“So, how do you feel?” asked Dr. Sheing, fingers at the ready to jot down any feedback.
I didn’t give him the pleasure. But inside, I felt twisted and tugged in different directions; a feeling of nausea I had grown used to – it came after every session.
“I see. Well, Mr. Paisley, we’re going to give you a treat tonight for all your hard work. Would you like to spend the night in your containment capsule, or in your mind inside the containment capsule?”
They were asking me if I’d like to sleep inside my imagination or not. “No.” I didn’t need them affecting my dreams, thank you.
“All right, then, I’ll just slide you back in,” he said, first making sure my straps were secure across the head, chest, and legs, and then gliding my “bed” into the dark tube where I spent my experiments. And the rest of my life.
By now, I had forgotten what moving felt like. True movement, not just remembering in their foul tests.
“Good night, Mr. Paisley,” Dr. Sheing said softly, and shut the hatch.
Pure darkness.
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The Happy Tortur - I Mean, Doctor
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The Happy Tortur - I Mean, Doctor
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The Happy Tortur - I Mean, Doctor
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