Hell And Back

Chapter 3

Prior to my imprisonment, I'd never given two shakes of a lamb's tail about mental fucking health. Of course, I suppose that's just human nature—you don't think of things you can't really relate to until they're sitting on your doorstep.

I'd had rough times. My wife had died, I'd spent the last several years of my life in the military facing death day in and day out. Never though, had any of that made me question my sanity.

Even while in the camp, I didn't really feel that my grip on reality was slipping. The fact of the matter was that I was in survival mode. There was no need to construct the horrors in my mind because at the time, they were just a matter of course. I didn't have nightmares about the beatings, because they were plenty real during my waking hours. Going through those kinds of things leaves you so burnt out at the end of the day that to be honest, it was rare that I even had a dream while in that POW camp.

After though, being in that hospital something strange was happening to most of us. There was no more torture, we were free from that. The horrors were gone. I'm not a shrink and I can't really get my mind around most psychology but over the years, I developed a theory as to what happened to us as a group.

In the camp, our brains changed. In order to survive what we had to endure, the entire way our minds worked had to mold to the situation. We became conditioned, for lack of a better word, to live off of that stress. The various routines we went through, from our slavery to our beatings somehow shaped our mentalities. Whereas before the situation, the thought of what we went through on a daily basis would have been horrifying, once IN that setting, they became the norm. Our base line for reality, for what was and wasn't considered suffering anymore to us, rose to a point where the average day in that camp, though awful, to our inner souls was just life as it was.

So, once we were removed from that situation and safely held away in that hospital, our minds tried to fill in the blanks of our need for a given level of torment. It was as though subconsciously, we kept that bar raised in the event, God forbid, we'd find ourselves in a parallel circumstance. The means for that maintenance of our acclimated stress and fear levels, therein, became the flashbacks. Our minds were sending us back to that camp, so that we wouldn't forget, so that we wouldn't become complacent or soft again. Some weird, masochistic, internal mechanism for keeping us forever unsure when the next torment from our time as POWs would spring up on us.

Simply put, we were no longer designed for life outside of the camp, and by God our minds weren't going to let us forget it. That was the real legacy of the Wutain's torture. Most of our physical 

wounds would heal, the scars would fade. But our brains, fundamentally and irreversibly, had been altered, and it was something we were all destined to take to the grave.

The next day after my first flashback passed in somewhat of a haze. The sedative they'd injected me with had been a whopper, and my body just wasn't clearing it out very fast. Not only that, but I was then off my IV fluids which probably would have helped, but as I'd mentioned, I'd torn out that line during my episode and for whatever reason, the nurses didn't replace it. I did force myself to come around enough to take my meals and my tea, though, since my body was growing expectant when it came to hunger again.

There's another point. We'd been starved, that you know already. Hunger though, turns out, isn't something that just gets infinitely worse until you eat. It's completely a conditioned sensation. For the first few weeks I'd felt hungry at times when I wasn't outright sick. Anyone can understand that. But over time my ability to feel or recognize my own hunger started to fade. It came to a point where that craving took a back seat. I mean, everyone knows what it feels like to be hungry and to go without. When you're suffering that, you're stomach takes a nice, front row seat in your mind. Give it enough time, though, and that sensation moves back a row in the theater every so often. Eventually, it just seemed to go away. We weren't going to be fed much, so our bodies stopped really expecting it, even as we were wasting away toward death. I'm not saying that we forgot completely, but it came to a point, at least for me, where I would consciously have to consider whether or not I still felt hungry on any level.

Does that make sense?

Either way, my damn stomach got with the program real quick after rescue, and one again it was demanding three squares a day, whether I was stoned outta my gourd or not.

The following night every man in that room requested a sedative. I think it wasn't just the fear of seeing what I and the other captain had gone through, so much as the feeling of their own eventual freak out looming in their minds. It was going to happen, the question was just when. Even sedated, the visions crept back in. I had nightmares the second night, drugged or not. I just didn't make the leap to full blown flash back, making me bash my face into the floor.

That night, though, John, toughest man in our room hands down, even with a healthy dose of tranquilizer aboard, ended up popping. His moment wasn't quite as melodramatic as mine had been, but I do remember him in the night, sitting up straight in bed, shouting in Wutain to his captors in whatever conditioned manner he'd learned to do. It was enough to wake me, and being untethered from my IV, I struggled up and went to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. He'd been a good man to get me and McGreggor out of our delusions, so by rights I was going to help him.

I forgot that his initial instinct might be to fight. The second my hand connected with his shoulder, the colonel swung at me with the meanest right hook I ever had the displeasure of taking. 

Already unsteady from my sedation, I reeled back and into the side of my own bed again. The son of a bitch had connected with my nose—keeping in mind I'd busted it the night before.

In that moment, fuck the colonel. My head felt like it was going to explode from the shook of a repeated injury to my face. I know I was cursing a blue streak, keeping my head down against the mattress, feeling my sinuses immediately fill with blood. It fucking hurt.

If there was anything good that came out of it, though, it was John snapping back into reality and realizing in short order that he'd fucked me up a good one. I felt his hand on my back after several moments, and though pissed and tempted to take a swing at him myself, I couldn't really do that. First, he was bigger than me and could have put me in my place, my elder or not, and secondly, hey, I knew he'd not done it on purpose.

"Highwind! Son… damnit, you don't casually come up on a man in a flashback!" he reprimanded me, as though I would potentially make the same mistake twice.

Come on, I'm not that fucking stupid.

I groaned and sat up, finding a nice pool of blood on my sheets. "Yessir…"

Once more, the nurses sprung into action. John was returned to his bed and given something a little stronger to put him out. I was lucky and got my nose stuffed with cotton and my sheets changed before I, too, was put back down. The throbbing from that busted nose would ache at me for days to come. Before all that, I know this sounds vain, but I'd had a great Goddamned nose. That was now history and I was forever left nicely hawk nosed following that bullfuck. Internally it was messed up, too. After that, the slightest damn bit of congestion would leave me pretty much a mouth breather.

Damn it all.

Then the following day our lives changed, yet again. It was announced by one of the doctors that had been tending to us, that we were going to be given a new medication designed to help thwart our flashbacks. Of course, all of us being desperate to be rid of the nightmares and visions thought this sounded downright great.

Around noon, in walked someone that none of us had ever seen before. Thin, with long, greasy black hair and a pair of spectacles that looked on the verge of falling off his pointed nose. I know half of y'all already are sitting there knowing that I'm speaking of one Professor Hojo. None of us knew him from Adam at the time, but he was about the most unkempt looking excuse for any sort of medical professional that we'd yet to lay eyes upon. He made his way from bed to bed, writing various facts down about us from what he observed. However, he never spoke a word to any of us. He was being followed through the ward by some sort of younger assistant, who would read the Professor our medical charts or whatever the guy asked for.



When he was at my bedside, going through my records, I couldn't help but get the chills. Not only did he look pretty damn weasly to me, he stank. Not like people normally stink, but it was like he took a bath in every chemical known to man before arriving. Remember the smell of your high school biology lab? Kinda like that, but worse. I was not sad to see him move on to the next bed, I'll tell you what.

After he finished his rounds, we were left to our own devices for a time. Then, one of our doctors returned to clue us into what was going on. I can't remember his little speech verbatim, but I do recall the basic gist of it. Professor Hojo had approved the lot of us to receive a new Shin Ra pharmaceutical called Ferium. It was supposed to be safe, and it was sold to us under the pretense that it would clear our fear and anxiety, leaving us better suited to readjusting to our lives.

Well, that sounded damn great at the time. Mind you, I was a young man, who still trusted Shin Ra, as flawed as they were. If they had a drug that would ease what was going on in my head, you bet your ass I was going to sign up.

…and that's literally what we did. We all had to sign releases stating that we gave the company permission to carry out their little drug trial on us. Had I been a smarter man, I would have read that contract's fine print, but I didn't.

Once the paperwork was all done, the nurses returned. They had syringes lined up on a tray, filled with some clear, blue liquid. It was the Ferium, and one by one, we were given our doses intravenously.

I closed my eyes and didn't watch as the needle was put into my left arm, but I felt it, and I definitely felt the sting of the drug burning up my vein for a moment after I received it. I laid back, awaiting whatever it was going to do. Within moments, it worked through my bloodstream and into my brain. I actually felt all of my emotions, good and bad, melt away. The constant replay of the POW camp's drama in the back of my mind tapered away into absolute mental silence. It was the strangest feeling I ever honestly had.

My mind was just… quiet. My thinking wasn't impaired, so to speak. I suddenly possessed a crisp clarity in thought, my logical side suddenly at the forefront of my mind.

As the nurses finished up and retreated from the room, I found myself looking around at my counterparts. Their expressions were all the same, and I knew I looked just like them in return. There were no smiles or frowns, just a slack look of something nearing surprise but not quiet getting there.

I looked over at John, before being the first to speak. "Hey, Colonel, how did it make ya feel?"

His gaze slowly panned over toward me, his voice seeming a little monotone. "Empty at the moment. I'm sure as we get more used to it, we'll feel better or… more normal."



That was good enough for me. If John had faith, then sure as hell I was going to. Deciding that I was tired since my sleep the night before had been disrupted, I settled back and enjoyed my new, silent mind with a good, long nap.

Man did I ever sleep! I was so out of it that I actually missed lunch. I figured that my body was just trying to catch up now that real sleep was finally possible. Dinner did get my attention, though. I came around, still feeling that eerie sensation of emotionlessness. I talked with John about it over our small portions of turkey and peas. He was feeling more or less the same way, so I opted to dismiss it for the time being.

After dinner, we were all very briefly examined and then allowed to call it a night, with no sedation given. The hope was that the Ferium would keep us blank enough that we would be able to rest. Not too long after lights out, it was evident that it was working. One by one, we all drifted off and I was no exception, getting through the whole night without a peep.

When the morning light started pouring in, I awoke feeling much more rested. I opened my eyes and looked around to see a few of the guys out of their beds, clustered around one on the far wall. Shaking off the last of my sleepiness, I got up as well, walking over.

They were all looking at Lt. Grissom Murdoch, as he lay in his bed. It didn't take too long for me to realize that the man was dead. Nothing was being said, everyone just in a sort of silent reverence. From the looks of him, he'd just died in his sleep, probably several hours before. All the color was gone from his skin, his lips a pale blue. I, like the others, basically wrote it off to the fact we'd just been through so much that it was inevitable that some of us wouldn't survive the recovery.

We all just stood, looking. I wanted to be angry or sad or anything but found that there was just no emotion within me. The drug they'd put into us the day before worked with such horrifying efficiency that even death of a comrade left us unaffected. Had I been capable of feeling fear at that thought, I would. My mind was under the reign of the Ferium, though, and so the only conclusion I could come up with was having been able to feel the stress of Grissom's death wouldn't have helped my own condition. Therein, I was accepting the drug and what it was doing to me.

Not too long later, the nurses and doctors came in and began to fuss over the body. That awful Professor Hojo appeared before too long as well. He did a quick check of the body where it was, before nodding, snorting, and walking out.

Soon enough, the Lieutenant's body was taken from the room, leaving just fifteen beds. An hour later, the nurses came in with our second dose of Ferium. As per our treatment, we were all going to be kept on it for a minimum of one week, and then taken off at our own discretion. Had I possessed any sense at all, I would have refused that second injection, but I didn't. I was incapable of doing so in my present state.



Again, that blue liquid was pushed into my vein, and I watched. I saw the needle go into my arm, the small red plume of my blood appearing in the barrel of the syringe making the Ferium almost purple. The nurse flicked off the tourniquet, and then hit the plunger, sending it all into my bloodstream. It still burned, physical sensations weren't diminished from the drug, only emotion.

Some of the men discussed the death of Murdoch amongst themselves. Their voices were flat, though, and the things they said just basic relaying of facts regarding the man. No hint of mourning or regret. Even Maj. Morton Amery, who I knew to have been friends with the guy didn't seem fazed. Again, if I'd had my right mind, I would have realized that the Ferium was starting to look really dangerous.

Nothing remarkable happened for the rest of that day, or the next. However, on the fourth day of our Ferium treatment…

I was making my way back to my bed from the bathroom, seeing Capt. Lee Hollis coming toward me, presumably to go do what I just had. His color didn't look too great, though, and as he passed me, his entire body seemed to go rigid. Lee drew in a strange shaking gasp before just dropping like a rag doll onto the floor.

My reaction to this was muted by the Ferium coursing through my veins. I watched him fall, but didn't really say anything. I knelt down and pushed him onto his back, getting my hand to his neck to check his pulse.

There wasn't one. I stood back up and simply walked out to the nurse's station, telling them quite blandly that Major Hollis was dead and needed to be removed from the room. That done, I turned and went back to my bed and lay down. Some of the other guys went to check the body, but again, there was little to no reaction amongst them.

I heard John turn onto his side and look over at me. "This isn't right."

My head lulled to the side to see him. "Sir?"

"This isn't right. We shouldn't be this nonchalant about our men dropping. This shit they're putting into us has made us zombies, and how do we know it isn't what's now killed both Murdoch and Hollis?" he asked, his face not giving any expression as he spoke.

I did have to think about that statement, emotions or not. The man had a point. "Then I reckon we should ask fer the autopsy results on Murdoch for our own information, Sir."

"I'll do just that." John, who had been since taken off of his IV fluids, stood up from his bed and went over to the doctor and nurses now descended around Hollis.

I watched from my bed as he spoke in low tones to them, before he came back over and lay down again. "Sir?"



He folded his hands neatly on his stomach. "He said Murdoch died of heart failure brought on by his prolonged starvation. He said it's not unusual for people to die from that sort of thing even after they've started eating again."

Maybe I nodded, I don't know, but I accepted that answer at face value. "That makes sense."

"I'm not going to take my next dose tomorrow," he announced to me in a mundane fashion. "The flashbacks aren't fun, but I don't like feeling… or rather, not feeling."

Turning to face him proper, I considered his choice. "Then I won't take anymore, either, Sir."

"You're a good man, Highwind. Loyal to a fault, you know. Hope your nose is feeling better." With that, he closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep as Hollis' body was carried out of the room.

We were down to fourteen men.

(Chapter 4 in the works)