August Cox's Blog - Posts Tagged "preview"
The Wrong Samantha - Chapter One
Chapter 1: Present
I pry open my eyes, sealed shut with wet and sticky mucus, to a blindingly white room and the overbearing smell of antiseptic. Everything feels like lead; heavy, hard to move, cold. The pounding in my head is excruciating and makes me want to close my eyes again. My throat and mouth feel like rough sandpaper, and it hurts to breathe as I painstakingly look around for some water; however, there's nothing in here but me. No bed, no blanket. The only thing to keep me company are the padded walls and the cold hard floor. I bring myself onto my elbows and my knees, feeling every bone beneath my ever-thinning body. I look down and see that my nails are jagged and short. Some of my nails are completely gone, leaving exposed sensitive skin. There is crusted blood around my nail beds, flakey and dark brownish red. My hair feels greasy and unkempt, borderline straggly, as I push it back behind my ears. I smell worse than the foulest body odor I’ve ever encountered. As I struggle to sit, I notice that my skin is now stretched over my hips and my leg hair is longer than I’ve ever let it grow. The scabs on my wrists look a few days old, swollen, and leaking yellow pus. Inflammation and irritation tell me that there is an infected injection site on my thigh as well... It feels as though my ribs are shattered as well as my skull. At least my back doesn’t feel as horrible as it once did, right after he tortured me. I can move now without screaming. Moving around results in my skin feeling so taut that I’m terrified my bones may spear my skin.
When I finally get into a sitting position, I can feel how my pelvis rests on the cement. It’s painful and I squeeze my eyelids shut to not show any fear, weakness, or anything else the Doctor can think to use against me. I rub my eyes to remove the gunk obstructing my vision in the hopes to see something of use in case the guards come back in. As my eyesight clears, I realize I’m in a change of clothes, again. I suppose these are more fitting for this hell, anyway. They took my shoes, my black running shorts, and my favorite white racerback tank and replaced it with shorts and a shirt when I first arrived. I don’t know what happened to me since the last time I was awake, and that makes my spine stiff with the thoughts of what-ifs.
I had notches to count days once. Where are those at? Is this even the same room? I hold my temples and try to concentrate. How long have I been stuck in this place? 6 months? A year? I'm not sure. I gave up counting days long ago because each time I would get my bearings, they would make me forget anyway. I stand up on weak knees, which buckle as I start to get upright. I fall and land on my wrist sending hot white pain to my senses and making me nauseous. I stifle my cry, not wanting the Doctor to bring any more needles near me. He’ll blame the fall on me, say I was being a danger to myself. I wonder how long I've been drugged for my legs to have felt like cooked noodles underneath of me. The drugs that they used left me with a terrible dry mouth. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what I did to deserve this.
There’s nothing on the ceiling that will answer my questions, that’s what my teachers used to tell me. I close my eyes and hold my wrist tightly against my chest to ease the pain. Lucky for me, I'm in the only padded cell that's exactly like a bad movie: concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and walls without any seams. I suppose if I can't find the door this time, they won't have to deal with me banging on it.
The Wrong Samantha
I pry open my eyes, sealed shut with wet and sticky mucus, to a blindingly white room and the overbearing smell of antiseptic. Everything feels like lead; heavy, hard to move, cold. The pounding in my head is excruciating and makes me want to close my eyes again. My throat and mouth feel like rough sandpaper, and it hurts to breathe as I painstakingly look around for some water; however, there's nothing in here but me. No bed, no blanket. The only thing to keep me company are the padded walls and the cold hard floor. I bring myself onto my elbows and my knees, feeling every bone beneath my ever-thinning body. I look down and see that my nails are jagged and short. Some of my nails are completely gone, leaving exposed sensitive skin. There is crusted blood around my nail beds, flakey and dark brownish red. My hair feels greasy and unkempt, borderline straggly, as I push it back behind my ears. I smell worse than the foulest body odor I’ve ever encountered. As I struggle to sit, I notice that my skin is now stretched over my hips and my leg hair is longer than I’ve ever let it grow. The scabs on my wrists look a few days old, swollen, and leaking yellow pus. Inflammation and irritation tell me that there is an infected injection site on my thigh as well... It feels as though my ribs are shattered as well as my skull. At least my back doesn’t feel as horrible as it once did, right after he tortured me. I can move now without screaming. Moving around results in my skin feeling so taut that I’m terrified my bones may spear my skin.
When I finally get into a sitting position, I can feel how my pelvis rests on the cement. It’s painful and I squeeze my eyelids shut to not show any fear, weakness, or anything else the Doctor can think to use against me. I rub my eyes to remove the gunk obstructing my vision in the hopes to see something of use in case the guards come back in. As my eyesight clears, I realize I’m in a change of clothes, again. I suppose these are more fitting for this hell, anyway. They took my shoes, my black running shorts, and my favorite white racerback tank and replaced it with shorts and a shirt when I first arrived. I don’t know what happened to me since the last time I was awake, and that makes my spine stiff with the thoughts of what-ifs.
I had notches to count days once. Where are those at? Is this even the same room? I hold my temples and try to concentrate. How long have I been stuck in this place? 6 months? A year? I'm not sure. I gave up counting days long ago because each time I would get my bearings, they would make me forget anyway. I stand up on weak knees, which buckle as I start to get upright. I fall and land on my wrist sending hot white pain to my senses and making me nauseous. I stifle my cry, not wanting the Doctor to bring any more needles near me. He’ll blame the fall on me, say I was being a danger to myself. I wonder how long I've been drugged for my legs to have felt like cooked noodles underneath of me. The drugs that they used left me with a terrible dry mouth. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what I did to deserve this.
There’s nothing on the ceiling that will answer my questions, that’s what my teachers used to tell me. I close my eyes and hold my wrist tightly against my chest to ease the pain. Lucky for me, I'm in the only padded cell that's exactly like a bad movie: concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and walls without any seams. I suppose if I can't find the door this time, they won't have to deal with me banging on it.
The Wrong Samantha
The Wrong Samantha - Chapter two
Chapter 2: Past
My name is Melanie. I'm a prisoner in a mental hospital against my will, being treated for an illness I do not have. I was kidnapped when I was going for a run. I was running in new shoes; nice, black, and sleek. They had memory foam inside of them and shoelaces that change color. My fiancé, Demetri, thought he was so smart to get shoes that were tailored to plans for an invention I had designed when I was 10. I promised him I would take them for a run before the day was up, knowing it would leave terrible blisters on my feet to run in new shoes. The smile on Demetri's face was so brilliant and lit up his eyes, so I figured a few blisters were worth it if I could see that smile when I arrived back home. It was turning dusk, the sun barely above the horizon, and the sky splashed with pinks, purples, and oranges. I was in a hurry to get back, already feeling the pain on my heels, so I turned down an alley to cut my run short. I could hear the shoes slap the ground and feel a rock get caught in the grooves. Sweat was beading at my hairline and dripping down my neck. I could see my yard and took a sigh of relief.
My breath caught as I felt the arms around my waist and ribs and my face crunched into the gravel, ripping open my skin. The smell of blood was released into the air around me. My jaw dislocated as I struggled to get away, adrenaline filling my veins. I tried kicking out while I attempted to bite the hand that was holding my face hostage. My wrists were promptly clamped tightly together while feet stepped into my vision. They were men's shoes; black and perfectly polished. As I went to look up, my face was slammed back into the ground, my sweaty brown hair obscuring my vision. I felt a weight on both of my calves, and I knew that there were hands on me. I felt a sharp prick in my skin and the burning of medication entering my body. My legs wouldn't kick, and my arms wouldn’t struggle. Just as quickly, my eyelids did the same. I couldn’t open them and there was no way to fight. All I could do was scream in my head until even that was too hard. I slipped into darkness.
When I awoke, I was strapped to a metal table. It wasn’t a wide table, probably used for a desk before becoming my gurney. Above my face was a bright light, hurting my eyes and casting everything else around into shadow. I wanted to move to look around, but my muscles were rigid and tight. The straps holding me down were too tight, biting into my skin. I attempted to speak but no sound came out. I realized that I was in danger. With that realization, I was so scared that I couldn't breathe. I began to hyperventilate, my chest tightening to a point that black spots appeared in my eyes. A voice drifted into the air. He introduced himself as the Doctor. I would have laughed if I could breathe.
The Doctor began his speech about how he was going to fix me. He said that I had a deformation of the mind that would make me a danger to myself and others. As the effects of his medication wore off, I began to sob, heaving for every breath I could manage, choking on the ones I couldn’t. I heard the tears drip onto the table beneath me as they slid down my face.
“You might find our accommodations to be outdated,” he rasped. I wondered if he was a smoker. “Although they are old-fashioned, they are credible practices that will aid you in your recovery.” He stepped into the light, and I could see why he was raspy. His skin was more wrinkled than an old worn-out and trashed brown paper bag and he had a dramatic receding hairline of salt and pepper hair. The Doctor’s eyes were dark and looked sullen. Even with his aged appearance, his posture showed that he had power and wasn’t scared to use it. There was a glint of evil behind his smirk as he leaned towards me, putting his hands on the gurney. His breath billowed into my face with the smell of stale coffee and menthol cigarettes. I attempted to not gag as the putrid smell poured out of his mouth.
“I’ve been watching you for some time, my dear,” the Doctor spits a little as he spoke. “I would almost say that I’m your biggest fan.” He has a lisp when he speaks, I noticed. His beady eyes bore down on mine, looking for any sign of acknowledgment. Even as tears began welling up, I attempted to keep my eyes still and hold his gaze. I could feel my heart booming in my chest, hear the pounding in my ears, and wondered if by chance he could hear it too. He seemed to be taking pleasure in my fear and I looked away. He cocked his head while looming over my face to force me to meet his eyes once more.
“You see my dear Samantha; I know how dangerous you will be if no one treats you for your mental disfigurement. Maybe you should consider thanking me for helping you.” Shocked, my eyes widen. I'm not Samantha. I'm Melanie. I tried to signal that he had the wrong girl with a frantic look; however, all he did was lean away from the table while chuckling. I wanted my body to buckle against my restraints, to fight, to do something, anything. It caused a claustrophobic feeling in my chest, suffocating, tightening, surrounding me. As I lost the ability to breathe, my world went dark.
The Wrong Samantha
My name is Melanie. I'm a prisoner in a mental hospital against my will, being treated for an illness I do not have. I was kidnapped when I was going for a run. I was running in new shoes; nice, black, and sleek. They had memory foam inside of them and shoelaces that change color. My fiancé, Demetri, thought he was so smart to get shoes that were tailored to plans for an invention I had designed when I was 10. I promised him I would take them for a run before the day was up, knowing it would leave terrible blisters on my feet to run in new shoes. The smile on Demetri's face was so brilliant and lit up his eyes, so I figured a few blisters were worth it if I could see that smile when I arrived back home. It was turning dusk, the sun barely above the horizon, and the sky splashed with pinks, purples, and oranges. I was in a hurry to get back, already feeling the pain on my heels, so I turned down an alley to cut my run short. I could hear the shoes slap the ground and feel a rock get caught in the grooves. Sweat was beading at my hairline and dripping down my neck. I could see my yard and took a sigh of relief.
My breath caught as I felt the arms around my waist and ribs and my face crunched into the gravel, ripping open my skin. The smell of blood was released into the air around me. My jaw dislocated as I struggled to get away, adrenaline filling my veins. I tried kicking out while I attempted to bite the hand that was holding my face hostage. My wrists were promptly clamped tightly together while feet stepped into my vision. They were men's shoes; black and perfectly polished. As I went to look up, my face was slammed back into the ground, my sweaty brown hair obscuring my vision. I felt a weight on both of my calves, and I knew that there were hands on me. I felt a sharp prick in my skin and the burning of medication entering my body. My legs wouldn't kick, and my arms wouldn’t struggle. Just as quickly, my eyelids did the same. I couldn’t open them and there was no way to fight. All I could do was scream in my head until even that was too hard. I slipped into darkness.
When I awoke, I was strapped to a metal table. It wasn’t a wide table, probably used for a desk before becoming my gurney. Above my face was a bright light, hurting my eyes and casting everything else around into shadow. I wanted to move to look around, but my muscles were rigid and tight. The straps holding me down were too tight, biting into my skin. I attempted to speak but no sound came out. I realized that I was in danger. With that realization, I was so scared that I couldn't breathe. I began to hyperventilate, my chest tightening to a point that black spots appeared in my eyes. A voice drifted into the air. He introduced himself as the Doctor. I would have laughed if I could breathe.
The Doctor began his speech about how he was going to fix me. He said that I had a deformation of the mind that would make me a danger to myself and others. As the effects of his medication wore off, I began to sob, heaving for every breath I could manage, choking on the ones I couldn’t. I heard the tears drip onto the table beneath me as they slid down my face.
“You might find our accommodations to be outdated,” he rasped. I wondered if he was a smoker. “Although they are old-fashioned, they are credible practices that will aid you in your recovery.” He stepped into the light, and I could see why he was raspy. His skin was more wrinkled than an old worn-out and trashed brown paper bag and he had a dramatic receding hairline of salt and pepper hair. The Doctor’s eyes were dark and looked sullen. Even with his aged appearance, his posture showed that he had power and wasn’t scared to use it. There was a glint of evil behind his smirk as he leaned towards me, putting his hands on the gurney. His breath billowed into my face with the smell of stale coffee and menthol cigarettes. I attempted to not gag as the putrid smell poured out of his mouth.
“I’ve been watching you for some time, my dear,” the Doctor spits a little as he spoke. “I would almost say that I’m your biggest fan.” He has a lisp when he speaks, I noticed. His beady eyes bore down on mine, looking for any sign of acknowledgment. Even as tears began welling up, I attempted to keep my eyes still and hold his gaze. I could feel my heart booming in my chest, hear the pounding in my ears, and wondered if by chance he could hear it too. He seemed to be taking pleasure in my fear and I looked away. He cocked his head while looming over my face to force me to meet his eyes once more.
“You see my dear Samantha; I know how dangerous you will be if no one treats you for your mental disfigurement. Maybe you should consider thanking me for helping you.” Shocked, my eyes widen. I'm not Samantha. I'm Melanie. I tried to signal that he had the wrong girl with a frantic look; however, all he did was lean away from the table while chuckling. I wanted my body to buckle against my restraints, to fight, to do something, anything. It caused a claustrophobic feeling in my chest, suffocating, tightening, surrounding me. As I lost the ability to breathe, my world went dark.
The Wrong Samantha
