I
(Tape-recorder begins whirring and clicks)
Today’s date: May 15th, 2015. The intellectual and soft-spoken voice echoed through the room. There was nothing special about this room. It wasn’t a cliché from horror movies and stories where a victim is taken to an abandoned hospital or asylum. There was no tiled wall and floor with a surgical table and drains for all the blood.
Instead, it was an abandoned cabin. Many of them potmark the mountains down the Appalachians along the east coast. All that was needed were tools. Something simple to carry. Some lighting. The tools were sophisticated. Everything that was needed for surgical procedures besides anaesthesia and monitors. Death was inevitable. Nothing or no one to keep alive.
The patient seems to be holding up well to the drug. She has not blinked or closed her eyes in some time. I will say the Oculus Test #26 is a success. The subject can feel everything I am about to do to her and can see me the whole time. The purpose of these experiments is to test the pain tolerance of victims in extreme situations. If I tell her not to scream, will she listen? Will she hold her anguish for as long as possible? Or, will she give in immediately? This is what I plan to test. The threshold of pain. In other experiments so far, the women have handled the pain better than with the eyes. They say women have a higher tolerance for pain than men. Let’s find out.
“You’re so sick,” the girl on the table whimpered. She was brunette with green eyes. A beautiful young girl, maybe 20 or 21-years-old. She could have been anything or anyone. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now. I knew I never should have left the bar without Courtney. What would she think, if she could see me. Here’s Lacey in a whole bunch of trouble again. Poor, helpless Lacey. I won’t stop trying to get out. I won’t scream.
The figure moved around the table and clicked a button on an old stereo. The sounds of “Panis Angelicus” began to fill the air.
“You know,” the sillouette began. “Most associate this music with an uplifting air of triumph and revery. Panis Angelicus means “Bread of Angels.” Originally written by Saint Thmoas Anquinas as a hymn for the Feast of Corpus Christi—the celebration of the body and blood of Christ—then later put to music, triumphantly, by Cesar Franck to celebrate the transubstantiation by which the body and blood of Christ become the bread and wine for communion.”
Lacey squirmed on the table. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, I find it quite haunting. You see the key and notes have such a somber beauty to them. You can envision it playing out in the best movies of war, heartache, and loss. Just listen.”
The music began to rise in pitch. Lacey gripped her hands tighter, making her nails dig into her flesh. Nonetheless, she felt what was meant. The music was foreboding, ghostly and not all within the predicament she found herself.
“Don’t worry my dear, they all scream eventually. This is going to hurt.”
The knife came down soft and sharp.
The feeling was like a pinch to Lacey, but a terrible pinch that went on for too long.
She felt warm and dizzy.
Her eye felt wet and her vision blurred.
She tried to adjust her vision to the mirror on the ceiling.
The figure blocked her view. She screamed.
10/6 Writing 