Writing Prompt

I'm cold, I am always cold now...it has seeped into my veins , into my bones, into my very being. I have made this corner of the room my own, it feels the most warm, the most safe.

I know I am not safe, I think maybe I am just used to it. The constant tests, the needles, and the incessant beeping beeping BEEPING all the time...

I don't remember my family, I think I had one but since I have been sick since birth I never got to know them. My life is four walls and a ceiling, stale food with no flavor and a gown in the most beautiful shade of salmon you can imagine....nurses try to be nice, but they have to be cause I'm dying. I have forgotten who I really am, this is me now.

Bound to a bed, a forgotten soul in a tortured body.

I walk, walk a little bit more then yesterday and even more then the day before yesterday. Every steps felt so... Odd, If that's the right word to use, Maybe. Odd, because whenever I take a step and my feet touches the cold merciful floor I fell something rattle... Rattle Rattle Was my leg joints getting rusty? Wait is that even possible? Probably not... maybe. How long has it been since I started walking? Wait, even better, Why was I even walking in the first pace? Where was I going? Wait, am I even going anywhere or just wondering aimlessly? I, kind of fell like, I am walking in circles, for some reason. I turned my head, trying to look behind me. But, just right then, a pained sigh escaped my mouth. 'ouch!' The heck. My neck hurts. It was as if a rusty cog was forcefully spun and the uneven sides of the cog was inside my neck. Seriously, why the heck was I hurting this much, just by turning my head a little? However, I was thrown out of my thoughts, right when I looked back behind me. A cold sweat fell from my forehead. I looked back in front of me again. And started walking again. I was sweating from... what? fear, maybe. What I saw was, In one word-same. I saw that wall yesterday. The day before yesterday too. No... even before that day too. Why was I walking away from it, again? 'Oh! yes... yes, that is why...' When I opened my eyes for the first time in my life, I saw a wall, Four walls, actually. Three walls were white and one was brown. I did not like the sight of that particular wall at all. It was probably because it was different. You see, I don't like things that are different. Everything should obey a set rule. Nothing should be different then other. I hated things that are unique. As did the old man who gave me candy every day. Yes, there was a old kindhearted man who visited me everyday. He always gave me a candy whenever he came to see me. whenever he visited me he would say the following: "Your are the same as me. I am you. you are me. We are not different. you are not different. I am not different. We all are same, same, yes." I did not know what it meant. But it felt like it was something important. So, I always nodded when he said it. Then he would laugh, for some reason. Seeing that I would laugh too, though my laughing was a imitation of the old man's. So, it sounded a bit weird. The candy he used to give me was really tasty, they had this certain fell to it. Well, you had to eat it to know what it actually felt like. It was not something that could described be in words. Though, after eating the candy I my vision started getting blurry and mind got numb all the time. As creepy as it sounds i really liked the felling a lot. Because, in that particular moment of the day i felt as if i was alive. For some reason. Don't know why though. Maybe be because the old man played with me only in that time of the day. So, i was really fond of the old man and his teachings. That is why i always felt that every thing should be the same. So to be as far as possible from the brown wall i walked away from it all the time. but when ever reached a certain point, i would bump into a wall. and i would turn left and start walking again but then eventually reach another wall and bump into it. and i always found myself in front of the same brown wall again. i hate. i hate it a lot. ----Thanks for reading.

I’m finally free. I’m free to do what I want, I can eat whenever I please and whatever I’m craving. I’m no longer shackled to anybody. I am my own person. so why do i feel so empty? __ why do i feel like i have no purpose? __ I push these thoughts aside, storing them in a box and dragging them far, far away. Maybe dig a hole and throw them in. I am no longer anybody’s experiment and I should be happy. so why aren’t i happy? i make these unruly claims with no evidence. __ Anything is better than that, being forced to undergo torturous experiments. And for what? Being shackled to a chair, being fed food laced with little bits of poison, trapped in a building crawling with guards, lest anybody sneak in and kill me. And for who?

Maybe death would have been better. Maybe in death I would have free will. Maybe. 9 years I spent locked in that hell hole. Traded between foster parents like a toy. Before they eventually gave me away. After they decided I could never be like a daughter. After they decided I shouldn’t be forced upon anyone else. “We can’t ruin anybody else’s life like you’ve ruined ours.” I was 9 when I was given to the lab. I was 13 when they decided to stop treating me like a human. 15 when they started torture. 18 when they finally gave me my freedom. 18 when I was tossed onto the street like a rag doll with nowhere to go.

So I sit here today. Underneath a bridge. Pigeons my only companions. With nothing to do except wait for deaths cold embrace.

I remeber they would try to see how far they could push me before I felt pain. They got tasers and put them to the highest setting. To see if I could withstand it. ** **I remeber they would try to force my mind to escape. To jump somewhere else. To leave my body. They would see how long I could stay away for. They prodded my body, whilst I watched. They got whips and beat my body. Just to see if I could still feel it. They starved me. Trying to see how long my body could survive for. They starved me for days.

But yet I feel nothing now. I feel no overwhelming emotions. I feel an absence. I feel a dark abyss where my feelings should be. I feel nothing but pain. A dull throbbing on the edge of my consciousness. Night without moon. A star without planets. A home without a person. I am an ocean filled with nothing but pain. I learnt to throw my wishes away long ago. But today I wish for one thing. I wish for release. Whatever that may be. Whatever it includes. I wish for release.

You are born with a name. You think you have known your parents, your siblings, your family. You have your childhood stories - stories of love and curiosity. Your have your Childhood friends and some become best friends you share your whole world with. Then you go to school and have a whole new universe that shapes your growing self. Treachery, betrayal, love, ambition, success and failure - all that builds you slowly into who you are today.

Sometimes, there is something in your dreams, a recurring dream that has always made you feel a bit uneasy. You see yourself in a mirror, but it is not you who looks back. It is a sad stranger trying to say something and then the image slowly blurs and vanishes.

This dream has always made you feel uneasy as if some deep secret has been buried in your body. You learn to live with it by ignoring it. After all you can't do anything about it. It is just a bad dream.

One day, you notice small violet circles on your left hand. Only a couple of hours later they have doubled. You panic and rush to the nearest hospital. Your ID cannot be verified. You scream in panic. The whole world seems to be collapsing like a false decor of poorly staged second-rate film. And then all those blurry dreams rush to you and scream in your face - You are not you. Your body, like a treacherous friend continues to exhibit growing violet circles now on both of your hands. All you know You are seized with fear and paranoia. You lose ground overwelemd with one single thought - Who am I? What is happening with me?

In only 4 short years if you continue to cooperate you could be free. Ready to use your new skills for the greater good of the republic. If you are exceptionally talented and cooperative pop it could be even sooner. I blink and consider my options

Does it count as an experiment when they put you on drugs because they don’t like that you are different. You are underage you don’t have a say. You ask for blue hair for Christmas You are instead instructed to take speed. The one thing you had going for yourself was cross country. You were in the junior Olympics you were a well oiled machine and then you were passed out on the trail a side effect of some drug that has since been taken off the market

I've been experimented on My entire life Or at least I think so

I'm stabbed with a needle And given poison And they see if I still stay

They throw rocks at me To see if I cry But I hide my pain inside

They mix chemicals behind my back Then lie about what they mixed And I drink it all

I think they're experimenting Just to see my reaction Because who hurt others for fun?

Am I perfect yet? Am I fully finished? I feel— Nothing, really No emotions plague me I just want it to stop I just want my creator To finally See me as something Worthy Of their love

I’ve read about love And families and children Are they the parent? Taking care of me With the pricking And prodding of my skin The constant tear and stitches of limbs Eye modifications Lip, ears Are they the parent, Taking care of their small child?

I don’t think so I don’t even know why I’m here Why my creator chose To create something Such as me

A doll I’ve seen pictures, read books I looked exactly like those things Porcelain steel Eyes that were more blank Than clear paper Painted lips on my robotic face

But I have a heart Not like the other mechanical ones I see in my creators other creations My heart is beating, A soft, squishy muscle inside my chest Is that why my creator chose to keep me still? Because I am somewhat like them? Because I have the same muscle in my chest?

I don’t know

I don’t know why they cry at night Holding me tight in their bed I don’t understand why they whisper “Darling” into my ears with such fever I don’t understand why I look so Much Like the woman in their old, blurry photos

What am I? Why am I still here? Why do I have a heart, but nothing else Like them? Like my creator Like the people, characters in My books, my shows? What AM I?!

My heart beats rapidly And my creator jumps as they check on my monitor

“Holly! Holly, darling, calm down! What’s wrong?” They come up to me where I sit at our kitchen table, fork in hand, food untouched, taking my metallic hands into their own fleshy, warm ones. “What’s one? Do I need to change something else?”

I shake my head, heart pounding faster. Hot beads of water well up in my eyes. “What am I! I’m not normal, am I? WHAT AM I????”

They shake their head and kiss the tears on my cheek. The warmth of their lips calm me for a single moment, and I take my hands from theirs to wipe my face.

“Oh dear,” they sigh, “it seems your memory core is acting up again, Holly.” They peer into my eyes; my eyes zoom into their face unconsciously to see more.

“You’re my wife, dear, even in death and recreation—you are my wife.”

(Three hours of sleep did me well! I feel _so _much better. Thank you for reading and have a great day! 😊)

Frankanjean was a disabled person from birth not able to go out and do as much as you wanted as a child he was experimenting on by giving gene therapy. They gave him like super immune system subway cybernetic implants such as legs eyes to stop his body from destroying the cells in the body, he was able to leave a normal life but also he excelled physically in sports which gave him an edge. I’ve been known to the fact a genetic cyborg organism. He was different and he felt different and was glad that he had other opportunity to lead a normal life. The cost was it was very expensive for this sort of treatment and experimentation. It wasn’t free and had to be very careful not to hurt himself because the implants would break or fail. He needed to have regular screening. He needed to carry a portable battery to power the implants Also needed to make sure that he had had a good healthy diet so that gene therapy would work so he wasn’t disciplined and not so reckless. Mentally it was quite a strain and thought that he was humanities last cure hope and cure to find new medicines for other people based on what they saw on how this technology was affecting his body long term. There was some question the ethics of this experiment they felt that they had just evolved a human being. He was some kind of a mutant that he was really not human and they felt that he was a threat to the rest of society and humanity itself.

Needles poke Fingers prod The white coats enter My room of four walls Stark and white Are the walls and my door They open once a day To show me more More of the burning The sting and the pain The comes and never leaves My every day I’m just an object Their favorite toy Tug and scratch Rub and peel Goes my endless wheel And when I sleep After they leave I think of this room I’ll never leave I’m merely and object A doll to play Worthless worthless worthless I am always

————

I wanted to make this confusing and chaotic , like how the speakers mind would be, so I hope I achieved that. Thanks for reading, have a nice day!!!❤️❤️❤️

I toss and turn in this bed that isn’t mine, the sheets scratching my skin, the blankets barely keeping me warm. I’m tempted to ask for another blanket, but then the staff will know that I’m not asleep, which will be seen as a “regression” in my treatment. Which means a longer stay. Which means a higher chance of being Wiped.

So I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep when the night nurses come in and check on me, to make sure I’m not dying or trying to, but I would never do that. A suicide attempt would for sure mean being Wiped. And I am not trying to get Wiped.

My parents never understood the idea that some people’s brains work differently than theirs, that mine made me really sad and nervous all the time. They just couldn’t fathom the idea that maybe their “perfect” daughter isn’t like that. That maybe there are some things about me that aren’t exactly what they want.

So that’s how I ended up here, Braeden’s Center for Psychiatric Care. The “best” mental health treatment center in the world, according to my parents. And this is because of one special treatment method that no one else has, Wiping. Removing all memories but basic human functions, walking, talking, eating, etc in attempts to remove whatever trigger event that may have incited whatever is “wrong” with you.

It’s an incredibly risky procedure, but no one really knows what happens in the operating room besides that whenever someone comes out, they’re a new person. But a lot of people don’t come out, and if they do, they don’t know their name, who their family is, not even the most recent thing that happened to them before.

Thank God Wiping isn’t the first resort when you come to Braedon’s. Since it’s so risky, it’s used as a last resort, when they feel that there is truly no hope left for you. When in reality, people have gone on for such a long time being successful with treatment approaches like exposure or group therapy. But Dr. Braedon, the head of the Wiping department, doesn’t understand that. He thinks that Wiping is truly what’s best for the patient.

They’re also engineering medications that are supposed to numb all emotions, then patients are taught how to feel happiness.

I’ve been here three weeks, and I’ve been threatened with Wiping exactly four times. Apparently, the doctors threaten Wiping a lot more than they actually do it, hoping that a scare tactic might just be the cure.

“Good morning, Jeanine,” Dr. Webber says, adjusting her glasses on the crook of her crooked nose.

I fidget in my chair, picking at the seam of my shirt. “Morning,” I whisper, letting my brown ringlet curls fall into my face.

“How did you sleep last night?” she asks, pulling out her notepad.

“Fine,” I lie. “Slept through the night.”

“Good, good.” She writes something down with her pen on her notepad.

“I’ve been feeling better, as well,” I lie, again. “Happy.”

Dr. Webber looks up, and makes eye contact with me, then sighs. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure if I believe you. About either of the statements that you just made. For one, you’ve been falling asleep in groups regularly. A sign of fatigue and a lack of sleep. And, you’ve barely been eating. Barely been getting out of bed unless you’re required to. Both of those are signs that your depression has worsened.”

“Worsened?” I exclaim. “You think I’m worse than when I came in?”

Dr. Webber eyes me and takes a note.

She does have a point, though. No food looks appetizing, no activities seem to have any benefit more than staying in bed all day. I’ve been dreadfully tired for like, ever, and I’m sadder than I’ve ever been. But she doesn’t need to know that. Tears come into my eyes, and I feel one fall down my cheek. Is she going to have me Wiped? Is she going to send me somewhere else where they can actually help me?

“We’d like to have your parents come in. I’ll speak to them before you do, make sure that they know the expectations and limitations to what they can say to you. They would like to be involved in the next steps, and ultimately have the final decision on what we do next.”

My parents? The ones who sent me to this hell on earth? Why would they want to be involved? They basically sent me away, okay with the idea that I might come back not remembering them. How could they just waltz in here and pretend like they love me and make all the decisions that will affect my life?

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, quietly. “Do they have to come?”

“You’ve never shared any dislike for your parents. Is there anything you would like to share, Jeanine?”

“No.”

“Very well then.”

My roommate, Paula was Wiped six days ago, and spends her time humming senseless tunes to herself in bed. Using the lever on the back of the bed to go up and down. Trying to do anything to occupy her time. The only reason she’s still here is to make sure there were no complications from the procedure. Then she’s free to go. Free to go back to her life. Or whatever is left of it.

“Morning, morning, morning,” she says, singsongy as I return from my session with Dr. Webber. She leans against her pillow and lets the headrest go up and down, up and down. Her black bangs have grown over her eyes, so she has to tuck them behind her ears so she can see me. She’s dressed in the typical Braedon’s uniform - white t-shirt and baggy blue pants that you have to pull up every three seconds to keep them from falling down.

“Morning,” I say, slipping back into bed, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders, pulling my only comfort in this world close to my chest, my years old teddy bear that was gifted to me as a baby.

“I’m almost ready to go home, they say,” she says, looking out the window by her bed. “I can’t wait to meet my family and my friends.”

She can’t wait to meet her family and friends. She can’t wait to meet her family and friends. S h e c a n t w a i t t o m e e t h e r f a m i l y a n d f r i e n d s. Because she doesn’t know them. In her brain she never did. She can’t remember anyone who she cares about. She can’t remember… anything.

My breathing begins to quicken, I touch a hand to my chest as my breaths come out louder and louder, heavier and heavier.

“D-do you understand what they did to you, Paula?” I ask, tears threatening to fall down my face.

“They fixed me.”

“There was nothing broken about you!” I exclaim. “You were struggling, not defective!”

“I don’t remember. Maybe I was broken.”

“Of course you don’t remember, they Wiped you!”

“Wiped? What does that mean?” She looks genuinely confused. Because of course they didn’t tell her the horrible things that they did to her. They just told her that they fixed her.

“What does that mean?” she repeats. “What did they do to me?” she says, her voice quiet.

“They took your memories away,” I whisper. “They took away your identity.”

Paula looks around the room, maybe looking for an answer, or a nurse to confirm or deny what I just told her, or a nurse to take me away from her.

She brings her knees up to her chin and begins humming her nonsense tunes again, rocking back and forth. Tears stream down her face, and I want to go over and hug her, to tell her how sorry I am that this is her reality. That this is what she’s going to have to live with for the rest of her life. But, I decide that she probably wants nothing to do with me right now, so I just cover my head with my blanket and pretend that I’m somewhere else. Anywhere but here.