Page 68 of Mind Maze

The whistling splits my mind into so many fragments, I have no hope of holding it all together. It’s slipping through my fingers, crashing to the floor, and shattering into even smaller slivers.

This is hell.

What is hell?

I have a brief, fleeting thought of a woman with dark hair and a loving smile. Who is she? Mom. I have a mom. My trembling lips tug into a small smile as more tears form.

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.

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