Consciousness began to reform within the mind as his eyelids slowly slimed their way open. Retinas a warped blend of the same color, he rubbed his eyes to get a clearer view of his surroundings. The walls were bright white, asylum pads covering every surface from top to bottom. The room had an absence of entrances, that void being filled by a one-way window 20 feet high. He squinted and scoured for any sign of an exit. Instead of discovering any viable exit, he discovered that one of the pads wasn't intertwined with the rest. It slightly bulged further than the other pads and had a thin metal rim on its inside.
He had no recollection of how he ended up in such a place. Had he committed some horrible act and he deserved this fate? Did he go insane and a family member or friend admitted him to this blindingly bright hell? More of these thoughts and questions flowed throughout as he paced anxiously around his confinements.
The nervous fingers attached to him began to fiddle with each other. His hands detached and slowly crept up until he started to touch his neck. Interestingly, something had blocked him from doing so. He mapped out the object further and discovered that a metal device had been wrapped around his throat. The further he felt this bulky metallic necklace, the more details he could identify. A small knob protruded from the front of the collar. Some areas had paint chipping away, or perhaps it could've been rust? It only took a couple yanks forward till he felt two smooth, rounded rods poke his neck. The only conclusion that could be reached was that the device he was wearing must've been a shock collar.
I don't understand what I did to deserve this. I don't even remember my past. I would never commit any horrid acts that would lead me to this fate. Or maybe I have? I don't truly know myself or my past. I want answers. Please, I just want some answers. I hate this, please please please-- A sharp buzzing noise play, breaking the seemingly long and maddening silence.
"Hello. You have been selected. For a test. Please participate. For it's going to help us. Once you are done. You will be let go. Now. Approach the apple." The pad that originally aroused suspicion sprung open. Attached to the pad was a metal cabinet, whose contents gleamed a dull red. He swiped the apple from the container and the door slammed shut hastily afterwards. "Consume." He looked up at the speaker that was in the ceiling's corning and then frantically looked back down to the apple.
He sunk his teeth into the apple and tore out a sizable chunk. He swallowed and then— nothing. Everything stayed the same, nothing changed. Expecting some form of sensory torment or at least a small shock, he felt fine. Then, a jolt of electricity spontaneously shocked his neck, as if he'd thanked the heavens far too soon. His legs turned to moist noodles and hands grasped to the shock collar as it continued to send shockwaves. Try as he might, the collar wouldn't stop. A prolonged conga line of torture. It felt like an eternity of suffering until, finally, the collar shut itself off. He spread his limbs out across the floor and caught a brief respite. He massaged his neck in hopes to offer any relief, which was unfortunately short-lived.
The apple, this fruit he'd been ordered to consume. Why would he have been punished for such a simple act, despite his clear obedience? Was he being warned against listening to the voice up above?? Or perhaps it had some deeper connotation to it??? Hmph, probably not. The apple left his hand unprompted and rolled to the other side of the room. He had hoped that another meal that was truly edible would arrive, but it wasn't in the best of his interest to give his hopes up just yet.
Nightmares interrupted his rest. As hard as he might, he was unable to reach a full slumber. In his dreams, he kept appearing in this padded hellscape, slightly altered each time. One of these many dreams depicted the walls changing from their usual white to a rusted metal with screeching that sounded like a dreadful combination between nails scraping across a chalkboard and the pained screams of young children. Another of these rooms was one that was way smaller. He felt claustrophobic within it. Like a light pressure had compressed his chest; not enough to impair his breathing but enough force that he felt mild discomfort, the annoyingly dull nature of the sensation making his ribcage itch for detachment from his chest
