Day: 5

for half the day Waylon had been trapped in a chair. Forced to go through the Morphogenic engine. By the end of it, he had a major migraine and felt incredibly sick. His stomach being in knots, everything sore, and flashes of the engine going across his eyes. When ever the flashes came the pain did. It was like driving nails into his skull with a hammer.

They kept feeding him more of that junk, Making his body worse each day. Now he had to go into surgery. They stopped the anesthesia, only giving heavy pain killers before operating. He would watch helplessly as they undid the stitches they made less then two days ago. Reopening his Y shaped cut again to poke at his insides. He felt no pain, but could still feel things.

Waylon could feel them shifting and pulling organs around. Sometimes they took pictures of his organs while they held them. It was disgusting and Waylon had to close his eyes when ever he saw his organs pulled out. It didn't feel right to be dissected, yet alive. The doctors would only stop when the pain killers wore off. Waylon would struggle and twitch when it happened, making the doctors upset with him.

They would talk about him as they pulled him apart. Waylon would listen, he had no where to go or run and it was the only thing he could hear. The doctors talked about the engine effects on him compared to other patients. Saying he was doing well by not getting sick yet.

Waylon wondered if they were blind or just ignored his condition. He was sick, yet they all ignored the obvious symptoms. He would shiver for no reason, he was pale with dark circles around his eyes, and he felt his fever rising. Apparently that was still healthy enough for them to pass him.

After engine therapy, a patients body would have bad side effects. Overacting of the brain causing damage to the body in someway. It would inflame the body's tissues to disturb the immune system into attacking its own body. It was why patients had such weakening immune systems, often getting sick. When immunity's finally failed, Murkoff would begin antibiotic treatment. Giving large daily dosages of it daily. Eventually a patients organs would fail and require transplants.

He would love to fight them, interrupt they're revolting work. His weakened condition the only thing stopping him. Eating only cement puree from them and pumped full of drugs for constant surgery. His body felt ready to shut down on him, but he wasn't giving up. He still had Lisa and the boys waiting for him. She would find him, she was smart and brave.

"soon this will all go away. I just have to last." he thought. He kept thinking that every time he was in pain. Pain was becoming a very common thing in this dark place for him. They settled his organs back into his pain riddled body and stitched him back together.

He let out a deep breath of relief as they finished. He shut his eyes from exhaustion, falling asleep from it. He woke up later in his cell from the sound of the door opening. He knew the force feeding was coming and managed to sit up. Doctors would come in with a cup of that foul smelling gunk. They would offer it and he would silently refuse.

He found it hard to speak with his mouth so dry. That garbage in a cup would suck any moister from his mouth and throat. It would make him so thirsty. After he refused, they would grab him and he would struggle. They would get that tube down his throat to feed it down. Then leave after yanking it out of him.

He would lay down again to wait for the next day. The nights weren't peaceful. They were full of screaming and yelling patients. They would bang on doors and start fights with officers. Officers would start yelling and a few would feel too high and mighty.

Those officers were the worst. They would go to cell doors and bang on them if they saw patients sleeping. It wasn't the worst they did either. They would push patients around. Putting patients together to fight each other till they were both bloody. That was how some cells were splattered with blood overnight. Waylon feared they mite push him out, one night, to brawl with another.

Waylon smacked his mouth, being thirsty. It was lights out again for patients. Lights inside of cells, covered by bullet proof glass, would shut off making it dark. The only light was coming through the small, cell door, glass. Waylon shut his eyes at the short quiet pause the sudden darkness brought. Startled from it when a officer banged his baton on the window while walking by.

Waylon looked down at the concrete floor. Trying for a moment to block away his sickness and pain. His stomach was cramping up again, twisting into a rock heavy knot. He leaned over in pain. He wanted to vomit, but the mix in the puree prevented it.

He took deep breaths to untie his stomach. Gagging on the air he had to swallow more then breath in. His stomach knotting would spread up his throat, having it harder to breath and swallow. He grabbed onto the end of the mat to keep himself from falling. His throat loosened for him to breath normally again. He took gasps of air while he could before his throat re-closed.

Waylon couldn't believe he actually used to work with these people. The same ones he called friends when he first started. Now those same people were ripping him apart and testing on him like a lab rat. Talking around him like he was deaf and dumb. They weren't hesitant to work on him either.

Strapping him down as soon as he arrived. Needle ready to be injected and a scalpel surrounded by tools in there reach. He tried to talk to them a few times. They would only ignore him, or command him to do something. Disobeying would make them angry and they would call security.

"What kind of people work here? Did they start like me? Looking for a high paying job and just … lost themselves? How could someone be so distant and uncaring?" Waylon thought.

"the patients weren't the only ones to fear." Waylon thought, wincing at his pain.

"and that insane man Gluskin was alive! ALIVE!" Waylon thought with anger. Tearing up at the thought.

"how could that had happened?! … why?! Why does he get to live? He just … slaughtered so many. Mutilated them. Tried to mutilate me. And he gets to live for it?" Waylon questioned in his mind, like god was listening to him.

"what kind of justice is that?" Waylon thought, moving onto the back of the bed. He wanted to get some sort of sleep before morning. His schedule in the asylum was strict, Jeremy made sure of it. No time was given to him to prepare. Guards would drag him anywhere in a hurry. Punishing him if they thought he was dragging.

He was to get up early, "eat" the sludge. Go to the engine therapy room, stay for half the day. Eat again before going to surgery. Stay there being dissected till around night comes. Eat again, then try to sleep for the next day. He heard from doctors that his engine therapy was being extended a few hours, because he was "doing so well".

In pained him so much just hearing that. He knew it would be cutting into his sleep. Making his recuperating time only a few hours. He could barely hang on now with his current schedule. He leaned his head against the wall, smacking his dry mouth again. He was exhausted, but his sickness wasn't allowing him to sleep.

It usually kept him awake till morning. Most sleep was caught reluctantly during his surgery's. He didn't like sleeping then, afraid they'll try something new. He had no choice whether he was awake or not. He merely wanted to be aware and prepared for any changes. Knowing they were going to cut a piece of organ out felt better then being unaware of it.

He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths while resting his head against the cold wall. Somehow he managed to fall asleep with his painful condition.

thank you for reading and please comment. =]

man, you guys are really fast with the comments. this is actually late, based on how fast the comments were obtained. but i had to pause this for a new Escape: Aftermath chap. :3

unlike the original and sequel, this will require 5 comments(1 per person) per chap to continue!

1 chap = 1 Waylon and Eddie POV