- The Diary of a Fucked Up Dreamer .

I worked in a human torture plant for manual labour. I started my days horrified of witnessing the deliberate degradation of humanity, but as my time working there progressed, I had become conditioned to it. I showed up every morning, stocked the shelves, swapped color tags on cages, did as I was supposed to and left without it fazing me. We were always taught that the “subjects” were like objects and to treat them as such or our jobs would be terminated.  I wasn’t the victim, not yet.

The facility worked in three ways: mental torture, physical torture, and behavioral testing. They used the torture to knock these people down to a level where they are barely people at all. Each patient was given a number and alongside of that was assigned a schedule. They had “appointments” where they were either subjected to extreme physical labour, or were expected to sit across the table from an “elite” and tolerate the verbal abuse that would come their way.

 Between these appointments they were forced to remain still and silent in their cages that were marked with a color of their “progress”. Green: the beginners. Some people would consider these as the patients that remained at the highest intellectual level; those who had not yet been fully subjected to the stripping of their identity and what they know of their connection to humanity. I see the greens as the least intellectual overall. They know nothing until they see and survive what will have come. Next came blue: the middle man, the tortured. If the physical strain had not overcome them by this point, the mental distress had. These were the sufferers, and they considered themselves exactly that. It was at this point that the subjects would often choose their own end. And lastly, the Reds. Not many people make it that far. The reds are the survivors, and in my opinion, the most intelligent of all. If you last 3 days as a red, you are set free and to never speak of your experiences again; if you have the mental capacity to remember them, that is. As people left the facility, either alive as a red or having succumbed to death as any color, another patient was brought in.

                Six hundred and seventy two. I never had the inclination to associate myself with the patients aside from any way my job entailed until I was told to change a cage from a green tag to blue. Changing tags had become an everyday occurrence. I had become desensitized to seeing the patients because they were empty by the time they reached their first “progression”; but not cage 672. By this point in my day, I was so frustrated and rushed because so much work had to be done to prepare for the arrival of sixteen new patients.

                I had become ignorant to the thought of new arrivals because I was aware of the miniscule number of patients that actually make it to the red level, let alone survive it. But I knew the thought of sixteen people having died in one day because I chose not to speak up would eat me alive so I learnt to suppress it. All I was concerned for was to get my work done for the day and head home.

When I went to change the tag, it was jammed between bars so I had to kneel down to get the green one off. It was then that I made the mistake of looking into the cage. There was this creature, naked, brittle, and bruised with “672” tattooed down his right forearm sitting there staring right back at me. He was different than the others in a way almost unexplainable. Those eyes. He wasn’t empty. His eyes had this entrancing depth to them that, for that split second, made it impossible to be indifferent to the strain. The green tag came off and the blue tag went on, and for the first time I had realized that from switching a simple color, I had potentially just led them to their death. I was soon pushed aside to watch 672 get dragged off to his “6:00 appointment”.

When we were first trained to work in the facility, we are taught how to read schedules, how to change tags, how to properly stock the shelves. We knew these “subjects” were tortured, but we were never permitted to see how they did it. I followed 672 and them to the chamber where I pretended to search the computer system while I watched the reflection in the screen. I heard him cry out while they piled burning stones on his bare back until he collapsed. The piercing sound of his screams rang out in my head for days. I had to see him again.

When speaking was permitted, I began coming to see 672 as an anonymous visitor so that my job wouldn’t be compromised. I needed to help him, but I couldn’t afford to be unemployed. I found myself hacking into the computer system to get myself a copy of his schedule to protect both him and myself. I was his only link back to humanity, and I planned to maintain it. So I gave him a name; Jacob.

As the visits became more frequent, his eyes found more depth. He was bright and his laugh was infectious. I knew that it was up to me to get him out alive. Days progressed and I watched his body deteriorate as his faith got stronger. His ability to speak had diminished from damage to his brain and his body hurt so badly that tears would begin to fall if I touched his hands. He knew who I was and though he was speechless, never lost the ability to understand. To me, patient 672, blue status had become Jacob, a victim who had finally progressed to red.

The red was the most difficult level of all. At this stage the behavioral testing was put into place to gauge what was mentally left of them. Each day they were given a bag of items, and released into a harsh environment and expected to find out how to use these things to survive. Some of these items held so much danger that it freely gave the option of suicide to each patient.

The first step to red is to be released into the forest and to survive until nightfall, so that morning I was assigned to bring the bag of items to Jacob. This was the first time since I changed his tag that I was ordered by an “elite” to see him. I knew the items within the bag and I knew how they must be used in order to survive. So before I gave him the bag, I took out the items that posed a threat and were unneeded within the context of the task. This was the first day I had helped him aside from being his friend. I handed him the bag and prayed to God that he would live until I saw them bring him in at 5pm that night. As I hid behind the opposed row of cages, I saw them throw him into his. One of the guards leaned over to me shaking his head. Since he started working here, not a single red had ever returned from their first day out. 

The second day of red status is based strictly upon nutrition. I placed four bottles and a watch on the counter and explained to him what was about to happen. “You have to take these and keep them with you. The one with the red cap is poison. Do not drink it but keep it with you. They will bring you to the desert where they will leave you for 35 hours.” I showed him on the watch what that meant and I continued to explain. “At 3 o’clock you must drink the smallest bottle. When the sky turns black, drink the biggest one. Stay in the same place until they come back for you, or you will run out of energy. When you see them coming back to take you, quickly drink the last bottle and hold the poison in your hand.” I knew that if they were to come back and the patient was not holding the poison unopened, they wouldn’t take him back. If he made it back and survived the following night without being fed or caving to the temptation of drinking the last bottle, they would let him go.

As I handed him off the items, I smiled at him and heard them come up behind me to take him. I knew that I may never have a job there again but more importantly, I may have never seen Jacob again. They stood there with their blank stares expecting me to present his case. My voice shook, “Patient 672: behavioral testing, red status. Day two: 35 hour nutrition challenge.” They reached in and grabbed him by the forearm as he cried out in pain. I knew he was capable of the day in the forest, but after that he had become so weak, I wasn’t sure if he’d make it.

He was expected to return at 6:00pm the following day. By the time I got to work, everyone was talking about him: “Patient 672 is remarkable.”, “672 comes across as suspicious to me.” I felt like I was back in high school as the gossip rang down the hallways. “Did you hear about that one subject who’s made it to red? Someone’s gotta be behind that.”

I was a labourer. I had no friends within the facility and no family waiting back home, so I did my work silently and left when I was finished. We were always taught that the “subjects” were like objects, and I treated them as such until I met patient 672. I wasn’t the victim, not yet.

It was 5:45pm when I nervously began stocking shelves to look busy. The last thing I needed was for people to see me nervously biting my nails watching the time in hopes of Jacob surviving. So I did as I knew best and found a way to channel my anxiety. I folded towels, one at a time, and stacked them, one on top of another. I felt as if someone was breathing down the back of my neck, but every time I turned, I was alone. So counting he minutes, I folded towels, one at a time, and stacked them, one on top of another.

Well, I was alone until I wasn’t.  They came up behind me and stood on either side of me. “Patient 856: mental strain, green status. Day one: foreshadowing at 6:00pm.” Grabbing my arms, they dragged me backwards and I was unable to resist. My mind began to race a million miles a second going over the past 2 months I had spent helping Jacob. I'm not a patient, I work here. Had they figured it out?  They stripped off my clothes, and shaved my head as I cried. Jacob, did Jacob make it back? Would they release him if he did? They tattooed “856” down my right forearm, just as I had to hundreds of other patients. Dragging me into the chamber, I was strapped me down to cold, metal chair that stung as my bare skin pressed up against it. When I looked up, there was this creature, naked, brittle, and bruised with “672” tattooed down his right forearm. He was pinned to the ground staring right back at me. Those eyes. He was alive, but not for long.

I sat there and watched them beat him until he stopped struggling. I spent 2 days strapped to that chair forced to look at his body, so frail, as it lay cold and motionless on the floor. They came back to get me and kicked the soulless body out of the way. “Did you hear about that one subject who’s made it to red? Yeah, they found out some naïve shelve stocker thought she’d get away with helping him. Turns out neither of them will get out alive.”

I had become ignorant to the thought of new arrivals because I was unaware of the chance I could become one, let alone survive it. But I knew the thought of sixteen people having died in one day because I chose not to speak up would eat me alive so I learnt to suppress it. All I had to do was speak out once, before I became the victim who was unable to speak at all.


Accompanying song: "Turn and Turn Again" by All Thieves