Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
I remember.
I remember, I remember, I remember.
She would read me parts of a book—the Bible—on Sundays. I remember being especially interested in the last book of the Bible. What was it called?
Revelations.
She spoke of a burning lake of fire.
It was mesmerizing.
Everything turns bright white as my body jolts with unimaginable pain. It blocks out everything, including the maddening song, as I succumb to the sheer horror of every nerve ending feeling as though they’ve been set on fire. My screams are otherworldly.
And then the assaulting pain subsides.
Sweat, mixed with salty tears, streaks down my face. I smell the scent of blood. My wrists burn and my heart races.
Someone enters the room.
“I think he juiced you up a little too much this time,” the woman says, making a clicking sound of disproval with her tongue. “You nearly broke through your restraints.”
She’s blurry because of my tears. I want to meet her eyes and beg for her to release me. Not that she will. The whistling continues in the background, though someone has turned it back down.
“I’ll get someone in here to bandage you up. Sit tight and be a good boy.”
I writhe against the restraints as she starts to leave. She doesn’t care that I’m dying from madness. No one cares.
Despair chases away the lingering pain and coats me with a numbness that is welcoming. Why do I always fight it? It’d be much better if I let this torture just end me once and for all.
My mind tries to recall what it was I was thinking about before the burning, electrocuting sensation, but nothing materializes.
White, blank nothingness is all I can think of.
And the whistling.
I wonder if I’m getting used to it now. The music seems to calm me in a way that floods me with warmth and contentedness. Maybe instead of fighting the music, I should embrace it.
With dry, cracked lips, I purse them and softly blow air through them, mimicking the whistling. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll whistle.
Something loud jars me from my memory. A glass breaking. Someone dropped something. People laugh at the person’s clumsiness.
There’s a fuzziness clawing at my brain, but I fight it away. The three men are still staring at me—watching, waiting.
For what?
I have to get out of here.
Panic, a familiar emotion from a lifetime ago, courses through me, shooting life into my muscles and forcing them to move. I don’t manage a polite goodbye, instead scramble for an escape.
The song being played is an enemy.
I can feel it crawling over my skin and soaking into my pores, infecting my bloodstream.
Now that I’m aware of what’s happening, I’m able to do things to stop from focusing on it. I hum a song Kaitlyn always sings while I look for Romy.
Focus on my niece’s song.
Find Romy.
Those are my two objectives. Nothing else matters. Frantic energy pulses through me, invigorating me and making me feel as though I’m waking from a deep dream. I pass several people who are swaying to the music, eyes glazed over with happiness.
I want to scream at them all to snap the fuck out of it. When I accidentally shoulder check a guy I pass, he doesn’t even grunt or get angry.
Someone is doing this to us.
They’re playing a damn song to lull us into a sense of happiness or complacency. To what end, I have no fucking idea. It’s real, though.
It’s a nice event.
Everyone’s so friendly.
If only we could pass this feeling to our friends, families, and even foes. This could be a new era. President Huxley truly is the best man in the position we’ve ever had.
I nearly stumble over my own two feet as my brain works overtime to grab the thoughts that repeat from early and make sense of it.
A cold, oily sensation washes over me.
I don’t think this event is nice. People aren’t so friendly. If anything, I’ve met a few assholes. And President Huxley isn’t all he pretends to be.
This is a message being fed to us.
Through the music.
We willingly walked right into their trap.
It’s obvious to me what this is. I know this because I’ve not only been a perpetrator of it, but a victim as well.
There’s a dark agenda at play here.
We in the psyop world call it subliminal messaging.
And President Huxley is at the helm of it.
How do I know this, besides the fact this event is in his honor?
I read his books.
He’s well-versed on this topic, among others.
We have to get the hell out of here.
Romy
I’m surprised to say I’m really enjoying this event.
Everything’s so lovely and the people are nice.
Maybe it’s the wine making me feel so warm and giddy. Maybe it’s Caius.
Bastian is holding court, telling one of his impressive stories, and we all listen with rapt attention. Megan, beside me, stares at him as if he hangs the moon. My heart clenches and I try to imagine her being my sister-in-law one day. I would be a great aunt.