Miles
Doc lets me watch TV now. He knows I'm not going to run, or at least trusts me. He lets me roam around the house. but keeps the front and back doors locked as well as the door to his surgery, his bedroom and his study. I assume because they have weapons and/or working phones in them. When he told me I was going allowed to roam freely around his mouth I was excited. I was bored sitting in my little bedroom with nothing to do. But now I'm just sitting in a different little room with nothing to do. Except, of course, watch the news.
Doc sits beside me, playing with my hair. I've gotten used to his kinder, gentler touches and affectionate gestures. He makes me desserts. He gives me presents and flowers and makes me feel special. Unlike my mother, who simply acknowledged my presence and help with indifference, Doc actually appreciates what I give him.
What is that exactly? I'm his test subject. But I'm his special test subject. His expeeiment. His tool - the paintbrush used to inspire the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with great beauty. He hand picked me. I have to feel lucky for that. I'm not a burden to Doc like I was to everyone else, because he chose me. For the first time in my life I'm wanted, not needed.
I nearly fall off the couch when a picture of mother appears onscreen. It's actually of her and I standing on the shores of the Dorset, five years ago before she got diagnosed. She's wearing a sundress and holding her hat on so it doesn't blow off in the wind. Her hair is long and dark. I barely recognise her anymore. I'm standing beside her in little blue swimming trunks. That day - that life - seems so far away now.
"Two months ago, Miles Hemming, a young boy from London, went missing from his local neighbourhood,"
Doc used to show me things like this all the time. News reports, paper articles all about me. The public ran searches and the police investigated my disappearance. They got desperate easily when not a single lead turned up, along with no evidence. They haven't mentioned it on the news or anything, but Doc says they'll have closed the case a long time ago. Declared me dead. So why this now?
I look up at Doc for information, but he seems just as clueless as I am. Staring intensely at the screen with intrigue. I suppose it's dangerous for him. He must feel such a constant anxiety, especially with a supposed development in my case. He must be scouting through every pathway of the forest inside is head, thinking of every second surrounding the moment of kidnapping me. It must be hard. It's hard not to feel sorry for him.
"This morning Miles' mother passed away. A long-suffering cancer patient of Millsburgh Hospital, she is reported to have experienced a sharp deterioration in her condition since the disappearance of her son,"
I don't know what to say. What can I say, and who to? There are no words to articulate what I'm thinking right now. And it's one thought. One constant, parasitic thought smashing through my skull and squirming it's way into my brain. It's all Doc's fault. A sharp decline in her condition. She never died of cancer. She died of a fucking broken heart, because fucking Doc couldn't control his sick fucking desires!
"Miles, are you alright?"
He's so calm. So uncaring. How can he not know what I feel?! I tear away from him, standing up in his living room. I must be shaking a lot, because my vision even seems surreal, like someone unqualified working a camera with hair-trigger movements. "Of course I'm not alright!" my voice cracks and breaks with devastated tears. "You killed her. You!"
He stands up slowly, holding up his hands in defence. "Miles, she was sick," he creeps closer, hands folding down. He's coming for a hug, to wrap his arms around me. Fucking comforting me! "She had cancer. I've been here the whole time. I didn't-"
"It's your fault! Yours!" I strike his face hard with a closed fist. He reels back, but I don't draw blood. Disappointing. He just stares at me in surprise and some confusion. Like he doesn't know what he's done. Gritting my teeth, I hurl the TV remote at his chest, which just bounces off. "Fuck up!"
I sprint through to my bedroom, binding my knees within my arms, drawn close to my chest. I can't even cry, it's like this room his a forcefield that blood out any kind of expression. This room. This damn room. I can't believe this is where I'm going to spend the rest of my life.
Doc
Well that... happened. There's a strange sensation in my chest. A covalent bond of feelings so different in electronegativity. One is relief. I got terrified when that report came on about Miles. I'd hate to lose another subject to my own lack of pre-planning. The other is... something I don't define. It's not a good feeling. In fact, it's eating away at me. At my demeanour. It's been changing me for a while. Just subtly, but enough that I've noticed. I've been nicer to Miles, I want to grow closer to him. I want him to love me, and I want myself to reciprocate that.
It's so bizarre!
So this feeling is here. It's settled within me now. I've accepted it as part of my nature. Walking into my surgery, I run my fingers across my equipment. Picking up each implement and closely examining it. I remember each one I've used on Miles, and wonder how many more I'll use in the future. Maybe all of them. That'll be a new record. None of my previous subjects survived more than eight experiments. Miles is on number four.
He should never have spoken to me like that. Damn brat.
"Damn brat!"
I stumble, have to clutch the bed to remain upright. That voice. It's not one I've heard in a long time. It's haunting. Visions flash in front of my eyes, brightly sparse hues of neon blasts. Exaggerated colours, blocked oranges and purples and greens. It's all so distinct. Blotches of paint smeared across a canvas to disguise the blood underneath. Why must I be so damn weak?!
"Show me respect! You better learn to shut your fuckin' mouth!"
"Go away!" I throw the scalpel, closest implement to my hand, into the wall. It pings and hangs there, stuck through the plaster by the blade. I keep imagining it piercing through his skull. "I can't become him...I can't act like this with Miles,"
I speak, enlightened by my epiphany. I had begun to slink into the depths of madness and can only now pull myself back out. Miles isn't a brat. He's suffering. I'm not weak. I'm human. I need to think of the opposite of what he told me. That's what all twelve of my therapists told me.
Only problem is, all twelve of my therapists are buried underneath my feet.
STAI LEGGENDO
An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)
Horror"Doc?" "Yes?" "Teach me to love you," A young boy, his view of normality shredded to pieces by the bleakness of his life, is kidnapped and kept captive by an insane doctor for experimentation and pleasure. It isn't long before the doomed souls fo...
