he could feel was fear. After a while, he noticed that the temperature in the room seemed different, warmer and more comfortable. He had grown so used to the cold that the change didn't register at first. Finally, he raised his head, squinting against the glare of the light that hurt his eyes from his long isolation in the darkness.
He was surprised to discover that the room had been transformed. A single sized roll away bed had been placed against the far wall, covered with a thin blanket but no pillow. Even more surprising was that the shackle around his ankle had been unlocked, all he had to do was remove it. With shaky hands, he removed the chain and slowly eased himself to his feet. He walked over to the bed where he found a pair of worn gray sweatpants and a white tee shirt lying neatly folded on top of the blanket. There was also a threadbare towel and a thin bar of soap, similar to the kind you found in motel rooms.
Starsky grabbed the towel and soap, shuffling across the room to the tiny bathroom. Starsky's chain had been barely long enough for him to make it to the commode. He couldn't reach the shower before. Now all he wanted was to feel clean again.Swaying unsteadily, he reached up and turned on the shower, the water wasn't much more than a fast drip and was only lukewarm but it still felt like heaven to the brunet who had not been able to bathe since his ordeal began.
His face was covered with a heavy growth of beard but he hadn't been allowed a razor to shave with. Starsky might prefer his ragged jeans and faded tee shirts to pressed slacks and sports shirts but he had always been fastidious when it came to his personal hygiene. He carefully lathered his body, washing away the odor of his captivity. He would have given almost anything to be able to brush his teeth and shampoo his hair but those luxuries were still being denied.
After showering as best he could under the circumstances, he dried off and dressed in the clean clothes lying on the bed. Then he finally allowed himself to stretch out on the thin mattress, sighing in relief at the simple comfort of not being forced to sleep on the hard floor any longer. His entire world had been reduced to this room and the whims of his captors. Even a restful night's sleep had been denied him. He was exhausted and tired most of the time. He found himself dozing for brief periods of time and then waking up again.
Starsky was familiar enough with the tactics used by the military to exert control over a political prisoner or to interrogate a resistant double agent, to recognize the various techniques that had been used on him thus far. Controlling his environment, denying him simple things like a bath or a decent meal, even the lack of human contact and isolation were all techniques meant to break down his will and make him more susceptible to what they wanted. The only thing he couldn't figure out was why they wanted him to join their cause so much that they were willing to go to such lengths to gain his cooperation.
Despite his relief at the few simple amenities they had decided to allow him to have, Starsky was no where close to giving up. He would not let them win. He would not let them control him. He would not become one of their mindless operatives, obeying their orders without any questions or remorse. He would not lose the part of himself that made him David Michael Starsky. He threw one arm up over his eyes and tried to sleep. It was the only form of escape he had left.
He must have dozed off. When he woke up, he was pleasantly surprised to find a tray of food sitting on the floor in front of the door. It was a decent meal this time on a real plate with real silverware. The aroma of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with rich dark gravy, and a hot roll smeared with butter made his mouth water and his stomach cramp. This time the coffee was rich and hearty with plenty of cream and sugar, the way he usually drank it. Smiling happily, he began shoveling in the food.