cw: non-consent; fear; brainwashing; captivity
You weren’t sure how long it had been this time. You only knew that these moments of even minimal lucidity were becoming less frequent. The moments when the contrast between the security windows, the heavy bolts on the apartment door to which you did not have the keys, and the cameras (both obvious and, you were sure, hidden) and your relaxed, almost blissful demeanour became just the slightest bit unsettling. The moments where whatever had taken hold of your psyche began to wane just enough for the prickling at the back of your mind to warn you of its artificiality.
You couldn’t bring your body, or even most of your mind, to act with any kind of urgency, even as that very fact deepened the pit of dread and fear in your stomach. You didn’t know how long it had been since your last opportunity to look for a way out, and you didn’t know when, or even if, your next one would be. You could feel yourself fading, your resistance waning. You knew you should be terrified, which made the overwhelming docility all the more unnerving.
You thought you could recall having checked the doors and windows for a way out many times, and you didn’t know how long your vague almost-lucidity would last, so you decided to focus on finding something inside the apartment that could help you. It wasn’t like you had any other choice, anyway.
You strolled placidly around, checking the sparse bedroom, the dresser that kept being refilled, foiling any attempts you had made to use your clothing to track how long you had been there. Anything in the kitchen that could break security glass. The dumbwaiter that delivered your food.
Finally, you were forced to contend with the door you had been avoiding. The door to the second bedroom of the apartment. The door that was locked with a code rather than a key. The door of which the mere thought filled your body with a gentle pleasure that the lucid part of your mind correctly read as a threat.
The lucid part of you was petrified. You didn’t know what was in there; you only knew that whatever was in there was what had changed you so. You only knew that your search for a way out always ended in this room. Even knowing this, the split-second thought of “maybe there’s something in there that could help...” meant you’d already lost.
You knew it was a mistake the moment your hand reached out and automatically inputted the code on the door on the first attempt.
You didn’t know the code.
...how did you know the code?
Once inside the room, just like all the times before,
...when did you walk into the room?
you put on the helmet that blocked out all vision and hearing besides what you were shown.
...wait, no, you needed to search the room, what were you doing?
You automatically placed your wrists and ankles into the shackles on the chair, just as you were conditioned to,
...when had you even sat down?
and they snapped shut, trapping you in the device.
The suddenness and harshness of the feeling of confinement broke you out of the spell, but it was already too late. You thrashed uselessly in your bonds, and the last thought that was yours before the helmet powered on was one of relief. Relief that your mind and body were finally, finally responding properly, relief that the panic was finally flowing through your nerves, your veins, your muscles the way it was supposed to.
And, just like all the other times, your body began to relax and settle, even feel good, as the terror was washed away and reduced once again to a vague sense that something was just wrong that would lie dormant until the next time it became strong enough to prickle the back of your mind.
At least, until that was changed, too.
izzy806
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
