A creaking sound makes me snap my eyes open and sit up against the concrete wall, cowering in the corner, knowing what’s about to happen. A stream of light peeks through the crack of the door, illuminating a small patch of the floor. He comes in, hauling something that could be a metal chair behind him in one hand.
“I want to go home,” I say weakly, my voice rough from not being used for a while, but I already know the answer. I say the same thing every time he comes to visit me, and every time I get the same answer.
“And I want to be president, but I can’t see that happening anytime soon. You should accept your fate, love.” He sounds weary and I can hear him rustle around the room. It makes me nervous; I know he’s going to prick my arm again, but I don’t want my head to be cloudy anymore. Dread begins to form in the pit of my stomach and my voice shakes slightly.
“Why do you keep me here?” Another thing I already know the answer to. It’s for your own good.
“It’s for your own good,” he repeats as every other time I’ve asked, and I can hear impatience seeping into his voice. He knows I already know the answer. I don’t know why I keep asking the same questions, but maybe I’m hoping for a different answer, more information, something else than what I get. Anything else than what I get.
The metal clangs against the concrete floor as he places the chair by my bed and walks back to the door. I can see him stretching his arm around the corner, and there is a moment of complete darkness, complete stillness, and then the room is filled with a blinding light once again. I whimper and hide my face in the nook of my elbows, to shield my eyes from the harsh, fluorescent light.
“So,” he starts and the sound of metal scraping against the floor indicates that he has sat down on the chair. “You probably know why I’m here today.” Is it day? It could be the middle of the night for all I know. I nod into my arm, the light still too bright for me to lift my head.
“Look at me,” he orders and I reluctantly lift my head from the crook of my elbow, my eyes still closed against the light. “Look at me!” His tone is more aggressive this time, and I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to adjust, but I can make out his dark silhouette in the white light. “Thank you,” he says with a hint of a satisfied smile in his voice. “Now, it’s time for your daily dose.” I shake my head, slowly at first and then more violently. I don’t want to do this again.
“Please, no,” I whisper and look up at him, fear crashing over me in tsunami waves. He doesn’t answer, just pulls out the syringe and bottle of clear liquid. The syringe is filled halfway and he walks towards me, the needle looming over me. As he draws nearer, he blocks out the light from the ceiling lamp, putting me in a small shadow.
“Give me your arm,” he says and stretches his hand towards me. I continue to shake my head and turn away from him as if that would make him give up and go away. It doesn’t and he grabs my shoulder, turning me to face him before taking my arm to insert the needle.
“No!” I yell and thrash in his hard grip. “No, stop! Stop!” I push and kick against him to get him away from me even though I know it’s futile. The sleeve of his shirt rises in the struggle, and my eyes lock on a spot of black ink marking his arm. I know that spot of ink. I’ve seen it only once in my life, this being the second time. My body freezes and stills in his grip, my eyes locked on the tattoo.
The prick of the needle is barely felt as my body falls limp. My eyes roll back into my head as the liquid takes effect, streaming through my veins. All I can see is the tattoo before everything around me fades away.
I can see the scene play out in my mind’s eye, an actual memory, not a dream this time, pushed far back into my subconscious, begging to be forgotten. Now it’s pulled out, and I can’t look away. It is as if I’m standing on the sidelines, unable to intervene or warn the little girl. Unable to tell her to forget about the flowers and just run home. All I can do it watch.