The Laboratory Experiment

Square One

It's dark, almost threateningly so. You can't quite feel your arms, and the reasoning behind that doesn't strike you as very important. You know why you're here, you know what this is about. Your head is pounding, and there's this horrible numb feeling tingling across your body, across your face. You don't know where you are, but when that ghastly figure inches from the outer reaches of your vision, wearing that almost plastered on grin, it suddenly doesn't matter where you are.  You always hated that smile, God you hated that stupid grin he wore. Gritting your teeth, you hold back your anger, your frustration; you need to get out of here– 

Clink.

An audible sound resonates back at you, and it becomes apparent that your arms are bound. The clicking of metal against metal rings through your skull, and you finally realize that's probably why you can't feel your arms well. The blood isn't circulating perfectly, those things are significantly tight. Yet you still struggle, you pull, tug, and thrash around, eventually collapsing in defeat. He watches in what seems like pride. The slew of invasive thoughts are sprouting in your head now, "I'm not going to get out of here. He finally did it, he got me. I'm screwed. This is it." you choke back a sob,

 "This is it." 

You feel hot tears welling up, and slipping down your cheeks. Nice job, buddy, look how far you got. Deep down, you knew he'd catch up to you. You knew there was no way you'd be free forever, regardless of how badly you hoped so. There was always this sickening sense of despair whenever you thought of how great life was.

Suddenly, you're broken from thought as the tapping of a boot against tile echoes throughout the room. You try not to pay attention to that, to him stepping closer, because your stomach churns in disgust, in fear, in realization of something else. You're in the lab. You recognize the echoes, the colors of the tile; and you feel sick to your stomach. Of course he'd bring you back here, of course he would of course of course. You can almost hear the screams, those horrible screams, and they're echoing against the tile and filling the laboratory, filling your ears with an all too familiar feeling of dread. You choke back vomit as it tries to surface, and drop your head down, tears just making a stream of themselves at this point. You know this place is abandoned, it's been for a long time now. Since you escaped, Doc couldn't risk keeping up his research here, so he abandoned the place. But now you're back, you're right back where it all started. Honestly, you'd thank this man for giving you life if he hadn't risked taking it every day. Now you're trying to block out the thoughts, you're trying to forget all the experiments, all the times you just hoped he'd find you to have become a useless subject and stop. All the times you thought of running away, but didn't out of fear. Those times you thought about taking the life you'd been given, but didn't have the guts. Now you're a broken mess of a thing, shaking and crying and bound wrist and ankle to a metal chair.

Then he speaks.

You open your eyes, keeping your gaze locked on the ground in front of you, silent.

"Been a while, hasn't it T-01?" he pauses, that smile curling back onto his lips, "Or is it Simon now?" he teases, "That's cute."

He's closer, next to you now. "But, regardless of name, you still belong to me" he coos, running a hand up your leg. You shudder at the touch, your blood running cold, but eyes staying locked on the ground. He stops, bending a bit to look for your eyes, and then his hand is under your chin, and he pulls your face up, your eyes meeting his. And that smile creeps right back, a smile of succession. He runs his fingers across your jawline, and you fight the urge to pull away.

He tuts, slipping his hand off your face, "Don't be so down now, 'Simon'. It's just like old times!"

You grit your teeth at the words, it's repulsing, and you feel sick again. But now he's behind you, behind the chair, and he's got his hands on you, rubbing at your shoulders in what could be considered a comforting gesture if not for the situation you're in – and maybe if it was anyone but him. His hands are sliding around your neck, and before you realize what's going on they're tight, digging into the skin and pulling your neck back. His fingers are pushing against your windpipe, and you try to breathe, to cough, anything, but you can't. You hear a chuckle, and feel hot breath against your ear; and a voice, a soft, slow voice with a hint of dominance.

"You're mine." He says, and he slowly releases his grip on your neck, backing away from you all together. You cough, wheeze and almost puke from the feeling on the inside of your throat.

"Now then." He says from a distance, he's on the other side of the room again, this time behind you. His voice echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears. You always hated his voice; the way he would almost sing as he prodded and pierced, and the way he'd congratulate himself when he succeeded in something. That something revolving around the breaking of another subjects will to disobey. It pains you even more to think about it, to think about the fact you're here. The very place your dignity, happiness, and any sense of hope was torn from you.

You'd give anything for this to all be another nightmare.