Cripple Mode: Hot Electric

I wake up with a start. That’s not unusual. But what is unusual is I don’t feel the pain. Pain has been a constant companion for what might be several weeks. I’ve lost track of time because of pain. I haven’t yet grown inured to it. I just withdraw when possible. In a twisted way, I accept my condition. I believe it’s known as survivor guilt. Maybe that’s why I’ve resigned myself to my fate. It’s a rightful punishment for someone who should have died. A sudden rush of panic seizes me. If I can’t feel pain, then maybe I’m dead. Panic is as absurd as the absence of pain. I’ve spent the greater portion of my last conscious moments wishing I was dead, before passing out. Passing out has gotten more difficult. I have to wonder if it’s possible, the more someone wants—no needs—to do something, if it really becomes that much more difficult for them to do. Funny thing about panic, the heart races and roars in the ears like waves against a shore. Beach sounds, as I recall, usually are soothing. This isn’t. It’s a heart-wrenching pain. Pain makes me feel more alive, but not soothed. I tense up again. My waking time isn’t pleasant—I’m alert with expectations of the commencement of a waking nightmare. Something’s missing. I’m not sure yet what it is. I’ve been having trouble wrapping my mind around simple things. Confusion is normal. I still don’t feel right, though. I refrain from opening my eyes. I’ve learned to suppress that natural inclination. It’s really no use trying to see things. When I do open them, everything is a haze. It seems that the bright flash of the explosion is the only thing I ever see, over and over. The one time my vision did clear, I couldn’t trust it. That time I saw two lovely ladies, who apparently are my tormentors. They really aren’t unattractive. Keep in mind, I’m mostly blind. I know they immediately knew I could see them. My responsiveness brought on more torture. And they gave me another reason to keep my eyes shut. A good jab to the eyes, that’s for looking. Then they proceed to give examples of how trivial that is, comparatively. What’s worse than all the torture is that I can’t recall what it is they want from me. They’d asked a lot of questions at first. I can’t seem to recall the questions or my own answers. They’ve since stopped asking, long ago. It’s as though their game of torment has superseded everything else. From my first waking moments to the last, till that brief pleasant time when I gratefully feel darkness overcoming me, they are gleefully at work. Even when the blackness wraps me in its cocoon, there’s no rest—only fitful moments punctuated by total oblivion, but it’s much better than being awake. The torment stops when they think I’m unconscious. If they knew I have a slight awareness of being, they’d likely continue to abuse me. That’s what’s missing! When I come out of the darkness, they are always there. I can smell their sweet breath hot against my face. They start jabbing and poking the moment I move or make a sound. Sometimes it’s just my breathing that betrays me. A small, subtle change in the tone and they know. I don’t recall waking up without someone being here to start prodding, stabbing, or burning. I’ve come to suspect they must be sleeping with me so as not to miss a moment of my wakefulness or a moment of their strange joy in inflicting pain. I physically shudder now at the thought. If they are there, they will start anew. I wait in anticipation. They have always been there, hovering like vigilant friends at the bedside of an injured comrade. Still without pain, I slowly, almost involuntarily, start trying to get in touch with the outside. I haven’t tried this in a long time. There’s never time. It always starts too fast. I barely have time to retreat from reality. It’s better if I try to hide as far inside as I can. I’ve become much smaller since my captivity commenced. I feel my fingers, all of them. And that’s really strange. I’m not sure I have them all. But nerves are tricky, and the tingling may be something ghostly. I was badly hurt by the force of the explosion. Everything happened so quickly. Jen was right in the middle of it, he wasn’t so lucky. Then again, maybe he was the lucky one. That flash of light, I keep seeing, that’s what I remember. And Jen, bending over, handing the kid a nutri-ration bar. I remember a big grin on Jen’s face. Who does that? Who straps bombs to children, to blow up soldiers? Maybe one of my demented companions is the boy’s mother. Jen, Jensen Trevynoski, had said he was there to watch my back. I’d guess someone should’ve watched his back. And we aren’t really soldiers. We’re ex-cons. Not even that, wannabe ex-cons, maybe. This mission was an experimental run for some new piece of military hardware. It was supposed to be “a walk in the park.” Ironically, it was Jen who had told me not to listen to these people. I should’ve listened to him. But the boss lady who came to speak to us seemed dead set on taking me along. She promised that my sentence would be commuted. My record would be purged. And when the experiment was finished, we, the boys that went along, would be free. She quite earnestly suggested I might get a rank and commission out of it all. And after that warning Jen had given, I’m still unclear why he was with us. Maybe he wanted a new start with a new commission with Corporate Services. It is tempting. It hadn’t really tempted me, since it was this kind of thing, signing up for a commission and rank, which had gotten me into this mess. But that was only a small portion of all the things that were wrong with my life up until now. My lowered ambitions center on getting out of prison. Once outside, I’d shed off the influence of the CS. I’d be content to crawl far away from my terrible life. My noble goal was to get out from under one rock so I could hide under another. I suspect the only reason Jen was along was because of me. His was collateral involvement, not so much watching my back. And right now, none of the rest of my life seems so bad. I didn’t know how good I had things. I suppose a kid never does. I need to stop this chain of thought. Not only is it depressing, it’s improbable that I should have this much time to think. I wonder where the girls are. It’s not that I miss them. But they don’t allow me time for thought. I’m always too busy trying to get away from myself. I need to do that now, before they start. It’s possible I look forward to the daily doses of pain, to keep my mind from doing this. All this clear thinking must be a result of not having someone screaming in my ear all of the time. That screaming person is me. It starts with whimpering and moves gradually into outright horrendous screaming. But if I don’t build it up fast enough, the ladies find ways of bringing it out. Amongst their many talents, they are facilitators. They don’t seem happy until I’ve screamed myself hoarse, and even then, they don’t ease up, until I pass out or at least they think I have. Everything, right now, is strange and wrong. Still, something’s familiar. Every time I come to the verge of identifying it, I become distracted by an overlay of sounds filling the darkness. They’re new sounds. They’re constant low beeps and chirps, like some sort of electronic equipment. They distract me from my musing and from my attempt to identify the familiar. Something moves my hand, the one with the missing fingers. I’m certain of their loss. The first few days, that was one source of my many pains. The girls conveniently distracted me from that worry. And though I remember something of missing toes at the very least, right now I’m unsure of whether I still have both of my feet. I feel panic like an electric jolt through my body. My heart feels sick at the memories. I feel involuntary twitching in legs and feet, which I’m still uncertain of. I find myself hoping that my captors have returned to distract me from the path I’m heading