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Authors: Alexander Gordon Smith
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to the chamber.’The warden’s voice grew fainter as he walked away, but I could still make out what he was saying. ‘As soon as Number 208 has had his final procedure we can try him out on the child, see just how powerful that anger makes him.’
There was more, but it came from too far away. It didn’t matter. I understood what the warden had said. One more procedure and I’d be let loose, I’d be free. And neither hell nor high water would stop me tearing the life from those who had tried to kill me.
208
In my dream I lay next to the same kid who had haunted my sleep since the nectar had entered my veins. His bony body was strapped to an operating table, a splinter of shadow compared with my own muscled form as I lay beside him. I thought at first that the room we were in was empty, but then the darkness started to move and I realised there were wheezers all around us, their twitching limbs like insects running up and down the dark walls.
‘It’s time,’ said the kid, the one I knew had once been me. His face was calm, but beneath his tattered overalls I could see his ribs jutting up like rock through snow, rising and falling too fast. He was scared, and even in the fog of sleep it angered me.
‘Time for what?’ I asked, my growl so deep it made the table beneath me tremble.
‘Time to let go of me forever,’ the kid answered, and I could see that he was trying to hold back the tears. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Before I could answer the wheezers were approaching,their staggered movements making them look like puppets. Several grabbed hold of the kid’s arms and legs, but none tried to twist his gaze away from mine.
‘I don’t want to be you any more,’ I answered as another wheezer lifted a scalpel from the tray beside the table. ‘You’re weak. You’re pathetic.’
‘You’re wrong,’ the boy answered, and at last the fear broke through his paralysis and he started to struggle. The rest of his words came in short, sharp bursts as he fought the arms that held him. ‘It’s an illusion. I wasn’t strong, but at least I could think for myself. You’re the weak one, you’re letting them win. You can still stop them.’
I looked at his limbs, nothing more than matchsticks, the whites of his eyes so bright they seemed to light up the entire room. The thought that he was still in my head somewhere, still alive after everything they had done to me, made my stomach churn. He had no right to be there. I was done with him.
‘Please, Alex,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t want to die.’
The wheezer lowered its scalpel towards the boy’s chest and held it above his heart. Then it raised its piggy eyes to me and I nodded.
‘You died a long time ago,’ I said, watching as the scalpel blade vanished into the boy’s skin, a geyser of blood reaching skyward like one last bid for freedom. The kid screamed, and as much as I wanted to see him die I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I turned away, losing myself in the artificial night of the ceiling until the last wet breath had faded.
There was a shuffle of feet as the wheezers approached me, and I offered no resistance when the butcher pressed his dripping scalpel against my chest. There was pain, but pain was nothing new to me and I didn’t so much as flinch as the blade cut through my skin. Because it was a dream there were no bones beneath, just a hole stuffed with straw and twigs – almost like a bird’s nest. The wheezer laid the boy’s heart down in its new home, the organ still pumping despite the fact it wasn’t connected to anything.
‘Am I done?’ I asked, watching another wheezer thread some surgical wire through a hooked needle and start to sew me back up. They didn’t respond in words, but I could see from their gleaming obsidian eyes that their work was finished. The last stitch was knotted and they stepped back.
I looked round at the kid, sprawled on the table, dead eyes seeming to stare at the world a mile or so above
There was more, but it came from too far away. It didn’t matter. I understood what the warden had said. One more procedure and I’d be let loose, I’d be free. And neither hell nor high water would stop me tearing the life from those who had tried to kill me.
208
In my dream I lay next to the same kid who had haunted my sleep since the nectar had entered my veins. His bony body was strapped to an operating table, a splinter of shadow compared with my own muscled form as I lay beside him. I thought at first that the room we were in was empty, but then the darkness started to move and I realised there were wheezers all around us, their twitching limbs like insects running up and down the dark walls.
‘It’s time,’ said the kid, the one I knew had once been me. His face was calm, but beneath his tattered overalls I could see his ribs jutting up like rock through snow, rising and falling too fast. He was scared, and even in the fog of sleep it angered me.
‘Time for what?’ I asked, my growl so deep it made the table beneath me tremble.
‘Time to let go of me forever,’ the kid answered, and I could see that he was trying to hold back the tears. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Before I could answer the wheezers were approaching,their staggered movements making them look like puppets. Several grabbed hold of the kid’s arms and legs, but none tried to twist his gaze away from mine.
‘I don’t want to be you any more,’ I answered as another wheezer lifted a scalpel from the tray beside the table. ‘You’re weak. You’re pathetic.’
‘You’re wrong,’ the boy answered, and at last the fear broke through his paralysis and he started to struggle. The rest of his words came in short, sharp bursts as he fought the arms that held him. ‘It’s an illusion. I wasn’t strong, but at least I could think for myself. You’re the weak one, you’re letting them win. You can still stop them.’
I looked at his limbs, nothing more than matchsticks, the whites of his eyes so bright they seemed to light up the entire room. The thought that he was still in my head somewhere, still alive after everything they had done to me, made my stomach churn. He had no right to be there. I was done with him.
‘Please, Alex,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t want to die.’
The wheezer lowered its scalpel towards the boy’s chest and held it above his heart. Then it raised its piggy eyes to me and I nodded.
‘You died a long time ago,’ I said, watching as the scalpel blade vanished into the boy’s skin, a geyser of blood reaching skyward like one last bid for freedom. The kid screamed, and as much as I wanted to see him die I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I turned away, losing myself in the artificial night of the ceiling until the last wet breath had faded.
There was a shuffle of feet as the wheezers approached me, and I offered no resistance when the butcher pressed his dripping scalpel against my chest. There was pain, but pain was nothing new to me and I didn’t so much as flinch as the blade cut through my skin. Because it was a dream there were no bones beneath, just a hole stuffed with straw and twigs – almost like a bird’s nest. The wheezer laid the boy’s heart down in its new home, the organ still pumping despite the fact it wasn’t connected to anything.
‘Am I done?’ I asked, watching another wheezer thread some surgical wire through a hooked needle and start to sew me back up. They didn’t respond in words, but I could see from their gleaming obsidian eyes that their work was finished. The last stitch was knotted and they stepped back.
I looked round at the kid, sprawled on the table, dead eyes seeming to stare at the world a mile or so above
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