Chapter 15
Under Lock and Key
John
John Watson was dead. The weakest and most immoral part of himself was still there, because he was still alive, but he was just an empty shell, a former shadow of the solider and physician who had protected the crown. He had fallen and was now defeated and powerless. He should have ended it when he had the chance. A pair of blue eyes opened in a pitch-black room, but there were not any emotions in them. Those eyes were empty. He was empty. Death, he prayed for it, yet it still remained elusive.
Time blurred into itself. John had stopped trying to keep track of it. He drifted in and out of consciousness in a seemingly endless cycle as the drugs, which were being pumped into him, took effect in peaks and troughs. As far as he was concerned, John Watson was dead. Not literally, of course. John would see death as a blessing at this point. The weakest and most immoral part of him was still there, because he was, despite all of his prayers for death, still alive. Death would be a reprieve.
He looked around the dark empty cell. He was restrained on a stretcher. John could feel the nasogastric tube irritating his nose as enteral feedings were pumped into his stomach. The IV in his arm was well secured in order to avoid him dislodging it. John could feel the soiled diaper chafe at his skin and swallowed his humiliation. It wouldn't be long before the men came with more drugs and John would slip back under. John moaned as his abdomen cramped viciously. The sharp pain distracted him from the near constant bone deep aches in his hips and pelvis. John nearly gagged as he caught a whiff of his own urine and feces. He pulled against the leather restraints but made no progress. His muscles had atrophied to the point of near uselessness. He was weak as a kitten. John licked his chapped lips. Thirsty, he was so thirsty. His senses were all over the place. The drugs, it must be the drugs. John thought, as the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat seemed to magnify in his ears along with the steady hum of the infusion pumps. The room was still nearly pitch black but John could still see clearly, but the colors were off. It was as if he were wearing night vision goggles. Hallucinating. John rationalized.
John then heard his jailer's footsteps. The men, as expected, were in possession of a syringe and the medication which the syringe contained was quickly emptied into John's IV. John heard one murmur in Pashto "Hard to believe that he has lived thirty days. Phase one is complete on to phase two." The pain floated away as the medication took effect. John struggled to stay awake as the drugs threatened to pull him back under. His heart rate doubled as he felt the restraints being removed. He gagged as the Nasogastric tube was pulled out and whimpered in relief as the soiled diaper was changed. "Type II," one of the men said briskly as he cleaned John's genitals. John looked down at himself and frowned. His penis and testicles looked smaller, much smaller. His pubic hair was now thin and downy. The thought fluttered away and John sighed in relief as a clean diaper was applied and the sting of a needle pierced his buttocks. He blinked blurrily as he fought sleep. This medication was different, rather than knocking him out completely, he just felt sleepy and very relaxed. Most likely a narcotic like morphine in combination with a benzodiazepine like valium. John struggled to swallow and moisten his parched throat.
"Water," John pleaded in a voice hoarse with disuse and to his shock an ice chip was placed between his lips. John sucked on it greedily and it dissolved almost immediately. The men sat him up which caused a wave of vertigo to overtake him causing him to retch and vomit up a small amount of the enteral feedings, which had been infusing into the NG tube. John couldn't stop the moan that escaped as his stomach gurgled ominously and the foul smell of feces once again permeated the room. Before John could say anything more, the diaper was replaced with a clean one.
"Should stop once he is back on solids." The other man predicted referring to the diarrhea. "Up!" the man ordered in Pashto and John was hoisted off the stretcher and onto his feet forcing him to stand for the first time since he was placed in the prison. John's knees buckled too weak to hold himself up and he could not hold back a scream as excoriating pain in his hips and pelvis nearly took his breath away. Broken, something must be broken.
"Please! My hips, I think I have a broken pelvis." John begged.
"Walk, bones still growing and shifting, tender and fragile, muscles stiff. Move; it will help the pain." The man advised. John whimpered unsure if he had heard the man right. Before he was able to ask the man what he meant, he was once again pulled to his feet, but this time the man helped support his weight and John cautiously took a step forward.
Sharp pain still shot through his hips and pelvis, but it was improved with the added support. His muscles tightened still stiff and weak from disuse, but he was able to slowly move forward. The man was right, and his stiff muscles loosened with the activity and the sharp pains faded to a bone deep ache, still unpleasant, but tolerable. John moved carefully as the men led him out of the cell. John moved through the dark hallway slowly and his nose wrinkled a strange smell assaulted him. It was hard to describe like a combination of sweat, and something that John can't quite place, but it made him feel hot and needy. "Here!" The man pointed nudging John into the cell. John's breath caught when he got a good look at the cells occupant. "Bill? Bill Murray?" John whispered still not believing his eyes.