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
