For reviewers: Go absolutely nuts nit-picking this. I don't want any grammatical issues (especially tenses) to ruin this. Much appreciated!
I sit on the harsh, concrete floor, allowing my head to rest loosely on the wall. My back is hunched because a man's joints tend to ache and worsen when they hit old age. Even with the animal experiments. That would be right: make me part owl, give me perfect night vision and feathers to keep me warm, but don't repair my damaged spine.
Carrie's head is glued to the cell bars again, and all I can see is her long, shiny, black hair entangled with the iron. She refuses to leave from that area, except during feeding and bedtimes. She seems fascinated with other prisoners. I guess watching them is more interesting then watching me, I think.
I rub my wrinkled nose and collapse into a world of blankness, for what is there to be done? I will spend the rest of my retired life in a laboratory cell with not a flicker of the faintest hope that release might be granted.
I hear cries, I hear shouts and I hear yells. I hear desperation, I hear fury, and I hear depression. Two years in this cell, and that's all I hear.
The blank, grey, concrete walls give no mercy. If you are surrounded by them for as long as I've been, it does havoc on your anxiety, on your insanity.
Well, insanity wasn't my problem, but it was for the other prisoners.
Sometimes, a mad prisoner, most likely empowered by the pain of their latest animal treatment, would scream. He would scream and scream until another crazy prisoner would join in, and another, and the prison walls would echo with the screams of insane prisoners. I would hurry to shield Cherrie's ears, and jerk her head away from the bars and to the dismal excuse for a bed, to guard her from the pain and fury those screams would bring about. Then the sedation gas would kick in from the ventilation, and all those poor prisoners would be instantly knocked out.
Misery and remorse are out of the question. Two years of severe treatments and loneliness does that to me. You express all your anger and emotion until there is nothing left but an empty, pitiless shell of a man. A dying, withered man that will never see a sunset, or a rainbow, or even a cloud before his death. And the worst part is that there will be no tears shed. My wife and children passed away over a decade ago; I outlived my youngest son. In fact, the only person who might feel any amount of emotion over my death would be Cherrie.
"Mr. NAME?" She was kneeling beside the iron bars, peering out. I turned and face her, endeavouring the faintest of smiles. I had to. It was my responsibility to smile, as it was a parent's responsibility to assure a frightened child that there was no scary monster hiding in the closet.
"Cherrie?" I que, and quickly divert my eyes. I cannot bear myself to glance at her dark young face, scared, starved and succumbed by the feline DNA that is fused with her figure. Although she grins sappily, and her cat-like eyes are full of questioning, the internal sadness shown is so apparent that it pierces my old heart.
"I hope Social Time is soon. I wanna' meet a new boy. He came yesterday. He prob' my age. Do you know when social time is?"
"No, I don't." I say. "Without a watch, a sun and a clue what time Social Time begins each day, I cannot tell you when."
"The sun? Why would you need the sun?" Although she was nine, the effects of not getting an education make her painfully ignorant of even the most common of knowledge. I considered it my duty to teach her everything I knew, for I was sure to die, who knows about her? She might be released in the near future. And if that was the case, as I surely wished so, she wouldn't survive in the outside world with no education.
"The sun has come hand-in-hand with time since the period where ancient civilisations existed," I begin. Cherrie pulls a confused face, and I realise my mistake. I'm using too many large words.
"Sorry," I say, "let me try again. A very, very long time ago, before watches were made..."
"-Really? That must've been ages ago!" interrupts Cherrie.
"Would you like me to explain, or not," I ask her, a little impatiently.
"Fine then!" she huffs. "I dun' want to." She rolls her eyes and returns spying on the prisoners. I give up, resolving to try again later once she's in a better mood, and return to my corner.
Funny thing about this concrete corner is that it's not straight, or pointy, or angled. It's more- curved. Like the edges of an eraser. I lift my gaze upwards to the roof, where the walls mould into stone, and become sprinkled in various shades of grey.
The cell isn't particularly high. If I stood up straight, which I can't, it would be only me and a half in height. Which would mean a fair few brawny young men would have difficultly standing up.
A theory of mine is that this whole prison complex is built entirely underground. It's only a guess that takes in other clues I have discovered, like in the mornings, you can smell an earthly sort of scent, and at nights, due to poor ventilation, it becomes extremely chilly.
I retreat my thoughts into the emptiness of my brain. What do these guesses matter, when death is so inevitably apparent? There's no chance of escape, no chance of life, and no point of useless estimates on our location. So I continue to stare at the wall, the cold, concrete wall; an accurate reflection of prison life.
-x-x-x-x-x-
The prison guard follows the patients from behind the pack, leading them from their cells to the Social Hall. In one hand, he carries a taser baton, while the other hand fiddles, twirling the baton. He is careful not to touch the tip of the baton, for it could wreck the equipment, and guess whose pay packet would the money come out of to replace the weapon?
Treatment centre or prison, whatever you call it, it doesn't matter. It is still hell to those who are kept here. The walls are grey stone, and reek like dirt, yet the place is regularly cleaned and sterilized. It was almost as if the smell was coming from the prisoners, not the prison itself. Animals.
He can see the closest patients to him are unlike the normal people kept at the treatment centre, if you could call any patients there normal. There is an old man, hobbling slightly along, looking as if the world pains him, and a young girl, probably of South American descent, with black hair so long it wraps around her ankles.
The guard inspects them closer, and sharply withdraws breath. It was taking him a lifetime to grow accustomed to the creatures these humans were being turned into.
The old man was bird-like. His hair wasn't hair, but feathers: long, grey ones, some spotted, some tipped in charcoal black. The feathers stretch downwards to his neck, and line his sunken face. The place where eyebrows are supposed to sit lays only skin, yet the gaunt stretch of tightened skin underneath makes his expressions clear without the need for them. His lips are narrow and jaunted, similar to a fleshy beak. But above the bizarre mouth lies the most horrifying part of all; the eyes are so dark the pupil is undistinguishable, and they twitch constantly as if they were desperate to leave the eye socket.
Next to the man, murmuring softly, was the girl. She was a feline; the guard was reminded of a jaguar when she talks, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. She has full cheekbones and a big nose, but her eyes resemble cat's: piercing yellow slits. She walks around with an air of grace, as if the prison was but a castle, and she was attending a royal parade. The guard shakes his head softly. How can a little girl hold her dignity in a place such as this? Surely by now the prison must have crushed all her childish hopes and dreams?
He looks away, focusing on another patient, who is clearly suffering. There, the guard thinks, isn't that a perfect replica of what should be a patient? Patients don't bond, and they definitely don't talk with feeling unless it's anger. Patients should be living in anguish, and the guards should be able to tell they're starving and in pain.
At last, the guard can see the hall approaching. Like a heavenly beacon, it so graciously informs him that his shift is over. He hands to baton to a waiting guard, and turns on his heals the other way.
Although Rosalie beat me to it I'll try my best.
