Chapter Thirty
Declan
There was no surprise when I woke up today.
I was comfortably in my bed without visitors, free to piss in peace.
Miss Paxon brought me some oatmeal and a set of clean clothes, then left to allow me to shower and get dressed.
Though I’m still barefoot and mad about the many things I’ve been subjected to, it’s good to have a small semblance of normalcy.
Hearing the granite wall begin to descend, I know Dr. Campos wants to speak with me again.
I make the quick jaunt across my holding cell and find an altogether new chair waiting for me.
It’s substantial. Oversized and made of old distressed wood, with studded leather straps on two of the legs and the arms, and another at the base of the headrest.
“Well hello again, Declan. Welcome back,” Doctor Campos greets me with enthusiasm.
“What the hell did you do to me?” I bark at him.
“Now, now. Have you learned nothing?” he replies as he closes a folder on his desk.
Rising from what he treats like his throne, he walks toward the partition.
“You are powerless in all of this. It would be—” He pauses, searching for the right word.
“—wise, yes, wise of you to cooperate from this moment on. I dare say, Declan, your life now depends on it.”
Miss Paxon strides to me in long exotic steps. Placing a hand on my lower back, she works to scoot me toward the wooden chair.
“Sit, Missster Roberts,” she says, tilting her gaze to the plank of wood where she expects me to plant my ass. I’m not going to fight her on it. Though she’s done heinous shit to me, I know it’s all him. He’s in charge. He forced her to torture me. I saw it in her eyes.
“What do you want from me?” I practically whine while Miss Paxon fastens my limbs and head.
“You drugged me, brought me to God only knows where, interrogated me, played that confusing tape, tortured me, sexually assaulted me, and now you’re threatening to what, kill me?
” I stare at him, expecting an explanation, but none comes.
“I have to admit, Doc,” I continue, “considering what it took for me to even need your help, I’m not so sure dying is the wrong choice. ”
“Declan,” Dr. Campos says, “I have all I need to assure your survival for as long as I require.” He grimaces at me as he goes on.
“Only when I determine you have no further use will I allow you to perish—if that’s your wish.
Besides, are you really complaining? I’ve observed the way you look at my assistant. ”
Assistant? Bullshit.
“Doc, you still haven’t told me what you did to me. You’re making demands, but I don’t know the rules of this particular game you’re playing.”
“Game,” he snarls. “I can assure you this is no game. You want to know what is going on, and I’m going to tell you. In the end, you will have told me two things: what happened to Daphne Brooks, and where she is at this moment.”
Walking back to his desk, Dr. Campos flips open a panel, exposing a new button unlike the others.
It’s the same shade of green as the substance Miss Paxon injected into my eye.
He presses it, but nothing obvious happens.
Then he casually closes the panel as if nothing has changed and takes a seat near the glass wall.
I can only sigh. There’s nothing I can say that will suffice, because I don’t know what happened to Daphne, nor where she is. It’s a mystery. Yet, Dr. Campos is determined to get what he wants from me.
“Declan,” he says, “you may not realize it, but your housing accommodations on that side are quite sophisticated.”
I glance around, expecting some trick, but there’s nothing new. Concrete, a door, a litany of dicks and other fuck toys, and the oppressive glass wall overlooking his office.
“There’s no use in looking,” he explains.
“The room hasn’t changed a bit. However, it is built to monitor any subject within.
For example…” He walks over to the wall on his right where he grabs ahold of a large bar and pulls.
It tilts like a lever then snaps back in place when he releases his hold.
A giant screen lowers from beyond the lighting overhead.
“Nice TV, doc,” I remark.
“This is no television, Declan,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat. The doctor presses a button on the remote he retrieves, and an image of a body appears. “I present to you, yourself. As the room you’re in sees you, of course.”
I step forward to take a closer look. The massive screen displays an x-ray view of—me. It resembles a negative of an old photograph. But for the head. I point to the top of the picture, as if to ask what is that? The skull glows with that same neon green.
"As you no doubt recall." The doctor begins again. "You have been injected with a custom serum."
"Yeah, how could I forget?" I reply sarcastically.
"That very serum," the doctor persists, "has a couple of functions.
The first is that it allows the receptors built into this room to communicate with a computer program I have running.
The room sends a signal over here, and depending on what that signal is, another signal is sent back.
" He looks at me for a moment. "Are you with me so far, Declan? "
"As with you as I’m likely to be," I answer. "Look, I know this is going way off topic for you, but what are my friends and family supposed to think?"
The doctor looks disappointed by my interruption, but responds in stride, "What do you mean, are you wondering what your friends and family are going through with you missing?"
"You're quick, doc," I say, egging him on. "My girlfriend is likely beside herself at this point. I was supposed to call her after our last session at your house, but clearly, that hasn't happened."
"You know what, Declan?" the doctor asks cynically. "I'm glad you asked. It is my favorite part of my whole plan."
I'm surprised to hear there was forethought to this plan. I figured the doctor was simply tormenting me randomly, grasping at straws, if you will. "What plan?" I ask.
"I spoke with your mother, your brother, and your friend Kent," the doctor explains.
"We had a little—sit-down. I explained your need for immediate treatment, and with little objection, they agreed I should be the one to administer such treatment.
And." He smiles. "Here you are. I'm sure they are quite capable of filling your girlfriend in.
Now, if you're done distracting me, I believe I'll get back to—"
"You won't get away with this, Doc," I whine through gritted teeth, pissed off, yet helpless.
"The other real function," the doctor says, picking up where I so rudely interrupted, "is much more detailed.
My serum has, at this point, spread itself to your visual cortex—the part of your brain that interprets what you see.
" He stops to grab a sip of water from the glass atop his desk, then continues, "In a moment I'm going to start asking you a series of questions, Declan, and when I do, you're going to visualize the answer that your mind understands to be the truth.
If you choose to answer with exactly what you see, nothing will happen, and we will move on to the next question. "
"And if I don't tell you exactly what I see?" I ask, hoping the question is rhetorical.
"Actually," the doctor says, "it's a bit more complex.
If you do anything other than tell me the first thing your mind sees—for example, if you even attempt to think of another answer by accessing the creative part of your brain, in another hemisphere of your cerebral corte, at that point you will feel a bit of pressure in your head. "
"Pressure, doctor?" I ask. "What kind of pressure? Like the kind you mashed my balls with?"
"Perfectly put, Declan. It will be exactly like that,” he confirms with jubilance.
“If you attempt to give me any answer other than the first thing your mind sees, the computer attached to this giant screen over here sends a signal back to the receptors in the walls of your room. That signal causes the serum now in your brain to squeeze the inside of your cranium in just the same way as Miss Paxon demonstrated with your—genitals.” He stops to take another sip before rambling on.
“At first it only feels a bit uncomfortable. However, after a few wrong answers you’ll begin to get a migraine.
After another wrong answer, it will start to hurt enough to make your sight blur.
You can imagine where it goes from there. ”
“You're insane. Absolutely insane,” I bark.
“Furthermore,” he adds. “This little remote I’m using to operate the screen…
” He shakes it in front of me to taunt. “Has a little red button at the bottom. This button gives me a measure of—” He pauses deliberately.
“—discretion, if you will. So, if you give me an answer that the machine thinks is genuine, but I find insulting or otherwise inappropriate, I can press the little red button, and the machine acts as if you gave me a wrong answer. In short, if you don’t cooperate, I have the ability to squeeze your brain until you either pass out or your brain becomes goo. ”
I watch in horror as the doctor displays a villainous smile. My throat constricts, and my heart pounds in my chest. As if these nut jobs haven’t put me through enough already. He can’t be serious. He’s a fucking doctor. He claimed to have morals.
Doctor Campos slowly moves his free hand toward the remote, his index finger extending, as he presses the red button.
My vision blurs as my eyes spasm, and I grab my head with both hands.
I try to yawn, as if I’m on an airplane adjusting to the cabin pressure.
It’s noticeable, but not entirely unpleasant.
Once adapted to the pressure, I stare at this man, who seems to have completely lost his grip on sanity.
“I’m going to take your silence as understanding, Declan,” he continues.
“I’ve also taken the precaution of having you securely strapped to the furniture to ensure you don’t hurt yourself should you have a seizure.
” He pauses again, looking into my stare to confirm just how serious his little experiment is.
“First, I am going to ask you a few basic questions to make sure the machine is calibrated correctly.” He goes back to his desk, takes a seat, and reopens the folder in front of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Now remember, if you even think of giving me an answer other than the first thing that comes to mind, the machine squeezes your brain. And if you take more than three seconds to begin explaining the first image in your mind, I squeeze your brain.”
“Fuck you!” I shout.
“That will be the last time you use that foul language with me during this session, Declan,” he snaps back.
“Unless you enjoy having the inside of your skull crushed. Or better still, I can have Miss Paxon provide another demonstration.” He takes a deep, steadying breath, inhaling calm air and exhaling his anger. “Now, what is your name?”
“What?” I answer, and I’m immediately brought to my knees, my eyes rolling back for a brief moment as I cry out, “Aaah!”
“I warned you, Declan,” the doctor says. “Let's try this again. Your name—what is your name?”
“Declan Angus Roberts,” I blurt in a hurry.
“And how long have you been in my care?” he fires off another question.
“I don’t know, doc,” I reply. The machine remains silent, not sending another signal, because I truly have no idea how long I've been trapped in this prison-like facility with no real view of the outside world and no sense of time.
“Fair enough, Declan,” the doctor concedes. “Then how many siblings do you have?”
"One, a brother," I reply.
"Very good," says the doctor. "The machine is reading you perfectly."
"Glad I can help," I say with a bogus chuckle.
"Do you know Daphne Brooks?" The doctor asks.
"I used to," I respond quickly, and again, nothing happens.
"What do you mean by 'used to,' Declan?" Dr. Campos continues his questioning.
"I haven't seen her in a very long time, Doc," I answer promptly, and the machine does nothing.
"When did you last see Daphne Brooks?" he asks.
"Six years ago," I say. The machine still does nothing, causing the doctor to pause.
"I asked, when did you last see Daphne Brooks?" he repeats the question.
"Six years ago," I give the same response, and nothing happens.
"You will not lie to me," the doctor spews, nearly foaming at the mouth in frustration, and he presses his little red button. The serum clamps down on my brain a little more, and my hands grab the sides of my head, trying to alleviate the pressure.
I want to scream that I’m not lying, but my jaw is frozen, unable to move through the searing pain.
"Declan," says the doctor with a grimace. "I advise you start cooperating with me." He takes a deep breath, cools his composure, and asks, "Now, where is Daphne Brooks?"
"I—" I'm breathing heavily, almost to the point of vomiting, "I don't—"
"TELL ME!" the doctor shouts and presses the button again.
"Aaah!" I cry, louder, and louder still.
The doctor pushes the button again, and again, with a smirk of pure evil across his face. I topple over on the concrete floor, my body seizing like a fish out of water while Doctor Campos watches in amusement.
"We are done. For now."