Page 15 of Ravage

I was too angry to see it before, but it's becoming clear now. The society isn't the power-tripping hierarchy I thought it was. They are the protectors from the real monsters in Lilydale. Isthat what Damon meant by secrets? Was he protecting us all along?

If that's the case, I can't let these people win. Even if I'm going to die down here, I have to fight, otherwise more lives will be lost. Maybe that was my purpose all this time.

Still…

It's hard to drown out that little voice inside that wants to give up. There's a war inside my head—the difference is one side is fueled by my father's words, telling me I'm worthless, and making me believe I'm unlovable. The other side is a battleground, held up by the love I've come to know and receive.

It's stronger—because I'm not my father. While he didn't care enough to fight for me, when he damn well should have,myloveisstrong. I'll make sacrifices for the people I love. I'll fight for them, just as I know they are fighting for me.

I may not have known love, but we can still learn it. We don't have to become our trauma. We don't have to become the people who made us.

I'll never be him.

The door opens to the room and I lift my head weakly, mustering a glare at Dr. West. There's a butterfly bandage on his cheek and a red mark on his nose, and I can't help but feel a little sick sense of pride. He stares back at me with a touch of frustration, but remains composed.

"We'll be transporting you to an observation room," he says coolly, my eyes drifting to the doorway as three guards enter this time.

They lift me off the ground, careful to avoid the vomit, as they drag my incapacitated body from the room. I don't struggle—instead, I take the time to look around for anything that could help my escape. It just looks like a regular hospital, an administration station halfway down the hall, surrounded by closed rooms.

The staff are wearing key cards—some around their neck on lanyards, others dangling from their belts. I could try to steal one, but it's useless without the code.

As we approach a closed door, I squint my eyes as Dr. West types in the code. His body partially blocks my view, but I definitely see the number nine get pressed.

A buzzing noise brings me out of my thoughts as one of the guards pushes open the door, the room already bright with lights. I spot the familiar chair in the center of the room with leather straps, surrounded by machines. It reminds me of the first room I was in, but there's a large white drop-down screen positioned in front of the chair.

The guards throw me onto the chair, immediately reaching for the straps so as to not give me any opportunity to move. As I'm tied down, I spot Dr. Cromwell enter, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as she heads to a machine. It's a stark change in behavior, but I don't pay her any mind. She doesn't deserve my sympathy or pity—she made her choices.

Dr. West starts attaching small metal disks to my head, making me jerk away. It's useless as always, my body secured tightly against the chair. To my right, Dr. Cromwell wraps a tourniquet around my arm, grabbing a needle and syringe from a medical dish. She promptly stabs me, drawing blood as I let out a hiss.

"What are you doing?" I finally ask, watching as she seals the vial of blood and gives it a little shake.

Are they going to electrocute me again?

"Just taking a before sample," she mutters quietly.

I glance back at her colleague, eyes narrowing. "A before sample for what?"

Dr. West flicks his gaze to me lazily. "We're conducting a study on how electrical and chemical synapses in the brain respond to various emotions but release the same hormone—endorphins."

"That's not really a secret," I grumble. "Scientists well beyond your wisdom already know how that works."

His jaw ticks slightly at my insult. "It's a subjective test."

Meaning… You're the subject.

"Well, if you want to know what my brain looks like when I'm pissed off, then you'll have your answer."

The screen powers up in front of me, my attention automatically pulled away as curiosity gets the better of me. It's blank, illuminating a bright light, and I'm interested in finding out how they intend to change my feelings of anger. It's dominating, cloudy, and overwhelming—I'll never be happy down here.

"I've made a note with the time of the drug trial in case there's lingering analgesic in her system," Dr. Cromwell says. "The electroencephalogram is ready to go."

"Great," Dr. West responds. "Start the first test now."

She presses the machine button, the sound of it whirling to life, but thankfully, I feel nothing. The room falls silent as the two doctors watch the machine screen, making notes on their clipboard.

The minutes pass torturously slow, a clock on the wall ticking. The sound starts to send me insane, the ominoustick, tick, tickover and over while scratches are scribbled onto paper. Finally, the machine comes to a halt.

Dr. Cromwell grabs a fresh needle, drawing another vial of blood while Dr. West moves behind me, hitting the keys on a laptop. The screen in front of me comes to life, a video ready to be played.

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