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| Skyhook_The_Academy |
She sits in the windowless waiting room.
Stark, with perfectly square proportions, walls and ceiling equal. A box, or as she can't help feeling, a cell. The walls are white, bright red plastic chairs are arranged facing each other in symmetry around the perimeter. A low coffee table sits foursquare dead centre of the room. There are no magazines upon it, not even a copy of Country Life from 1985 - like no waiting room she's been in before then.
The only noise is from the ticking of the clock over the door she was ushered in through, the slow rhythmic 'tick tock' shaving seconds from her life – not that she had the capacity left to follow time, the room had sucked it and all other thought from her.
Watch her jump, stirred from her catatonia by the door to her right opening. A nurse stands there under the frame, uniform just so, face devoid of emotion. She holds the door open but stays in position waiting, not entering the room. “This way please.”
She gets up, hesitantly, walks past the nurse's outstretched arm into the room. Another square windowless white box, the only furniture another red plastic chair and a low metal hospital bed – crisp white sheets and course grey blanket. The nurse follows her closing the door behind her with a solid slam. She folds herself neatly into the plastic chair. “Remove your clothes and put the gown on” She acknowledges the blue cloth at the foot of the bed with a nod of her head. “The Surgeons are waiting for you”.
What choice does she have? This is what she wanted, this is what she told in that room in The Academy. Yet there was never this fear – this helpless dread in her fantasy though, this was all too real. She slowly begins to remove her clothes. There is no-where to save her modesty from the gaze of the nurse, yet she feels strangely empowered.
The room is hospital warm, soporific, the air on her bare skin feels like a caressing kiss. She picks up the gown, sliding her arms into it and pulling it as closed as she can behind her back. The nurse places her hands on her shoulders and turns her round, brusque and business like, quickly tying the gown closed. “Sit on the bed”.
She does as told, neat and contained, her uncrossed legs pressed together, hands resting palm down on her thighs. This feels surreal now to her, she can't understand why she is suddenly so calm in this strange situation. The fear has gone even though she knows she is closer to making the fantasy she told that man in the Academy office real. Or rather having it made real… how far would they take this? She never set a limit. Never thought to – you never do in fantasies, right?
The syringe in the nurse's hand looked real. Chillingly so. She held it casually, almost like a cigarette between her long fingers as she rolled up the sleeve of the girl's gown, pulling her arm off her lap and tapping the skin to raise a vein. The girl gasped as the needle slid into her flesh, but there was no pain, instead she was fascinated to watch the liquid in the syringe's chamber disappear into her arm. This was it then, no going back. The terror returned, the terror of what her fantasy could – would mean, her heartbeat was racing, yet she couldn't find even a squeak of breath in her lungs to protest, to bargain out of this.
The nurse withdrew the barb suddenly, pressing and taping a swab home over the point the perverted medicine had been injected into her system. She disposed of the syringe in a sharps bin, told the girl to stand and follow her. She got up from the bed, docile as a sheep. The filth in her bloodstream had been expertly measured, it couldn't be working yet, it was the girl's terror, her mind racing that made her obedient, an accepting lamb walking to slaughter without protest.
She followed the nurse through another door into a somewhat larger room. Its dimensions were hard to tell; the edges were cast into thick shadows, shapes within hinted at by the spotlight bright ring of lights suspended over the focal point of the room – an operating table, high and large, dressed in crisp green sheets, mechanisms beneath it to raise and tilt just visible in the gloom its shadow cast. The room was soundless, save for the involuntary gasp she gave – tearing her eyes from that monolith she finally saw them – The Surgeons.
There were five, all men by their stature, stood apart. They were as still as statues, apart from one who was busying himself at one of the stainless steel benches, the occasional flash of light in the shadow and metallic ting as he examined and laid out instruments. The Surgeons were dressed identically – blue medical scrubs, caps covering their hair and masks over the lower half of their faces. All she could see of their features, the only way to tell them apart was their eyes – eyes that were dispassionately trained on her. “Please get on the table. Lay on your back” The Surgeon at the benches commanded, not even turning from his work to look at her. She felt… disconnected. Details were hard to take in, her emotions felt stifled, yet there was a fear in her mind, the matter-of-fact way everyone was acting in this bizarre scene made her feel trippy, in a claustrophobic dream. She climbed awkwardly onto the operating table, her limbs looked strangely long and a million miles away. She felt like there was a mask in front of her face, like her eyes were looking through a screen.
She laid flat on the table, legs straight, her arms by her side. The spotlights above the table dazzled her, created coronas at the edge of her vision. She narrowed her eyes against the glare and tried to turn her head, but it was like moving through treacle. The same voice that had told her to get on the table addressed her again, she couldn't make him out against the clinically cold white light but he sounded closer, at the edge of the table, next to her left shoulder. “Count for me. From ten down to one please. Out loud.”
She almost laughed at the childish daftness of this, but did as asked. Her voice sounded softer, quieter and somehow childish to her ears. “Ten… nine.. ei, eight, seeeven… sii…” She was confused – she could do this, she counted down to one… but then realised she'd only heard the last numbers in her mind, she hadn't vocalised them. She tried to lift her head, to look around the room, to look at the Surgeon who had spoken to her, but her head was suddenly full of concrete, her neck couldn't take the load, couldn't lift or move a millimetre.
“She's under”.
No. No. I'm not. I can still hear. I can still see.
No. Her mind raced. What had she said to the man at the Academy when he'd asked her deepest fantasy? “they tell me to count down from ten as they start to put me to sleep for the op, but it doesn't take, i can still hear everything…” No. No. “Maybe a small breast biopsy…”
No. Please no.
A masked face looms over her, nightmare large. The eyes study her face, then comically large fingers reach out to her, gently closing her eyelids. Her world goes black save for the image of the masked face floating inside the eyelids. She hears the soft sharp tear of tape being pulled from a reel then pressure on her forehead, over her eyebrows, eyeballs and cheeks. He has taped her eyes closed.
No. She tried to speak, she could feel the strain in her throat and vocal cords but no sound would come out. She was trapped in her body, a prisoner in her own mind. There was a sudden pressure at her left wrist, her arm was raised then there was a metallic 'schenk' sound as the shears closed on the sleeve of her gown. She felt the air brush against her skin raising goosebumps instantly as one arm then the next was exposed. The cloth tugged against her skin as the shears worked their way up the centre of the gown, expertly filleting the cloth, a cut here, a cut there, to fully expose her body to the room - to all observers. She was laid bare.
“Subject is early thirties” The voice was calm, measured. “Approximately 5'6”. Perhaps 15 stone. Brown hair”. His tone was familiar, but it took her a few seconds to place it – but then it came; it was from every medical drama she's seen, the examiner at an autopsy examining the body, dictating notes. Detached, clinical, professional. Soulless.
Hands grasp her ankles. Her legs are gently raised and parted. She tries to cry out but can't, she has no command over her body, she can only feel. She can feel the texture of the thin latex gloves of the hands now stroking her skin, she can feel the way the stiction makes then stutter as the Surgeons – for now there is more than one pair of hands at work – examine her body. And still that flat calm voice talks, describes.
Fingers run up her thighs, gently but firmly running over her curves, pinching here and there, checking the resistance of her skin – and still she cannot react to the sharp stabs of pain. Hands massage her belly, fingers play at her nipples. They are caressed with a tender touch, pinched, twisted. Harsh fingers grip each nipple then lift, straining her breasts high, weight and resistance tested. And still the voice talks. Her breasts are prodded, then stroked with a lover's skill, only to be followed by iron fingers squeezing her agonisingly hard. She is laid bare to them, every inch of her probed and categorised, recorded by that voice. Fingertips play over her face, her cheeks are slapped.
She screams in her head, made naked and now stripped further, deeper, dehumanised, humiliated, examined like a piece of meat on a slab. Powerless to react, only feel.
She is overloaded by the hands at play on her body, but worse, much worse is to come. Reports of her body completed, the Surgeons turn their attention to her cunt. They play with her, at turns gentle then brutal. She is caressed, feather light caresses on her lips, her clit; she feels heat rising in her despite the situation and fear, feels herself become wet, but not enough to ease the savage unexpected shocking force of the fingers forced inside her. She's prised open, the stretched around the hand violating her, the fingers giving the most intimate, brutal examination of all.
And as she cries inside her skull, immobile, powerless to protest, a body on a slab laid bare to what ever examination or test they visit upon her, blind yet feeling everything, the voice still speaks, still records her; the nameless subject.
Suddenly, all contact is withdrawn. She is left, abandoned, empty, nerve endings singing.
Had they realised? Had they realised she wasn't fully under? That she could still feel? Would there be a sudden panic – kind arms around her, soft words –“it's going to be ok, it's going to be ok”.
“Pen”.
No. No it was very far from ok. She was still in her private cell. She heard her voice from an age ago, feeling foolish talking of her fantasy in that calm office, to the man behind the desk in the Academy – “…maybe a small breast biopsy…”
The tip of the pen scribed a line from her left shoulder down to her nipple, she felt the drag of the pen on her skin, an itch she couldn't scratch. The line was repeated to her right nipple. A crescent was drawn under each breast. Lines were etched over her stomach, down her arms, her thighs, the soles of her feet.
“Scalpel”.
The scream in her head was deafening…
| 15 May 09, 11:08 AM Helen_Back UK(MK), 4 yrs |
brilliantly written. extremely intense |
| 16 May 09, 7:28 PM Skyhook_The_Academy UK, 2 yrs |
Part two. Written by FK. The usual battle starts in her head, she can hear it through the screams, which no longer sounds like her, the 'why do her fantasies have to go so far', why is there the need to be so full of fear that it makes her heart and head feel like it will explode. The feeling of no control of no way of saying no and stop. So many whys; why did she say to that man “maybe a breast biopsy”, in the comfort of his office, that place so far removed from where she was now, He should have known she just wanted the fear, He should have known exactly how far to take it, but she had seem so sure of what she wanted. In that moment she wanted to know if she could take it though, she wanted to know if she could go to the darkest places in hear, could she take that level of pain. To feel the scalpel not only cut the surface of her skin but go much deeper. The cold feeling of metal against her skin made her focus come back in head, My god it was going to happen, she was going to die on this table, the fear now there, all semblance of calm in her body had gone she no longer had any control of how far this fantasy would go. Then the fog started again, she could feel the cold travel up her arm where the needle had been before, travelling to her head, her brain started to count again down from ten. She could feel herself going into that deep hole of darkness where her dreams and fantasies reign and reality is no longer there... Edited 11 Jul 09, 8:37 PM by Skyhook_The_Academy |
