If you haven’t read any “Prison of the Mind” please start at the Beginning.
I think it’s close to 2300. There always seems to be a fluctuation in the generators at this time of night. Cumulatively I’ve been left in my cell long enough to observe the movement of the sun, estimate the hours of daylight, and considering I’m in the Eastern hemisphere somewhere around the 58th parallel, my guess is 2300. One generator shuts down while the other struggles to balance the electrical load. The standing lights in the distance dim and then come back at half their usual lumens. The progressively intensifying cold has me getting up often and moving to keep blood in my extremities.
The quality of the food seems to be increasing as does the quantity. Has there been a shift in kitchen staff or the approach of interrogation? As the tray is pushed through the slot in the door, a wool sweater and lapti shoes followed it. I quickly don the oversized sweater and ill-fitting footwear, retreating to the warmest corner of the cell to eat.
When I put my arm through the left sleeve, a crumpled piece of paper pushed out and fell to the ground. Though difficult to make out, it read, “First floor second door third drawer 456 slot seven. Eat now.”
Clearly someone wanted this to be easily remembered and quickly disposed of. I tear it into pieces and mix it with my boiled potatoes. Sadly, it will probably improve the taste. I run the phrase over and over in my mind as I eat. The tattered paper conveniently comes apart after being soaked by starchy water. I find it satisfying that at least this one thing goes as planned.
The wool is warm but makes me feel like I have psoriasis. The bark on my feet at least separates skin from stone but does nothing to insulate. The food is tepid and insipid, the antipathy of fine cuisine. My hunger is more satiated than it has been in recent memory but the taste still rivals the worst MREs.
There’s no set time that I’m fed. Sometimes I hear what sounds like the tray being placed outside the door but it isn’t given to me for hours. I’ve noticed rodent droppings on the tray previously and feel robbed of my full portion. They have to eat too, I suppose.
Sleep comes unnaturally quickly.
I awake in a room I don’t recognize. Trying to sit up, I find that I’m zip-tied to a bare gurney that seems centered in a midsized room. The thick flexicuffs leave no space to slide my hands or feet through. They are secured to the metal frame. I contort my neck to see as much as I can, arching my back to see further.
Behind me are stainless steel tables with a variety of tools and bottles. They cast shadows against the cement wall, the main light source is above me. To my left are six, five-foot tall cabinets. The ceiling is concrete as well, crumbling, with rebar exposed.
I am not surprised to be here. They knew it would take some type of escalation to gain leverage over me, to extract any information. This room is quiet, unnervingly so. Even with the lack of windows, this room is colder than my cell. I can feel the heat leaving my body and in short time I begin to shiver.
The tremor becomes a violent shake and I can’t stop. I want to curl into a ball to conserve heat but the restraints prevent it. How long have I been in here? I can’t feel my hands or feet. The door opens and Veni walks briskly into the room.
“You’d feel a lot better if you told the truth.”
“The truth is, I’m cold.”
“You’re better than this. Just tell me why you were sent here. Then, you can sit by a nice fire and eat hot food.”
“If I knew, I might tell you.”
“Then we shall wait until you do.”
Veni disappears behind me. Straining, I see him pull a cart to the steel table, load a few things and roll it to my left side. He tears open a small packet and begins rubbing vigorously in the crook of my elbow. It feels even colder and I smell the alcohol.
“What are you doing?” I feign aggression in an attempt to cover fear.
“Keeping you alive.”
I see him open a large needle. I consider struggling to prevent him getting it into my arm but realize I’d only be hurting myself further. I’m lethargic, it’s an effort to do anything at this point. He put a needle in the other arm as well. I’m done looking; I hear him roll a large machine beside the bed. I think I’m just done.
My eyes close and the darkness rolls in.
SLAP.
My head articulates fully to the left hitting the steel hard. My right cheek is, well, it feels warmer now. He connects a syringe to my right side and pushes a fair amount of something into my blood. Suddenly I feel wide awake. I’m feeling warmer by the second. My body feels hot.
How can I feel cold and hot simultaneously? Veni looks at me, smiles, hooks up a few tubes to the ports in my arms and leaves the room.
I have no concept of time. I’m wired, awake but not cognitively in control. I’m freezing and burning up all at the same time. Do hours pass? I have no idea. I stare at the ceiling and think about escape. I feel stronger and pull against my bonds. No improvement. I repeat to myself the message on the note. “First floor, second door, third drawer, 456, slot seven.”
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