When I was six, I saw the red sign above my bed again. It said N.P.O. in big
white letters and “nothing by mouth” in small letters underneath. I felt my
heart skip a few beats before it formed a lump in my throat. I contemplated
feelings of sadness and betrayal while pondering my inevitable fate.
My first thought was that surely someone made a mistake in the night and
hung the sign over the wrong bed. But I knew better.
When I asked a nurse for a drink of water I saw her glance at the sign.
She answered with a friendly smile and said “NO, but your daddy left you
some pickled pigs feet … your favourite, and you can have them
when you come back”. Come back? I didn’t say anything, I knew better.
My lips were intensely parched and dry. A drink of cold water would have
been nice …anything to quench my thirst and provide relief for my
cracked lips. So I continued picking the dead skin off my lips until they bled.
It seemed to pass the time anyway, while everyone else ate breakfast.
Shortly after, a male nurse came into the room. I saw him show a piece of
paper to the duty nurse and she pointed to me. He came over to my bed,
released the brakes and said we were going for a ride.
I knew exactly what he meant. A RIDE TO HELL.
And he pushed the bed out the door and down the hall to the elevator.
Once inside he pushed “B”. My suspicions were proving correct. B was
for basement. It was where all the experiments were performed.
I watched the numbers change as we descended into HELL. 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … B.
All was quiet.
A few seconds later the heavy gray doors rattled open.
He pushed the bed down a long dimly lit corridor which smelled like
floor wax mixed with Pine Sol.
There was a room at the end of the hall with the doors open wide, and we
were heading right for it. In my mind I was trying to block out the inevitable
torture, but there was nothing I could do about it now. So I just thought about
the pickled pig’s feet.
There were six or seven people in the room waiting for us to arrive; all wearing
faded green clothes. Their faces were covered with familiar green cloth tied
at the back. Only their eyes were exposed, revealing to me what I already
knew.
In the room there was a large overhead light that could be raised or lowered
from the ceiling, and several silver containers on the counter with surgical
instruments in them. Looking through the glass doors over the counter
I could see jars of cotton balls, popsicle sticks, gauze pads and band-aids.
I was transferred to a table under the bright light. No one spoke, but while
lying there it was easy to put names to all the faceless faces.
My eyes seemed intent on piercing the souls of my would-be abusers.
Around the table I easily recognized Doctors Dale, Abrahms, Israels, Singh,
Thompson, and Dr. Avery.
Yellow liquid was swabbed onto my chest,
followed by a green sheet with a hole in the middle, which was placed over me.
At the appropriate moment each doctor took hold of an arm or leg and held
me down so tight that I couldn’t move one inch, even if I wanted to.
I felt like a lamb for the slaughter.
Dr. Dale approached the table. When she turned toward me a feeling of fear
and betrayal gripped me. She leaned toward me brandishing a long silver needle.
My heart started pounding staccato. She arched over my chest and proceeded
to pierce the skin with the razor sharp point.With continuous pressure she
drilled that needle right into my bones, penetrating the depths of
my soul, into the marrow. With no anesthetic to dull the horrific pain,
I screamed and begged her to please stop. She was
relentless and completely oblivious to my plea for help. It was useless
to think anyone would save me, let alone care.
The whizzing of the drill caused blood and minute bits of ground
bone particles to fly around my head, and mixed with my salty tears
it formed a paste that caked onto my face and hair. When it was all over,
someone took me back to my room to sleep.
When I woke up, the sign was gone.
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Glorious Me 